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XXXVI. PROLOGUE TO THE MISTAKES.
Enter Mr. BRIGHT. G ENTLEMEN, 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, sniveling and sobbing behind the scenes, and cursing somebody that has deceived him..
Enter Mr. Bowen. Hold your prating to the audience: here's honeft Mr. Williams, just come in, half mellow, from the Rose Tavern. He swears he is inspired with claret, and will come on, and that extempore too, either with a prologue of his own, or something like one: O here he comes to his trial, at all adventures; for my part, 1 with him a good deliverance.
[Exeunt Mr. Bright and Mr. Bowen.
Enter Mr. WILLIAMS. Save ye firs, save 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 stick to my friend the author, that I can tell ye, To the last drop of claret, in my belly. So far I'm sure 'tis rhyme--that needs no granting: And, if my verses feet fumble - you see my own are wanting.
Our young poet has brought a piece of work,
be its fortune-by the Lord I know not. This I dare swear, 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
himself. By this time, I'm fomething recover'd of my fluster'd
madness: And now,
a word or two in sober sadness. Ours is a common play; and you pay down A common harlot's price-juft half a crown. You'll say, I play the pimp, on my friend's score; But, since '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 Jonson's learning, often faild? But Shakespeare's greater genius still prevail'd. Have not some writing actors, in this age Deserv'd and found success
EPILOGUE TO HENRY II.
[By Mr. MountFORT, 1693.]
you The playhouse is a kind of market-place; One chaffers for a voice, another for a face:
Nay, some of you, I dare not say how many,
He's come to lose his maidenhead to-day.
But this the ladies may with patience brook:
forsook. He would be loth the beauties to offend; But, if he should, he's not too old to mend. He's a young plant, in his first year of bearing; But his friend swears, he will be worth the rearing, His glofs is still 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 sweet and sour, and one side good at least. Mangos and limes, whose nourishment is little, Though not for food, are yet preserv'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 sexes too; He sells to men, he gives himself 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 offensive and defensive too; "Tis hard, he thinks, if neither part will do.
PROLOGUE TO ALBUMAZAR.
10 fay, this Comedy pleas'd long ago,
Is not enough to make it pass you now.