EPILOLOGUE TO THE HUSBAND HIS OWN CUCKOLD. L IKE fome raw fophifter that mounts the pulpit, So trembles a young Poet at a full pit. Unus'd to crowds, the Parfon quakes for fear, And wonders how the devil he durft come there; Wanting three talents needful for the place, Some beard, fome learning, and some little grace; Nor is the puny Poet void of care; For authors, fuch as our new authors are, Have not much learning, nor much wit to spare: And as for grace, to tell the truth, there's scarce one, But has as little as the very Parfon : Both fay, they preach and write for your inftruc tion: But 'tis for a third day, and for induction. But with the Parfon 'tis another cafe, He, without holiness, may rife to grace i The Poet has one difadvantage more, That if his play be dull, he's damn'd all o'er, Not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn'd poor, But dulness well becomes the fable garment; I warrant that ne'er spoil'd a Priest's preferment : Wit's not his business, and as wit now goes, Sirs, 'tis not fo much yours as you fuppofe, For you like nothing now but naufeous beaux. You laugh not, gallants, as by proof appears, At what his beauship says, but what he wears; So 'tis your eyes are tickled, not your ears; The taylor and the furrier find the stuff, The wit lies in the dress, and monstrous muff. The truth on't is, the payment of the pit Is like for likę, clipt money for clipt wit. You cannot from our absent author hope He should equip the stage with fuch, a fop: Fools change in England, and new fools arife, For tho' the immortal fpecies never dies, Yet ev'ry year, new maggots make new flies. But where he lives abroad, he fcarce can find. One fool, for million that he left behind. PROLOGUE TO THE PILGRI M. Revived for our Author's Benefit Anno 1700. HOW WOW wretched is the fate of those who write! Where, like Tom Dove, they stand the common foe; Lugg'd by the critic, baited by the beau. To pleasure all the fools that wou'd be shown: } Quack Marus, tho he never took degrees Yet to be shown by fome kind wit he looks, There, tho he crept, yet still he kept in fight; room For any Vandal Hopkins yet to come. But when, if after all, this godly geer } At leisure hours, in epic fong he deals, A pedant, canting preacher, and a quack, EPILOGUE TO THE PIL GRI M. PE fretch'd a Erhaps the parfon stretch'd a point too far, He tells very moral age Receiv'd the first infection from the stage. |