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A trimmer cried (that heard me tell the story)
Fie, Mistress Cook! 'faith you're too rank a
Tory!
[cases;

Wish not Whigs hang'd, but pity their hard
You women love to see inen make wry faces.
Pray, Sir, said I, don't think me such a Jew;
I say no more, but give the devil his due.
Lenitives, says he, best suit with our condition.
Jack Ketch, says I, 's an excellent physician.
I love no blood. Nor I, Sir, as I breathe;
But hanging is a fine dry kind of death.
We trimmers are for holding all things even.
Yes, just like him that hung 'twixt hell and
heaven.

Have we not had men's lives enough already?Yes, sure; but you're for holding all things steady. [brother, Now, since the weight hangs all on one side, You trimmers should, to poise it, hang on

t'other.

Damn'd neuters, in their middle way of steering, Are neither fish nor flesh, nor good red-herring: Not Whigs nor Tories they, nor this nor that; Nor birds, nor beasts, but just a kind of bat; A twilight animal, true to neither cause, With Tory wings, but Whiggish teeth and claws.

$10. Prologue to The Mistakes, a Play written by Joseph Harris, comedian. 1690. DRYDEN.

Enter Mr. Bright.

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 snivelling and sobbing behind the scenes, and cursing somebody that has deceived him,

Enter Mr. Bowen.

Hold your prating to the audience; here is honest 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 I wish him a good deliverance.

[Exeunt Mr. Bright and Mr. Bowen.

Enter Mr. Williams.

Save ye, Sirs, save ye! I'm in a hopeful way, I should speak something, in rhyme, now, for the play:

But the deuce take me if I know what to say. I'll stick to my friend the author, that I can tell To the last drop of claret in my belly. [ye,

So far I'm sure 'tis rhyme-that needs no granting: [are wanting. And, if my verses' feet stumble-you see my own 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
This I dare swear, no malice here is writ: [not.
'Tis innocent of all things-even of wit.
He's no high-flyer-he makes no sky-rockets,
His squibs are only levell'd at your pockets:
And if his crackers light among your pelf,
Ye are blown up; if not, then he's blown up
himself.
[Aluster'd madness:
By this time I'm something recover'd of my
And now, a word or two in sober sadness.
Ours is a common play; and you pay down
A common harlot's price-just 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 Shakspeare was an actor and a poet.
Has not great Jonson's learning often fail'd,
While Shakspeare's greater genius still prevail'd?
Have not some writing actors, in this age,
Deserv'd and found success 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 presence grace our homely cheer;
Peace and the butt, is all our bus'ness here;
So much for that, and the devil take small beer.

§ 11. Prologue to the Old Bachelor. 1693. CONGREVE.

How this vile world is chang'd! In former days
Prologues were serious speeches before plays;
Grave, solemn things (as graces are to feasts),
Where poets begg'd a blessing from their guests.
But now no more like suppliants we come!
A play makes war, and prologue is the drum.
Arm'd with keen satire, and with pointed wit,
We threaten you, who do for judges sit,
To save our plays; or else we'll damn your pit.
But for your comfort, it falls out to-day,
We've a young author, and his first-born play:
So, standing only on his good behaviour,
He's very civil, and entreats your favour.
Not but the man has malice, would he show it:
But, on my conscience, he's a bashful poet;
You think that strange-no matter; he'll out-
grow it.

Well, I'm his advocate-by me he prays you,
(I don't know whether I shall speak to please you)
He prays-O bless me! what shall I do now?
Hang me if I know what he prays, or how!
And twas the prettiest prologue as he wrote it:
Well, the deuce take me if I ha'n't forgot it.

*The siege of the city of Cork.

O Lord! for Heaven's sake excuse the play,
Because, you know, if it be damn'd to-day,
I shall be hang'd for wanting what to say..
For my sake then-but I'm in such confusion,
I cannot stay to hear your resolution. [Runs off.

