PROLOGUE, ΤΟ ΤΗ Ε UNIVERSITY of OXFORD. TH HO actors cannot much of learning boast, We love the praises of a learned pit, As we remotely are ally'd to wit. We speak our poets wit, and trade in ore, Knows what should justly please, and what should Nature herself lies open to your view; As nations fued to be made free of Rome: Oxford to him a dearer name shall be, Than his own mother univerfity. you, Thebes did his green, unknowing, youth engage; He chooses Athens in his riper age. EPILOGUE TO CONSTANTINE the GREAT. O [By Mr. N. LEE, 1684.] UR hero's happy in the play's conclufion; The holy rogue at last has met confusion: Tho Arius all along appear'd a faint, The laft act fhew'd him a true Proteftant. Eufebius, for you know I read Greek authors, Reports, that, after all these plots and flaughters, The court of Conftantine was full of glory, And every Trimmer turn'd addreffing Tory. They follow'd him in herds as they were mad: When Clause was king, then all the world was glad. Whigs kept the places they poffeft before, And most were in a way of getting more; For bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense, At least, they gave it their good word abroad. Breeds out his baftard, not to noife his wife; Thus o'er their darling plot these Trimmers cry; . And tho they cannot keep it in their eye, They bind it prentice to Count Tekely. If I believe they e'er believ'd the first. No wonder their own plot no plot they think; The man, that makes it, never smells the stink. And now it comes into my head, I'll tell Why thefe damn'd Trimmers lov'd the Turks fo well. The original Trimmer, tho a friend to no man, Yet in his heart ador'd a pretty woman; He knew that Mahomet laid up for ever Kind black-ey'd rogues, for every true believer; And, which was more than mortal man e'er tafted, One pleasure that for threescore twelvemonths lafted: To turn for this, may furely be forgiven: PROLOGUE to the DISSAPPOINTMENT: OR, THE MOTHER IN FASHION. [By Mr. SOUTHERNE, 1684.] Spoken by Mr. BETTERTON. W comes it, gentlemen, that now a-days, When all of you fo fhrewdly judge of plays, H When all of Our poets tax you ftill with want of fenfe? All prologues treat you at your own expence. Sharp citizens a wiser way can go ; They make you fo. fools, but never call you They, in good manners, feldom make a flip, But treat a common whore with ladyship: But here each faucy wit at random writes, And ufes ladies as he ufes knights.. 1 |