 | The Italian Husband |  |
PROLOGUE.
The Town of late so very nice is grown,That nothing but what's poinant will go down.
Y' expect to find ev'ry new Play that's writ,
In spight of Nature, shou'd be stuff'd with Wit.
This heavy Tax which you on us have laid,
Without your friendly help can ne're be paid.
With helps of Folly you Manure the Soil,
To make it grateful to the Tillers Toil.
Like Vintners we on impositions live,
And at the expence of those who Tax us, thrive.
Yet Poets say, in one thing you'r unkind,
Wit ye expect—
But what Wit is, no man has yet defin'd.
Thus whilst we wander in a doubtful Maze,
'Tis only our good fortune if we please,
And when we start a Play, full cry you run,
And ne're leave Yelping till you've run it down.
Rules you prescribe, but when you try the Cause,
We find each Criticks Whimsies are thy Laws.
So, when of Wit, each Palat's made the test.
Good plays are damn'd, because you've lost your taste.
He that wou'd furnish out a modish treat,
Shou'd strive to please with various sort of meat.
To feed the Beaus with Farce is very good,
Those Babes in Wit can't bear substantial food.
For men of sense some Satyr shou'd be got.
For Politicians to be sure, a Plot.
With Swanish Puns you may regale the Cit,
Their swinish taste delights in husks of Wit.
But he that wou'd secure a good third day,
Must show your Vices to you, to save his Play.
Lest Bully like, eager to purchase Fame,
You shou'd your follies in the Poet Dam.
These are the Rules I heard our Author say:
But Bays forsooth has found a newer way.
Which, if it miss, he swears he shall be uneasy,
To think he was not fool enough to please ye.
| The Italian Husband | |