The custom is frequent, on my word I assure ye In our fam'd elder house, of the Hundreds of Dru But then you must know, those players still act Some very good reasons, for such benefaction.

A deceas'd poet's widow, if pretty, can't fail From Cibber she holds, as a tenant in tail. Your emerited actors, and actresses too, For what they have done (tho' no more they can And sitters, and songsters, and Chetwood and G And sometimes a poor sufferer in the South Sea A machine-man, a tire-woman, a mute and spright,

Have been all kept from starving by a benefit-nig Thus, for Hoppy's bright merits, at length we h found

That he must have of us ninety-nine and one pou
Paid to him clear money once every year:
And however some think it a little too dear,
Yet, for reasons of state this sum we'll allow,
Tho' we pay the good man with the sweat of
brow.

First, because by the king to us he was sent, To guide the whole session of this parliament. To preside in our councils, both public and priv And so learn, by the bye, what both houses

drive at.

, most to conceive, affair, isn't right; hich way he came by't: vs, he does such things

rogue, an

we sweat out our blood, poor Hoppy's good; pot and his spit;

o wash down a tit bit. o clean and so neat,

to fence against sweat: altho' all the day,

ll night he's gay;
h for the state,
sit up as late.
asons, as before I did

or our acting this play,
s look je ne sçai quoy.

PROLOGU

TO A PLAY FOR THE BENEFIT

WEAVERS.

BY DR SHERID

SPOKEN BY MR ELRINGT

GREAT Cry, and little wool-is
The plague and proverb of the
So wool to work on, neither w
Their pockets empty, and their
Prorok'd, in loud complaints to
Ladies, relieve the weavers; or
forsake your silks for stuffs; n
shift your clothes, since you
One thing with freedom I'll
The men will like
See I am dress'd from top to
you every bi
And by my troth, I think I'm f

L

pre

GREAT cry, and little wool-is now become
The plague and proverb of the weaver's loom :
No wool to work on, neither weft nor warp;
Their pockets empty, and their stomachs sharp.
Provok'd, in loud complaints to you they cry:
Ladies, relieve the weavers; or they die!
Forsake your silks for stuffs; nor think it strange,
To shift your clothes, since you delight in change.
One thing with freedom I'll presume to tell-
The men will like you every bit as well.

See I am dress'd from top to toe in stuff,
And by my troth, I think I'm fine enough;