PROLOGUE TO THE MISTAKES.
Gentlemen, we must beg your pardon; here's no Prologue to be had to-day; our new play is like to come on, without a frontispiece; as bald as one of you young beaux, without your periwig. I left our young poet, fniveling and fobbing behind the fcenes, and curling fomebody that has deceived him.
Hold your prating to the audience: here's honeft Mr. Williams, juft come in, half mellow, from the RofeTavern. He wears he is infpired with claret, and will come on, and that extempore too, either with a prologue of his own, or fomething like one: O here he comes to his trial, at all adventures; for my part, I wish him a good deliverance.
[Exeunt Mr. Bright and Mr. Bowen.
Save ye firs, fave ye! I am in a hopeful way.
I should speak fomething, in rhyme, now, for the
But the duce take me, if I know what to say.
I'll stick to my friend the author, that I can
To the last drop of claret, in my belly.
So far I'm fure 'tis rhyme-that needs no granting: And, if my verfes feet ftumble-you fee my own are
Our young poet has brought a piece of work,
In which, though much of art there does not lurk, may hold out three days-and that's as long as
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-ev'n of wit.
He's no high-flyer-he makes no sky-rockets.
His fquibs are only level'd at your pockets.
And if his crackers light among your pelf,
You are blown up; if not, then he's blown up himfelf. By this time, I'm fomething recover'd of my flufter'd madness:
And now, a word or two in fober sadness.
Ours is a common play; and you pay down
A common harlot's price—just half a crown.
You'll fay, I play the pimp, on my friend's score;
But, fince 'tis for a friend, your gibes give o'er
For many a mother has done that before.
How's this, you cry? an actor write?-we know it;
But Shakespeare was an actor, and a poet.
Has not great Jonfon's learning, often fail'd?
But Shakespeare's greater genius ftill prevail'd.
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 infpir'd.
Let your kind prefence grace our homely cheer;
Peace and the butt, is all our business here:
So much for that;-and the devil take small beer.
EPILOGUE to HENRY II.
[By Mr. MOUNT FORT, 1693.]
Spoken by Mrs. BRACEGIRDLE.
THUS you the fad catastrophe have seen,
Occafion'd by a mistress and a queen.
Queen Eleanor the proud was French, they say;
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
With fuch a miftrefs, 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 miftrefs would be taken,
And nauseous matrimony fent a packing.
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 ease behind our scenes you
The playhoufe is a kind of market-place;
One chaffers for a voice, another for a face:
Nay, fome of you, I dare not say how many,
pen'worth for your penny.
Ev'n this poor face, which with my fan I hide,
Would make a fhift my portion to provide,
With fome fmall perquifites I have befide.
Though for your love, perhaps, I fhould not care,
I could not hate a man that bids me fair.
What might enfuc, 'tis hard for me to tell;
But I was drench'd to-day for loving well,
And fear the poifon that would make me fwell.
ALLANTS, a bashful poet bids me fay,
He's come to lofe his maidenhead to-day.
Be not too fierce; for he's but green of age,
And ne'er, till now, debauch'd upon the stage.
He wants the fuffering part of refolution,
And comes with blufhes to his execution.
Ere you deflower his Muse, 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 fee;
Enow to fill another Mercury!
But this the ladies may with patience brook :
Theirs are not the first 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 fill upon him : though 'tis true
He's yet unripe, yet take him for the blue.
You think an apricot half green is beft;
There's fweet and four, and one fide good at least.
Mangos and limes, whose nourishment is little,
Though 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 himself to you.
To both he would contribute fome delight;
A meer 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..
TO fay, this Comedy pleas'd long ago,
Is not enough to make it pass you now.
Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit;
When few men cenfur'd, and when fewer writ.
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