 | Beauty in Distress |  |
PROLOGUE.
Enter a Player.Play.
Gentlemen, I am sent to acquaint you, that, by reason of
an Accident, there can be no Prologue spoke to day; but the Play
will begin immediately.
Enter Mr. Bowen.
Mr. Bowen.
How's that? No Prologue? go, this must not be;
I'll rather speak one now extempore.
[Exit Player.
I'll rather speak one now extempore.
Stay: How shall I begin?—I have it now—
Gallants!—Hold! I forgot to make my Bow.
[Bows.
Gallants!—Hold! I forgot to make my Bow.
Gallants, Our Author—Ay, that's well begun,
Our Author—To—For—hold, I can't go on:
This Modesty does strangely balk a Man.
Why should I strive to help these Tragic Actors?
Hang 'em, they make you dull, like any Doctors.
Well, if for nothing but grave Stuff you're all,
I too will rant, and toss my awful Head,
Till from the Battlements of yon' high Wall
The Mob look pale to see me look so red.
Our Author—To—For—hold, I can't go on:
This Modesty does strangely balk a Man.
Why should I strive to help these Tragic Actors?
Hang 'em, they make you dull, like any Doctors.
Well, if for nothing but grave Stuff you're all,
I too will rant, and toss my awful Head,
Till from the Battlements of yon' high Wall
The Mob look pale to see me look so red.
But what shall I say next?—O! Stay, I've got
The Epilogue; I'll speak it now. Why not?
More Poet-Bays than one, when all things fail,
Turn thus the Tail to Head, and Head to Tail.
I hate to sneak in, and be hist away,
Begging for Mercy, when you've damn'd the Play?
Prompter, take th'Epilogue, and prompt me right;
We're always damn'd imperfect the first night.
The Epilogue; I'll speak it now. Why not?
More Poet-Bays than one, when all things fail,
Turn thus the Tail to Head, and Head to Tail.
I hate to sneak in, and be hist away,
Begging for Mercy, when you've damn'd the Play?
Prompter, take th'Epilogue, and prompt me right;
We're always damn'd imperfect the first night.
[The Prompter takes a Paper from him, and retires to prompt.
Prompter.
You've seen the Play.
Mr. Bo.
How's that?
Prom.
You've seen the Play;
Mr. Bo.
You've seen the Play! Why, that won't do? But stay.
We'l let that pass; if you han't seen't, you may.
What's next?
Prom.
You think—
Mr. Bo.
You think your time mispent;
But know, 'twas studied to be play'd in Lent;
A time when some of you so nice were grown,
Y' abstain'd from ev'ry kind of Flesh, but one.
You Topers, leaving Wine, to grow devout,
Got only drunk in Darby, Punch and Stout.
Nay ev'n we Players, not over-godly neither,
Fasted the week, that none of you came hither.
But that's no Fast to what poor Poets fear.
If his Play's damn'd, he keeps Lent all the year.
Now you, instead of fasting, went to spark it,
To race, cock, bet, and lose by Stiff-Dick at New Market;
While drooping here we did your Loss condole,
Tugging with Viva viva Barbacole.
So we laid this Play by, when you were gone,
For you Sparks now to mortify upon;
You know a Reformation's coming on.
Then bear these moral Scenes with Resignation,
T'inure you to be ween'd from darling Fornication.
| Beauty in Distress | |