University of Virginia Library

PROLOGUE, Spoken by Mr. BETTERTON.

Your Nurses, we presume, in such a Case,
Your Father chose, because he lik'd the Face;
And often they supply'd your Mothers place.
The Dry Nurse was your Mothers ancient Maid,
Who knew some former slip she ner'e betray'd.
Betwixt 'em both, for Milk and Sugar Candy,
Your sucking Bottles were well stor'd with Brandy.
Your Father to initiate your discourse
Meant to have taught you first to swear and Curse;
But was prevented by each careful Nurse,
For, leaving Dad and Mam, as names too common,
They taught you certain parts of Man and Woman.
I pass our Schools, for there when first you came,
You wou'd be sure to learn the Latin name.
In Colledges you scorn'd their Art of thinking
But learn'd all Moods and Figures of good Drinking:
Thence, come to Town you practice Play, to know
The Vertues of the High Dice and the Low.
Each thinks himself a SHARPER most profound:
He cheats by Pence, is cheated by the Pound:
With these Perfections, and what else he Gleans,
The SPARK sets up for Love behind our Scenes;
Hot in pursuit of Princesses and Queens.
There, if they know their Man, with cunning Carriage,
Twenty to one but it concludes in Marriage.
He hires some Homely Room, Love's Fruits to gather,
And, Garret-high, Rebells against his Father.
But he once dead—
Brings her in Triumph with her Portion Down,
A Twillet, Dressing-Box, and Half a Crown.
Some Marry first, and then they fall to Scowring,
Which is, Refining Marriage into Whoring.
Our Women batten well on their good Nature,
All they can rap and rend for the dear Creature.
But while abroad so liberal the DOLT is,
Poor SPOUSE at Home as Ragged as a Colt is.
Last, some there are, who take their first Degrees
Of Lewdness in our Middle Galleries:
The Doughty BULLIES enter Bloody Drunk,
Invade and grabble one another's SPUNK:
They Caterwoul, and make a dismal Rout,
Call SONS of WHORES, and strike, but ne're lugg-out:
Thus while for Paultrey Punk they roar and stickle,
They make it Bawdier than a Conventicle.

EPILOGUE, By ANOTHER HAND.

You saw your Wife was Chaste, yet throughly tryd,
And, without doubt, y'are hugely edify'd;
For, like our Hero, whom we shew'd to day,
You think no Woman true, but in a Play;
Love once did make a pretty kind of Show,
Esteem and Kindness in one Breast wou'd grow,
But 'twas Heav'n knows how many years ago.
Now some small Chatt, and Guinney Expectation,
Gets all the pretty Creatures in the Nation:
In Comedy your little Selves you meet,
'Tis Covent-Garden drawn in Bridges-street.
Smile on our Author then, if he has shown
A jolly Nut-brown Bastard of your own.
Ah! Happy you, with Ease and with Delight,
Who act those Follies, Poets toil to Write!
The sweating Muse does most leave the Chase,
She puffs, and hardly keeps your Protean Vices pace.
Pinch you but in one Vice, away you fly
To some new Frisk of Contrariety.
You rowl like Snow-Balls, gathering as you run,
And get seven Dev'ls, when dispossess'd of one.
Your Venus once was a Platonique Queen,
Nothing of Love beside the Face was seen;
But every Inch of Her you now Uncase,
And clap a Vizard Masque upon the Face.
For Sins like these, the zealous of the Land;
With little Hair, and little or no Band,
Declare how circulating, Pestilences
Watch every Twenty Years, to snap Offences.
Saturn, even now, takes Doctoral Degrees,
Hee'l do your work this Summer, without Fees.
Let all the Boxes, Phœbus find thy Grace,
And, ah, preserve thy Eighteen penny Place!
But for the Pit-Confounders, let 'em go,
And find as little Mercy as they show:
The Actors thus and thus, thy Poets pray;
For every Critick sav'd, thou damn'st a Play.