 | The Forc'd Marriage, or The Jealous Bridegroom |  |
PROLOGUE.
Gallants
, our Poets have of late so us'd yee,
In Play and Prologue too, so much abus'd yee.
That should we beg your aids, I justly fear,
Y'are so incens'd you'd hardly lend it here.
But when against a common Foe we arm,
Each will assist to guard his own concern.
Women, those charming victors, in whose eyes,
Lay all their Arts, and their Artilleries;
Not being contented with the wounds they made,
Would by new Stratagems our Light invade.
Beauty alone goes now at too cheap rates,
And therefore they like Wise and Politick states,
Court a new power that may the old supply,
And keep as well as gain the victory.
They'le joyn the Force of Wit to Beauty now,
And so maintain the right they have in you;
If the vain Sex this priviledge should beast,
Past cure of a declining face we're lost.
You'le never know the bliss of change, this Art
Retrieves (when Beauty fades), the wandring heart,
And though the Airy Spirits move no more,
Wit still invites as beauty did before.
To day one of their party ventures out,
Not with design to Conquer, but to Scout:
Discourage but this first attempt, and then,
They'le hardly dare to sally out again.
The Poetess too, they say, has spyes abroad,
Which have dispos'd themselves in every road,
I'th' upper Box, Pit, Galleries, every face
You find disguis'd, in a black Velvet-Case.
My life on't is her Spy on purpose sent,
To hold you in a wanton Complement;
That so you may not censure what she's writ;
Which done, they'le face you down 'twas full of wit.
Thus, while some common prize you hope to win
You let the Tyrant Victor enter in
I beg to day you'd lay that humour by,
Till you rencounter at the Nursery,
Where they like Centinels, from Duty free,
May meet and wanton with the Enemy.
How hast thou labour'd to subvert in vain,
In Play and Prologue too, so much abus'd yee.
That should we beg your aids, I justly fear,
Y'are so incens'd you'd hardly lend it here.
But when against a common Foe we arm,
Each will assist to guard his own concern.
Women, those charming victors, in whose eyes,
Lay all their Arts, and their Artilleries;
Not being contented with the wounds they made,
Would by new Stratagems our Light invade.
Beauty alone goes now at too cheap rates,
And therefore they like Wise and Politick states,
Court a new power that may the old supply,
And keep as well as gain the victory.
They'le joyn the Force of Wit to Beauty now,
And so maintain the right they have in you;
If the vain Sex this priviledge should beast,
Past cure of a declining face we're lost.
You'le never know the bliss of change, this Art
Retrieves (when Beauty fades), the wandring heart,
And though the Airy Spirits move no more,
Wit still invites as beauty did before.
To day one of their party ventures out,
Not with design to Conquer, but to Scout:
Discourage but this first attempt, and then,
They'le hardly dare to sally out again.
The Poetess too, they say, has spyes abroad,
Which have dispos'd themselves in every road,
You find disguis'd, in a black Velvet-Case.
My life on't is her Spy on purpose sent,
To hold you in a wanton Complement;
That so you may not censure what she's writ;
Which done, they'le face you down 'twas full of wit.
Thus, while some common prize you hope to win
You let the Tyrant Victor enter in
I beg to day you'd lay that humour by,
Till you rencounter at the Nursery,
Where they like Centinels, from Duty free,
May meet and wanton with the Enemy.
What one poor smile of ours calls home again;
Can any see that glorious sight, and say,
[Woman pointin to the Ladies.
A Woman shall not Victor prove to day:
Who is't that to their Beauty wou'd submit,
And yet refuse the Fetters of their Wit.
He tells you tales of Stratagems and Spyes;
Can they need Art that have such pow'rful eyes?
Believe me, Gallants, he 'as abus'd you all;
There's not a Vizard in our whole Cabal:
Those are but Pickeroons that scour for prey,
And catch up all they meet with in their way;
Who can no Captives take, for all they do,
Is pillage ye, then gladly let you go;
Ours scorn the petty spoils, and do prefer,
The Glory, not the Interest of the War:
But yet our Forces shall obliging prove,
Imposing nought but constancie in love,
That's all our Aim, and when we have it too,
We'll sacrifice it all to pleasure you.
| The Forc'd Marriage, or The Jealous Bridegroom | |