$12. Prologue, spoken by Lord Buckhurst, at
Westminster School, at a Representation of
Mr. Dryden's CLEOMENES, the Spartan
Hero, at Christmas, 1695.
PRIOR.
PISH! Lord, I wish this prologue was but
Greek,

Then

young Cleonidas would boldly speak:

Howe'er, to constancy the prize she gives,
And though the sister dies, the brother lives.
Blest with success, at last he mounts a throne,
Enjoys at once his mistress and a crown.
Learn, ladies, then, from Libaraxa's fate,
What great rewards on virtuous lovers wait.
Learn too, if Heaven and fate should adverse
prove,

(For fate and Heaven don't always smile on love)
Learn with Zelinda to be still the same,
Nor quit your first for any second flame:
Whatever fate, or death or life, be given,
Dare to be true, submit the rest to Heaven.

FARQUHAR. [Servant attending with a Bottle of Wine.]

But can Lord Buckhurst in poor English say, § 14. Prologue to Love and a Bottle. 1699.
Gentle spectators, pray excuse the play?
No, witness all ye gods of ancient Greece,
Rather than condescend to terms like these,
I'd ფი to school six hours on Christmas-day,
Or construe Persius while my comrades play.
Such work by hireling actors should be done,
Who tremble when they see a critic frown;
Poor rogues, that smart, like fencers, for their
bread,

And if they are not wounded, are not fed.
But, sirs, our labor has more noble ends,
We act our tragedy to see our friends:
Our gen'rous scenes are for pure love repeated,
And if you are not pleas'd, at least you're treated.
The candles and the clothes ourselves we bought,
Our tops neglected, and our balls forgot.
To learn our parts we left our midnight bed,
Most of you snor'd whilst Cleomenes read.
Not that from this confession we would sue
Praise undeserv'd; we know ourselves and you:
Resolv'd to stand or perish by our cause,
We neither censure fear, nor beg applause,
For those are Westminster and Sparta's laws.
Yet if we see some judgement well inclin'd,
To young desert and growing virtue kind,
That critic by ten thousand marks should know,
That greatest souls to goodness only bow;
And that your little hero does inherit
Not Cleomenes' more than Dorset's spirit.

$13. Prologue to the Royal Mischief. 1696.
PRIOR.

LADIES, to you with pleasure we submit
This early offspring of a virgin-wit.
From your good-nature nought our authoress
feats:

Sure you'll indulge, if not the muse, her years;
Freely, the praise she may deserve, bestow ;-
Pardon, not censure, what you can't allow;
Smile on the work, be to her merits kind,
And to her faults, whate'er they are, be blind.
Let critics follow rules; she boldly writes
What Nature dictates, and what Love indites.
By no dull forms her queen and ladies move,
But court their heroes, and agnize their love.
Poor maid she'd have (what e'en no wife
would crave)

A husband love his spouse beyond the grave:
And, from a second marriage to deter,

Shows you what horrid things step-mothers are.

As stubborn atheists who disdain to pray,
Repent, though late, upon their dying day;
So in their pangs most authors, rack'd with fears,
Implore your mercy in our suppliant prayers.
But our new author has no cause maintain'd,
Let him not lose what he has never gain'd:
Love and a bottle are his peaceful arms;
Ladies and gallants, have not those some charms?
For love, all mankind to the fair must sue:
And, sirs, the bottle he presents to you.
Health to the play I toast [Drinks.]—e'en let

it pass,

Sure none sit here that will refuse their glass!
O there's a damning soldier-let me think-
He looks as he were sworn-to what? To drink.
Come on then; foot to foot be boldly set,
[Drinks.
And our young author's new commission wet.
He and his bottle here attend their doom,
From you the poet's Helicon must come;
If he has any foes, to make amends
He gives his service [Drinks.]—Sure you now

are friends;

No critic here will he provoke to fight;
The day be theirs, he only begs his night.
Pray pledge him now, secur'd from all abuse;
Then name the health you love, let none refuse.

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The ladies safe may smile, for here's no slander, | An opera, like an oglio, nicks the age; No smut, no lewd-tongued beau, no double en- Farce is the hasty-pudding of the stage: tendre. For when you're treated with indifferent cheer, You can dispense with slender stage-coach fare. A pastoral's whipt-cream; stage-whims, mere trash;

Tis true, he has a spark just come from France, "But then, so far from beau-why, he talks sense, Like coin, oft carried out, but-seldom brought from thence.

