University of Virginia Library

The PROLOGUE.

How finely would the Sparks be catch'd to Day,
Should a Whig-Poet write a Tory-Play?
And you, possess'd with Rage before should send
Your random Shot abroad, and maul a Friend:
For you, we find, too often hiss or clap,
Just as you live, speak, think, and fight, by hap.
And Poets, we all know, can change like you,
And are alone to their own Interest true:
Can write against all Sense, nay even their own;
The Vehicle, call'd Pension makes it down.
No fear of Cudgells where there's hope of Bread:
A well-fill'd Panch forgets a broken Head.
But our dull Fop on every side is damn'd:
He has his Play with Love and Honor cram'd.
Rot your Old fashion'd Heroe in Romance,
Who in a Lady's Quarrel breaks a Launce.
Give us the modish Feat of Honor done,
With Eighteen well-chew'd Bullets in one Gun.
Charg'd but with Eighteen Bullets did I say?
Damn it, if that won't do, we'll bring one day
Queen Besse's Pocket Pistol into Play.
Give us Heroick Worthies of Renown,
With a revenging Rival's Mortal Frown,
Not by dividing Oceans kept asunder,
Whilst angry Spark comes on, like Jove, with Thunder,
Gives out in Harlem Gazette, Blood and Wounds
In Foreign Fray, to sculk on English Ground,
And scorning Duels, a poor Prize at Sharps,
He only fights for Fame in Counterscarps.
Do not you follow his Revenge and Fury,
Be you those tender-hearted things, his Jury.
Give us Old-Baily mercy for our Play:
Ah no! no Pray'rs nor Bribes your Hearts can sway,
Your cruel Talents lie the other way.
Criticks
Are Polish Bullies, fire and lightning all,
The Blunderbuss goes off, and where you hit you maul.