The Young King : or, the Mistake As 'tis acted at his Royal Highness the Dukes Theatre |
PROLOGUE.
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 | The Young King : or, the Mistake |  |
PROLOGUE.
Beauty , like Wit, can onely charm when new;Is there no merit then in being true?
Wit rather shou'd an estimation hold
With Wine, which is still best for being old.
Judgement in both, with vast expence and thought,
You from their native soil, from Paris brought.
The drops that from that sacred Sodom fall,
You like industrious Spiders suck up all.
Well might the French a Conquest here designe,
Were but their Swords as dangerous as their Wine.
Their Education yet is worse than both;
They make our Virgins Nuns, unman our Youth.
We that don't know 'em, think 'em Monsters too;
And will, because we judge of 'em by you.
You'll say, this once was so, but now you're grown
So wise t'invent new Follies of your own:
Their slavish invitations you disdain;
A Pox of Fops that purchase fame with pain:
You're no such Fools as first to mount a Wall,
Or for your King and Country venture all.
With such-like grinning honour 'twas, perchance,
Your dull Forefathers first did conquer France:
Whilst they have sent us in revenge for these,
Their Women, Wine, Religion, and Disease.
Yet for Religion, it's not much will down,
In this ungirt, unblest, and mutinous Town.
Nay, I dare swear, not one of you in Seven,
E're had the impudence to hope for Heaven.
In this you're modest—
But as to Wit, most aim before their time;
And he that cannot spell, sets up for Rhime:
They're Sparks who are of noise and nonsence full,
At Fifteen witty, and at Twenty dull;
That in the Pit can huff, and talk hard words,
And briskly draw Bamboo instead of Swords:
But never yet Rancounter cou'd compare
To our late vigorous Tartarian War:
Cudgel the Weapon was, the Pit the Field;
Fierce was the Heroe, and too brave to yield.
But stoutest hearts must bow; and being well can'd,
He crys, Hold, hold, you have the Victory gain'd.
All laughing call—
Turn out the Rascal, the eternal Blockhead.
—Sounds, cry Tartarian, I am out of Pocket:
Half Crown my Play, Six pence my Orange cost;
Equip me that, do you the Conquest boast.
For which, to be at ease, a gathering's made,
And out they turn the Brother of the blade.
—This is the fruits of idleness and ease.
| The Young King : or, the Mistake | |