There's yet a gang to whom our spark submits,
Your elbow-shaking fool that lives by's wits,
That's only witty though, just as he lives, by fits:
Who, lion-like, through bailiffs scours away,
Hunts, in the face of dinner, all the day,
At night with empty bowels grumbles o'er the
play.

And now the modish prentice he implores,
Who, with his master's cash, stol'n out of doors,
Employs it on a brace of-honorable whores:
While their good bulky mother pleas'd sits by,
Bawd-regent of the bubble-gallery.
Next to our mounted friends we humbly move,
Who all your side-box tricks are much above,
And never fail to pay us with your love.
Ah, friends! poor Dorset Garden-house is gone;
Our merry meetings there are all undone:
Quite lost to us, sure for some strange misdeeds,
That strong dog Samson's pull'd it o'er our heads,
Snaps rope like thread; but when his fortune's
told him,

He'll hear perhaps of rope will one day hold him:
At least, I hope that our good-natur'd town
Will find a way to pull his prices down.
Well, that's all! Now, gentlemen, for the play:
On second thoughts, I've but two words to say;
Such as it is, for your delight design'd,
Hear it, read, try, judge, and speak as you find.

§ 16. Prologue to The Inconstant. 1702. FARQUHAR.

LIKE hungry guests a sitting audience looks: Plays are like suppers; poets are the cooks: The founders you: the table is the place: The carvers we: the prologue is the grace: Each act a course; each scene a diff'rent dish: Though we're in Lent, I doubt you're still for flesh.

Satire's the sauce, high-season'd, sharp, and rough;

Kind masks and beaux, I hope you're pepperproof.

Wit is the wine; but 'tis so scarce the true, Poets, like vintners, balderdash and brew. Your surly scenes, where rant and bloodshed Are butcher's meat, a battle's a sirloin: [join, Your scenes of love, so flowing, soft, and chaste, Are water-gruel, without salt or taste. Bawdy's fat venison, which, though stale, can please:

Your rakes love haut-gouts, like your damn'd
French cheese.

Your rarity, for the fair guest to gape on,
Is your nice squeaker, or Italian capon;
Or your French virgin-pullet, garnish'd round
And dress'd with sauce of some-four hundred
pound.

And tragi-comedy, half fish and flesh.
But comedy, that, that's the darling cheer;
This night, we hope, you'll an Inconstant bear;
Wild-fowl is lik'd in play-house all the year.

Yet since each mind betrays a diff'rent taste,
And ev'ry dish scarce pleases ev'ry guest,
If aught you relish, do not damn the rest.
This favor crav'd, up let the music strike:
You're welcome all-now fall to where you like.

§ 17. Prologue on the proposed Union of the
Two Houses. 1703. FARQUHAR.
Now all the world's ta'en up with state affairs,
Some wishing peace, some calling out for wars,
'Tis likewise fit we should inform the age,
What are the present politics o' th' stage:
Two diff'rent states, ambitious both, and bold,
All free-born souls, the New House and the Old,
Have long contended, and made stout essays,
Which should be monarch absolute in plays.
Long has the battle held with bloody strife,
Where many ranting heroes lost their life;
Yet such their enmity, that e'en the slain
Do conquer death, rise up, and fight again.
Whilst from the gallery, box, the pit, and all,
The audience look 'd, and shook its awful head,
Wond'ring to see so many thousands fall,

And then look'd pale to see us look so red.
For force of numbers, and poetic spell,
We've rais'd the ancient heroes too from hell,
To lead our troops; and on this bloody field
You've seen great Cæsar fight, great Pompey
yield.

Vast sums of treasure too we did advance,
To draw some mercenary troops from France;
Light-footed rogues, who, when they got their
pay,

Took to their heels-Allons—and ran away.
Here you have seen great Philip's conqu'ring son,
Who in twelve years did the whole world o'errun;
Here has he fought, and found a harder job
To beat one play-house, than subdue the globe;
All this from emulation for the bays:
You lik'd the contest, and bestow'd your praise,
But now (as busy heads love something new)
They would propose an union-O mort dieu!
If it be so, let Cæsar hide his head,
And fight no more for glory, but for bread.
Let Alexander mourn, as once before,
Because no worlds are left to conquer more.
But if we may judge small from greater things,
The present times may show what union brings,
You feel the danger of united kings.
If we grow one, then slav'ry must ensue
To poets, players, and, my friends, to you:
For, to one house confin'd, you then must praise
Both cursed actors, and confounded plays.
Then leave us as we are, and next advance
Bravely to break the tie 'twixt Spain and France.

