at it let me die, it has made me sick!" When the world lies, Mr. Bentley, if that very lady has not easily digested a much ranker morsel in a little ale-house towards Paddington, and never made a face at it. But your true jilt is a creature that can extract bawdy out of the chastest sense, as easily as a spider can poison out of a rose: they know true bawdy, let it be never so much concealed, as perfectly as Falstaff did the true prince by instinct: they will separate the true metal from the alloy, let us temper it as well as we can. Some women

are the touch-stones of filthiness: though I have heard a lady (that has more modesty than any of those she-critics, and I am sure more wit) say, she wondered at the impudence of any of her sex, that would pretend to understand the thing called bawdy. So, Mr. Bentley, for aught I perceive, my play may be innocent yet, and the lady mistaken in pretending to the knowledge of a mystery above her; though, to speak honestly, she has had, besides her wit, a liberal education; and if we may credit the world, has not buried her talent neither.

This is, Mr. Bentley, all I can say in behalf of my play: wherefore I throw it into your arms; make the best of it you can; praise it to your customers; sell ten thousand of them, if possible, and then you will complete the wishes of

Your Friend and Servant,

THO, OTWAY.

PROLOGUE,

BY THE LORD FALKLAND.

FORSAKEN dames, with less concern, reflect
On their inconstant hero's cold neglect,
Than we (provok'd by this ungrateful age)
Bear the hard fate of our abandon'd stage.
With grief we see you ravish'd from our arms,
And curse the feeble virtue of our charms:
Curse your false hearts, for none so false as they,
And curse the eyes that stole those hearts away.
Remember, faithless friends, there was a time,
(But oh the sad remembrance of our prime!)
When to our arms with eager joys ye flew,
And we believ'd your treach'rous hearts as true
As e'er was nymph of our's to one of you.
But a more pow'rful Saint* enjoys ye now;
Fraught with sweet sins, and absolutions too:
To her are all your pious vows addrest,
She's both your love's, and your religion's test,
The fairest prelate of her time, and best.
We own her more deserving far than we,
A just excuse for your inconstancy.
Yet 'twas unkindly done to leave us so;
First to betray with love, and then undo,
A horrid crime you're all addicted to.
Too soon, alas! your appetites are cloy'd,
And Phillis rules no more, when once enjoy'd:
But all rash oaths of love and constancy,
With the too-short, forgotten pleasures die :
Whilst she, poor soul, robb'd of her dearestease,
Still drudges on with vain desire to please;
And restless follows you from place to place,
For tributes due to her autumnal face.

*Pope Joan. O.-This was the " Female Prelate," a tragedy by Settle, founded upon the well-known story of a Female Pope.

Deserted thus by such ungrateful men,
How can we hope you'll e'er return agen?
Here's no new charm to tempt ye as before,
Wit now's our only treasure left in store,
And that's a coin will pass with you no more:
You who such dreadful bullies would appear,
(True bullies! quiet when there's danger near)
Shew your great souls in damning poets here.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Captain BEAUGARD.
COURTINE.

Sir DAVY DUNCE.

Sir JOLLY JUMBLE.

FOURBIN, a Servant to Beaugard.
BLOODY-BONES.

VERMIN, a Servant to Sir Davy.

Lady DUNCE.

SYLVIA.

Maid.

A Constable and Watch.

SCENE, London.