 | The Double Distress |  |
PROLOGUE.
A serious Play in this Fantastick Age,Without Ballad or Song upon the Stage,
Nor Wit nor Nature now can please alone,
When French Jack-pudding so delight the Town:
Instruction on the Stage is thrown away,
And Jegg does more then charming Dryden say:
Our Ancestors without Ragou's or Dance,
Fed on plain Beef, and bravely conquer'd France:
And Ben and Shakespear lasting Laurels made
With Wit alone, and scorn'd their wretched Aid:
Tho' our Play without a Villain's out of Fashion.
We hope no less to move your tender Passion;
Authors have worn so blunt those constant Tools,
That nothing is so dull as Knaves and Fools.
Why shou'd we paint the Vices of those Elves,
That take such care to represent themselves:
The Beaux in Person shews himself to all
Much better in Side-Boxes and the Mall,
In Dress and Mein so singular and vain,
In any Nation match him if you can,
He is indeed the True-born English Man.
Well, we've shew'n all we can to make you easie,
Tumblers and Monkeys, on the Stage to please you:
If all won't do we must to Treat incline,
And Women, rather than be starv'd, will join.
'Tis quickly done, the Racket Walls remain,
Give us but only time to shift the Scene,
And Presto, we're a Tennis Court again.
Yet we'll not of your wisht Applause despair,
Since faithful Lovers are again your Care;
Again the Tragick Scenes your soft Compassion share.
Our modest Muse no Fop nor Ruffian brings;
But treats of Heroiens and of sacred things:
Be kind, ye Fair, since of the Fair she sings.
Brave, like our Nobles, like our Ladies Chast;
Tho' not betray'd, pray pity them no less;
Like Heaven at last be kind to their Distress.
| The Double Distress | |