 | The Governour of Cyprus |  |
PROLOGUE. Spoken by Mr. Powel.
Since Farce and Fustian cou'd so often please yeThe Task, we fancy'd, wou'd for us be easy.
We thought we might, as well as others, Hit;
For ev'ry thing of late succeeds but Wit.
A few Loose Characters, a Lucky Name
Brings a full House, and gets the Poet Fame.
And he that has the art to fill the Pit,
With us shall ever be the topping Wit:
Nor will we think the Criticks Judgement true,
Or that's irregular which pleases you.
Pure Envy makes 'em talk of want of Rule,
As if a man cou'd take and be a fool.
'Tis fine I Faith, and they as well may say
The Sparks who write and you who see the Play
And we that act, and all are Sots but they.
Civil ye Gad—but to revenge their Spite,
We're wise enough to damn 'em when they write.
Tho' this, among our selves, we may confess
Some Grievances, 'tis time we shou'd redress.
Our Houses thin apace, our Wares lie dead
And Fustian quite, or Farce has spoilt the Trade.
When Cash comes short and we begin to pinch
Up goes the Boy, the Ladder-dance, and Clinch.
And huge RED LETTERS stare you in the Face.
We Cram the Coffee-Houses with our Notes
As Quacks for Cullies, and as Citts for Votes.
Gyants, half men, all Monsters we have shewn
And rais'd the Price from Pence to Half a Crown.
Yet sure some other way we may devise
To please, and grow as rich, and you as wise.
Suppose, Our Bards to shew they ever thought
For Change; were now allow'd to think and plot.
Nor Sound for Sense nor Whymsy past for Wit
For Wickerly ner'e thus, nor Otway writ.
Hold—You're prepar'd to cry out in a rage
Wee'l have no Reformation of the Stage.
Your Pardon, Sirs, pray don't be in a Fright,
Whate're we do, wee'l not begin too night.
| The Governour of Cyprus | |