Besides, his Prologue was, at best, dull stuff,
And of dull writing we have, sure, enough.
A book will do when you've a vacant minute,
But, la! who cares what is, and isn't, in it?
And since I'm but the Prologue of a book,
What I've omitted all will overlook,
And owe me for it, too, some gratitude,
Seeing in reason it cannot be good
Whose author has as much but now confessed,—
For, Who'd excel when few can make a test
Betwixt indifferent writing and the best?
He said but now.
And I:—La, why excel,
When mediocrity does quite as well?
'Tis women buy the books,—and read 'em, say,
What time a person nods, en négligée,
And in default of gossip, cards, or dance,
Resolves t' incite a nap with some romance.
The fool replied in verse,—I think he said
'Twas verses the ingenious Dryden made,
And trust 'twill save me from entire disgrace
To cite 'em in his foolish Prologue's place.
Yet, scattered here and there, I some behold,
Who can discern the tinsel from the gold;
To these he writes; and if by them allowed,
'Tis their prerogative to rule the crowd,
For he more fears, like, a presuming man,
Their votes who cannot judge, than theirs can.
I
SIMON'S HOUR
As Played at Stornoway Crag, March 25, 1750
"You're a woman—one to whom Heaven gave beauty, when it grafted roses on a briar. You are the reflection of Heaven in a pond, and he that leaps at you is sunk. You were all white, a sheet of lovely spotless paper, when you first were born; but you are to be scrawled and blotted by every goose's quill."
DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.
LORD ROKESLE, a loose-living, Impoverished nobleman, and loves Lady
Allonby.