§ 18. Prologue to Love's Contrivance. 1703.
CENTLIVRE.
POETS like mushrooms rise and fall of late,
Or as the uncertain favorites of state;
Invention's rack'd to please both
But no scene takes without the moving play'r:
Daily we see plays, pamphlets, libels, rhymes,

eye

and ear,

Become the falling-sickness of the times;
So fev'rish is the humor of the town,
It surfeits of a play ere three days' run.
At Locket's, Browne's, and at Pontack's, inquire
What modish kick-shaws the nice beaux desire,
What fam'd ragouts, what new-invented salad,
Has best pretensions to regale the palate.
If we present you with a medley here,
A hodge-podge dish serv'd up in china ware,
We hope 'twill please, 'cause, like your bill of

fare,

To please you all we should attempt in vain :
In diff'rent persons diff'rent humors reign.
The soldier's for the rattling scenes of war,
The peaceful beau hates shedding blood so near.
Courtiers in comedy place their chief delight,
'Cause love's the proper business of the night.
The clown for past'ral his half-crown bestows,
But t'other house by sad experience knows,
This polish'd town produces few of those.
The merchant is for traffic ev'ry where,
And values not the best, but cheapest ware.
Since various humors are pleas'd various ways,
A critic's but a fool to judge of plays.
Fool, did I say? "Tis difficult to know
Who 'tis that's so indeed, or is not so:
If that be then a point so hard to gain,
Wit's sure a most profound unfathom'd
He that sits judge, the trident ought to sway,
To know who's greatest fool or wit to-day,
The audience, or the author of the play.

main.

§ 19. Epilogue to the Beau's Duel. 1703. CENTLIVRE.

You see, gallants, 't has been our poet's care, To show what beaux in their perfection are; By nature cowards, foolish; useless tools, Made men by tailors, and by women, fools: A fickle, false, a singing, dancing crew; Nay, now we hear they've smiling-master o. Just now a Frenchman, in the dressing-room, From teaching of a beau to smile, was come. He show'd five guineas-Wasn't he rarely paid? Thus all the world by smiles are once betray'd. The statesman smiles on them he would undo, The courtier's smiles are very seldom true, The lover's smiles too many do believe, And women smile on them they would deceive. When tradesmen smile, they safely cheat with

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To please you then shall be our chief endeavour And all we ask is but your smiles for ever.

[Going.

Hold-I forgot the author bid me say,
She humbly begs protection for her play:
And you're too gen'rous, sure, to let it fall;
'Tis yours she dedicates it to you all,
She hopes the ladies will her cause maintain,

Since virtue here has been her only aim.
The beaux, she thinks, won't fail to do her right,
Since here they're taught with safety how to
She's sure of favor from the men of war,
fight.
A soldier is her darling character:
To fear their murmurs then would be absurd,
They only mutiny when not preferr'd.
But yet, I see, she does your fury dread,
And, like a pris'ner, stands with fear half-dead,
While
you, her judges, do her sentence give;
If you're not pleas'd, she says, she cannot live.
Let my petition then for once prevail,
And let your gen'rous hands her pardon seal.

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'Tis five to one but one o' th' five may please you. First, for the critics, we've your darling cheer, Faultswithout number, morethan sensecan bear; You're certain to be pleas'd where errors are. From your displeasure I dare vouch we're safe; You never frown but where your neighbours laugh. Now, you that never knowwhat spleen or hate is, Who for an act or two are welcome gratis, That tip the wink, and so sneak out with nunquam satis;

For

your smart tastes we've toss'd you up a fop, We hope the newest that's of late come up; The fool, beau, wit, and rake,so mix'd he carries, He seems a ragout piping-hot from Paris. But, for the softer sex, whom most we'd move, We've what the fair and chaste were form'd for-love:

An artless passion, fraught with hopes and fears,
And nearest happy when it most despairs.
For masks, we've scandal, and for beaux,
French airs.

