PROLOGUE,
SPOKEN BY MR MOUNTFORD.
I think, or hope at least, the coast is clear;
That none but men of wit and sense are here;
That our Bear-Garden friends are all away,
Who bounce with hands and feet, and cry, Play, Play;
Who, to save coach-hire, trudge along the street,
Then print our matted seats with dirty feet;
Who, while we speak, make love to orange-wenches,
And, between acts, stand strutting on the benches;
Where got a cock-horse, making vile grimaces,
They to the boxes show their booby faces.
A Merry-Andrew such a mob will serve,
And treat them with such wit as they deserve.
Let them go people Ireland, where there's need
Of such new planters to repair the breed;
Or to Virginia or Jamaica steer,
But have a care of some French privateer;
For, if they should become the prize of battle,
They'll take them, black and white, for Irish cattle.
Arise, true judges, in your own defence,
Controul these foplings, and declare for sense:
For, should the fools prevail, they stop not there,
But make their next descent upon the fair.
Then rise, ye fair; for it concerns you most,
That fools no longer should your favours boast;
'Tis time you should renounce them, for we find
They plead a senseless claim to womankind:
Such squires are only fit for country-towns,
To stink of ale, and dust a stand with clowns;
Who, to be chosen for the land's protectors,
Tope and get drunk before their wise electors.
Let not farce lovers your weak choice upbraid,
But turn them over to the chamber-maid;
Or, if they come to see our tragic scenes,
Instruct them what a Spartan hero means:
Teach them how manly passions ought to move,
For such as cannot think, can never love;
And, since they needs will judge the poet's art,
Point them with fescues to each shining part.
Our author hopes in you; but still in pain,
He fears your charms will be employed in vain.
You can make fools of wits, we find each hour;
But to make wits of fools, is past your power.