At Paris, indeed, he scrambled up something faster (for it was up Hill there, too) than I am afraid he will do here: The French having more Mercury in their Heads, and less Beef and Pudding in their Bellies. Our Solidity may set hard, what their Folly makes easy; for Fools I own they are, you know we have found them so in the Conduct of the War; I wish we may do so in the Management of the Peace; but that is neither Esop's Business nor mine.
This Play, Gentlemen (or one not much unlike it), was writ in French about six Years since by one Monsieur Boursaut; it was play'd at Paris by the French Comedians, and this was its Fate.
The first Day it appeared, it was routed (People seldom being fond of what they do not understand, their own sweet Persons excepted). The second (by the help of some bold Knights-Errant) it rallied; the third it advanced; the fourth it gave a vigorous Attack; and the fifth put all the Feathers in Town to the scamper, pursuing them on to the fourteenth, and then they cried out Quarter.
It is not reasonable to expect Esop should gain so great a Victory here, since it is possible, by fooling with his Sword, I may have turned the Edge on't. For I confess in the Translation I have not at all stuck to the Original; nay, I have gone farther: I have wholly added the fifth Act, and crouded a Country Gentleman into the fourth; for which I ask Monsieur Boursaut's Pardon with all my Heart, but doubt I never shall obtain it for bringing him into such Company. Though, after all, had I been so complaisant to have waited on his Play Word for Word, it is possible, even that might not have ensured the Success of it; for though it swam in France, it might have sunk in England. Their Country abounds in Cork, ours in Lead.
[PROLOGUE.]
Gallants, we never yet produc'd a Play
With greater Fears than this we act to-day;
Barren of all the Graces of the Stage,
Barren of all that entertains this Age.
No Hero, no Romance, no Plot, no Shew,
No Rape, no Bawdy, no Intrigue, no Beau:
There's nothing in't with which we use to please ye;
With downright dull Instruction w'are to tease ye;
The Stage turns Pulpit, and the World's so fickle,
The Play-House in a Whim turns Conventicle.
But Preaching here must prove a hungry Trade;
The Patentees will find so, I'm afraid:
For tho' with heavenly Zeal you all abound,
As by your Lives and Morals may be found;
Tho' every Female here o'erflows with Grace,
And chaste Diana's written in her Face;
Tho' Maids renounce the Sweets of Fornication,
And one lewd Wife's not left in all the Nation;
Tho' Men grow true, and the foul Fiend defy;
Tho' Tradesmen cheat no more, nor Lawyers lye;
Tho' not one Spot be found on Levi's Tribe,
Nor one soft Courtier that will touch a Bribe;
Yet in the midst of such religious Days,
Sermons have never borne the Price of Plays.