As for the Saints (your thorough-pac'd ones, I mean, with skrew'd Faces and wry Mouths) I despair of them; for they are Friends to nobody: They love nothing but their Altars and themselves; they have too much Zeal to have any Charity; they make Debauches in Piety, as Sinners do in Wine; and are as quarrelsome in their Religion, as other People are in their Drink: so I hope nobody will mind what they say. But if any Man (with flat plod Shoes, a little Band, greasy Hair, and a dirty Face, who is wiser than I, at the Expence of being forty Years older), happens to be offended at a Story of a Cock and a Bull, and a Priest and a Bull-dog, I beg his pardon with all my Heart; which, I hope, I shall obtain, by eating my Words, and making this publick Recantation. I do therefore, for his Satisfaction, acknowledge I lyed, when I said, they never quit their hold; for in that little time I have liv'd in the World, I thank God I have seen them forc'd to it more than once; but next time I will speak with more Caution and Truth, and only say, they have very good Teeth.
If I have offended any honest Gentleman of the Town, whose Friendship or good Word is worth the having, I am very sorry for it; I hope they will correct me as gently as they can, when they consider I have had no other Design, in running a very great Risk, than to divert (if possible) some part of their Spleen, in spite of their Wives and their Taxes.
One Word more about the Bawdy, and I have done. I own the first Night this thing was acted, some Indecencies had like to have happened; but it was not my Fault.
The fine Gentleman of the Play, drinking his Mistress's Health in Nants Brandy, from six in the Morning to the time he waddled on upon the Stage in the Evening, had toasted himself up to such a pitch of Vigour, I confess I once gave Amanda for gone, and am since (with all due respect to Mrs. Rogers) very sorry she escaped; for I am confident a certain Lady (let no one take it to herself that is handsome) who highly blames the Play, for the Barrenness of the Conclusion, would then have allowed it a very natural Close.
[PROLOGUE.]
Spoken by Miss Cross.
Ladies, this Play in too much haste was writ,
To be o'ercharg'd with either Plot or Wit;
'Twas got, conceiv'd, and born in six Weeks Space,
And Wit, you know, 's as slow in Growth——as Grace.
Sure it can ne'er be ripen'd to your Taste;
I doubt 'twill prove our Author bred too fast:
For mark 'em well, who with the Muses marry,
They rarely do conceive, but they miscarry.
'Tis the hard Fate of those who are big with Rhyme,
Still to be brought-to-bed before their Time.
Of our late Poets, Nature few has made;
The greatest part——are only so by Trade.
Still want of something brings the scribbling Fit;
For want of Money some of 'em have writ,
And others do't, you see—for want of Wit.
Honour, they fancy, summons 'em to write,
So out they lug in resty Nature's spight,
As some of you spruce Beaux do—when you fight.
Yet let the Ebb of Wit be ne'er so low,
Some Glimpse of it a Man may hope to show,
Upon a Theme so ample——as a Beau.
So, howsoe'er true Courage may decay,
Perhaps there's not one Smock-Face here to-day,
But's bold as Cæsar—to attack a Play.
Nay, what's yet more, with an undaunted Face, }
To do the Thing with more heroick Grace, }
'Tis six to four y' attack the strongest Place. }
You are such Hotspurs in this kind of Venture,
Where there's no Breach, just there you needs must enter.
But be advis'd——
E'en give the Hero and the Critique o'er, }
For Nature sent you on another score; }
She formed her Beau, for nothing but her Whore. }