To Mr. BENTLEY.
I have often (during this play's being in the press) been importuned for a preface; which you, I suppose, would have speak something in vindication of the comedy: now, to please you, Mr. Bentley, I will, as briefly as I can, speak my mind upon that occasion, which you may be pleased to accept of, both as a dedication to yourself, and next as a preface to the book.
And I am not a little proud that it has happened into my thoughts to be the first who in these latter years has made an epistle dedicatory to his stationer: it is a compliment as reasonable as it is just. For, Mr. Bentley, you pay honestly for the copy; and an epistle to you is a sort of an acquittance, and may be probably welcome; when to a person of higher rank and order, it looks like an obligation for praises, which he knows he does not deserve, and therefore is very unwilling to part with ready money for.
As to the vindication of this comedy, between friends and acquaintance, I believe it is possible that as much may be said in its behalf as heretofore has been for a great many others. But of all the apish qualities about me, I have not that of being fond of my own issue; nay, I must confess myself a very unnatural parent, for when it is once brought into the world, e'en let the brat shift for itself, I say.
The objections made against the merit of this poor play, I must confess, are very grievous—
First, says a lady, that shall be nameless because the world may think civilly of her: "Faugh! Oh, sherreu! 'tis so filthy, so bawdy, no modest woman ought to be seen at it: let me die, it has made me sick!" When the world lies, Mr. Bentley, if that very lady has not easily digested a much ranker morsel in a little ale-house towards Paddington, and never made a face at it. But your true jilt is a creature that can extract bawdy out of the chastest sense, as easily as a spider can poison out of a rose; they know true bawdy, let it be never so much concealed, as perfectly as Falstaff did the true prince by instinct; they will separate the true metal from the alloy, let us temper it as well as we can. Some women are the touchstones of filthiness: though I have heard a lady (that has more modesty than any of those she-critics, and I am sure more wit) say, she wondered at the impudence of any of her sex, that would pretend to understand the thing called bawdy. So, Mr. Bentley, for aught I perceive, my play may be innocent yet, and the lady mistaken in pretending to the knowledge of a mystery above her; though to speak honestly, she has had, besides her wit, a liberal education; and if we may credit the world, has not buried her talent neither.
This is, Mr. Bentley, all I can say in behalf of my play: wherefore I throw it into your arms; make the best of it you can; praise it to your customers; sell ten thousand of them, if possible, and then you will complete the wishes of
Your Friend and Servant,
THO. OTWAY.