 | The Empress of Morocco |  |
PROLOGUE At the Play House.
For this days Treatment you have pai'd too deare.Your best belov'd diversion is not here,
All you're now like to have is a dull Play.
The Wells have stoln the Vizar Masks away.
Now punk in penitential Drink begins,
To purge the surfeit of her London Sins.
Their Loves have been o're-stockt, and but make stop,
For a new tillage tow'rds another Crop.
'Tis seasonable sometimes to forbeare:
Alass it is not Harvest all the Year.
Though heated they like tatter'd Ships keep in,
They stay but to refit, then Lanch again.
Be honest then one Day, and patient sit,
With neither baudy in the Play, nor Pit.
And though thus far you to your loss are come,
What's yet still worse you must drive Empty home.
Nor when Play's done need the shamefaced Debauch
Change the guilt Chariot for the hackney Coach.
Then since our sober Andience denyes
You furious men of prey all hopes of prize:
To see the Play should be your only Ends,
Wee'le then presume you are the Authors Friends.
And though you miss your dear delights, you may
Be to the Poet kind, and Clap the Play:
Your Hands are now employ'd no other Way.
| The Empress of Morocco | |