University of Virginia Library

Prologue spoken by Mr. Betterton.

To day expect no Pageant Decoration,
This Lord May'rs Show began the Reformation:
Yet is our Entertainment odd and new;
We've in our Show the First of Cuckolds too:
And what we call a Masque some will allow
To be an Op'ra, as the World goes now.
So is your poysoning Quack miscall'd a Doctor,
And your worst Mimick calls himself an Actor.
So your dull Scribbler (to our Cost we know it)
Writes a damn'd Play, and is misnam'd a Poet.
Once Song and Dance cou'd buoy up want of Thinking,
But now those Bladders can't prevent its Sinking:
Plays grow so heavy, that those helps are vain;
Three times they rise, and never rise again.
Well, if our Neighbours the Precedence claim,
For good dull Stuff we'll not dispute with them.
Our Medley is perhaps as much too light,
But let it pass—We don't take Money yet by weight.
By Sympathy, 't shou'd please the Beaux, I know,
For in all things an Op'ra's like a Beau.
Both Beau and Op'ra on the Stage are seen;
Both odd in Dress, and shifting still the Scene;
Each dances, sings, and moves like a Machine.
To be admir'd, 'tis at a vast Expence;
It loves soft words, but cares not much for sence;
For by its Nature 'twas design'd for show;
Why, 'tis an Op'ra but to dress a Beau.
But one unlucky diff'rence stands between;
Op'ra's are paid, but Beaux pay to be seen,
(Those who don't come to sharp an Act I mean)
For your own sakes, we beg Applause of you;
Since 'twill revenge you on the Scribbling Crew.
For, if this takes, strait crys each senceless Elf,
Dem me, I'd write as well as this my self.
With that he writes a thing, which we refuse,
Then, wondring how we durst affront his Muse,
Strait in a huff he gives it t'other House;
Who either slight it, or 'twill be its Lot
To get as much as their last Op'ra got,