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a prologue of his own or fomething like one: O here he comes to his tryal, at all adventures: for my part I with him a good deliverance.

[Exeunt Mr. Bright and Mr. Bowen.

Enter Mr. WILLIAMS.

SAVE ye Sirs, fave ye! I am in a hopeful way. I should speak fomething, in rhyme, now, for the play : But the duce take me, if I know what to say. I'll fick to my friend the author, that I can tell ye, To the laft drop of claret, in my belly.

So far I'm fure 'tis rhyme-that needs no granting: And, if my verses feet stumble

wanting.

-

-you fee my own are

Our young poet has brought a piece of work,
In which, tho' much of art there does not lurk,
It may hold out three days--and that's as long as Cork.
But for this play-(which till I have done, we show not)
What may be its fortune-by the Lord-I know not.
This I dare fwear, no malice here is writ:
Tis innocent of all things-even of wit.
He's no high-flyer-he makes no sky-rockets,
His fquibbs are only levell'd at your pockets.
And if his crackers light among your pelf,
You are blown up; if not, then he's blown up
By this time, I'm fomething recover'd of my flufter'd
madness:

And now,

a word or two in fober fadnefs.

Ours is a common play; and you pay down

himself.

A common harlot's price-just half a crown.
You'll fay, I play the pimp, on my friend's fcore;
But fimce 'tis for a friend your gibes give o'er :

-we know it;

For many a mother has done that before.
How's this, you cry? an actor write?-
But Shakespear was an actor, and a poet.
Has not great Jonfon's learning, often fail'd?
But Shakespear's greater genius fill prevail'd.
T 4

Have

Have not fome writing actors, in this age
Deferv'd and found fuccefs upon the stage?
To tell the truth, when our old wits are tir'd,
Not one of us but means to be inspir'd.

Let your kind prefence grace our homely cheer;
Peace and the butt, is all our bus'nefs here:

So much for that;-and the devil take small beer.

}

EPILOGUE

T

To HENRY II.

[By Mr. MOUNTFORT, 1693.]

Spoken by Mrs. BRACEGIRDLE.

HUS you the fad cataftrophe have feen,
Occafion'd by a mistress and a queen.
Queen Eleanor the proud was French, they fay;
But English manufacture got the day.
Jane Clifford was her name, as books aver:
Fair Rofamond was but her Nom de guerre.
Now tell me, gallants, would you lead your life
With fuch a mistress, or with fuch a wife?
If one must be your choice, which d'ye approve,
The curtain lecture, or the curtain love?
Would ye be godly with perpetual ftrife,
Still drudging on with homely Joan your wife;
Or take your pleasure in a wicked way,
Like honeft whoring Harry in the play?
I guess your minds: the mistrefs would be taken,
And naufeous matrimony fent a packing.

The

The devil's in you all; mankind's a rogue;
You love the bride, but you deteft the clog.
After a year, poor spouse is left i'th' lurch,
And you, like Haynes, return to mother-church.
Or, if the name of Church comes cross your mind,
Chapels of eafe behind our fcenes you find.
The playhouse is a kind of market-place;
One chaffers for a voice, another for a face:

you,

Nay, fome of I dare not fay how many,
Would buy of me a pen'worth for your penny.
E'en this poor face, which with my fan I hide,
Would make a shift my portion to provide,
With fome small perquifites 1 have befide.
Tho' for your love, perhaps, I should not care,
I could not hate a man that bids me fair.
What might enfue, 'tis hard for me to tell;
But I was drench'd to-day for loving well,
And fear the poison that would make me fwell.

}

}

A

PROLOGUE.

G

Allants, a bafhful poet bids me fay,
He's come to lose his maidenhead to-day,
Be not too fierce; for he's but green of age,
And ne'er, till now, debauch'd upon the ftage,
He wants the fuff'ring part of resolution,
And comes with blushes to his execution,
Ere you deflow'r his Mufe, he hopes the pit
Will make fome fettlement upon his wit.
Promife him well, before the play begin;
For he would fain be cozen'd into fin.

'Tis not but that he knows you mean to fail;
But, if you leave him after being frail,
He'll have, at least, a fair pretence to rail;
To call you bafe, and fwear you us'd him ill,
And put you in the new deferters bill.

Lord, what a troop of perjur❜d men we see ;
Enow to fill another Mercury!

But this the ladies may with patience brook :
Theirs are not the firft colours you forfook.
He would be loth the beauties to offend;
But, if he fhould, he's not too old to mend.
He's a young plant, in his first year of bearing;
But his friend fwears, he will be worth the rearing.
His glofs is ftill upon him: tho' 'tis true
He's yet unripe, yet take him for the blue.
You think an apricot half green is best;

There's sweet and four, and one fide good at least.
Mangos and limes, whofe nourishment is little,
Tho' not for food, are yet preferv'd for pickle.
So this green writer may pretend, at least,
To whet your ftomachs for a better feast.
He makes this difference in the fexes too;
He fells to men, he gives himfelf to you.
To both he would contribute fome delight;
A mere poetical hermaphrodite.

Thus he's equipp'd, both to be woo'd, and woo;

With arms offenfive, and defenfive too;

'Tis hard, he thinks, if neither part will do.

}

PRO

PROLOGUE

Ti

To ALBUMAZAR1.

O fay, this Comedy pleas'd long ago,
Is not enough to make it pafs you now,
Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit;
When few men censur'd, and when fewer writ.
And Jonfon, of those few the best, chose this,
As the best model of his master-piece :
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That Alchymift by this Aftrologer ;

Here he was fashion'd, and we may suppose
He lik'd the fashion well, who wore the clothes,
But Ben made nobly his what he did mould;
What was another's lead, becomes his gold :
Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns,
Yet rules that well, which he unjustly gains.
By this our age fuch authors does afford,

As make whole plays, and yet fcarce write one word:
Who, in his anarchy of wit, rob all,

And what's their plunder, their poffeffion call:
Who, like bold padders, fcorn by night to prey,
But rob by fun-fhine, in the face of day:
Nay scarce the common ceremony use

Of, Stand, Sir, and deliver up your Mufe;
But knock the Poet down, and, with a grace,
Mount Pegasus before the owner's face.
Faith, if you have fuch country Toms abroad,
'Tis time for all true men to leave that road.
Yet it were modeft, could it but be faid,
They ftrip the living, but these rob the dead;

I An old play from which Ben Jonfon took the hint of his Alchymift.

Dare

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