To please all tastes, we'll do the best we can; For the galleries, we've Dicky and Will Pinkethman.

[fare;

Now, sirs, you're welcome, and you know your
But pray, in charity, the founder spare,
Lest you destroy at once the poet and the play'r.

§ 21. Prologue to the Twin Rivals. 1706. FARQUHAR.

[An alarm sounded.] WITH drums andtrumpets, in this warring age, A martial prologue should alarm the stage.

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And the loud batt'ries roar-from yonder rising ground.

In the first act, brisk sallies (miss or hit),
With volleys of small shot, or snip-snap wit,
Attack, and gall the trenches of the pit.
The next the fire continues, but at length
Grows less, and slackens like a bridegroom's
strength.

The third-feints, mines, and countermines, abound;

Your critic engineers, safe under ground, Blow up our works, and all our art confound. The fourth-brings on most action, and 'tis

sharp,

Fresh foes crowd on, at your remissness carp, And desp'rate, though unskill'd, insult our counterscarp.

Then comes the last; the gen'ral storm is near,
The poet-governor now quakes for fear;
Runs wildly up and down, forgets to huff,
And would give all he's plunder'd—to get off.
So-Don, and Monsieur-Bluff, before the
siege,

Were quickly tam'd-at Venlo, and at Liege: 'Twas Viva Spagnia! Viva France! before; Now, Quartier, Monsieur! Quartier! Ah,

Senor !

But what your resolution can withstand?
You master all, and awe the sea and land.
In war-your valor makes the strong submit;
Your judgement humbles all attempts in wit.
What play, what fort, what beauty, can endure
All fierce assaults, and always be secure?
Then grant 'em gen'rous terms who dare to write,
Since now-that seems as desp'rate as to fight.
If we must yield—yet, ere the day be fix'd,
Let us hold out the third, and, if we may, the

§ 22.

sixth.

Prologue to the Basset-Table. 1706. Spoken by Mr.Pinkethman. CENTLIVRE. In all the faces that to plays resort, Whether of country, city, mob, or court, I've always found, that none such hopes inspire As you, dear brethren of the upper tier. Poets in prologues may both preach and rail, Yet all their wisdom nothing will avail; [fail. Who writes not up to you, 'tis ten to one will Your thund'ring plaudit 'tis that deals out fame; You make plays run, though of themselves but lame. [manding, How often have we known your noise comImpose on your inferior masters' understanding! Therefore, dear brethren, since I'm one of you, Whether adorn'd in grey, green, brown, or blue, This day stand all by me, as I will fall by you.

And now let

The poor pit see how Pinkey's voice commands. Silence-Now rattle all your sticks, and clap your grimy hands.

I greet your love, and let the vainest author show

Half this command on cleaner hands below:

Nay more, to prove your interest, let this play live by you.

So may you share good claret with your masters, Still free in your amours from their disasters; Free from poor house-keeping, where peck is under locks;

Free from cold kitchens, and no Christmas-box; So may no long debates i' th' House of Commons Make you i' th' lobby starve, when hunger

summons;

But may your plenteous vails come flowing in, Give you a lucky hit, and make you gentlemen: And, thus preferr'd, ne'er fear the world's reproaches,

But shake your elbows with my lord, and keep your coaches.

§ 23. Prologue to the Busybody. 1708. CENTLIVRE.

THOUGH modern prophets were expos'd of late,

The author could not prophesy his fate:
If with such scenes an audience had been fir'd,
The poet must have really been inspir'd.
But these, alas! are melancholy days
For modern prophets, and for modern plays.
Yet since prophetic lies please fools of fashion,
And women are so fond of agitation;
To men of sense I'll prophesy anew,
And tell you wondrous things that will prove
Undaunted colonels will to camps repair, [true.
Assur'd there'll be no skirmishes this year;
On our own terms will flow the wish'd-for peace,
All wars, except 'twixt nian and wife, shall cease.
TheGrand Monarque may wish his son a throne,
But hardly will advance to lose his own.
This season most things bear a smiling face;
But play'rs in summer have a dismal case,
Since your appearance only is our act of grace.
Court-ladies will to country seats be gone,
My lord can't all the year live great in town:
Where wanting operas, basset, and a play,
They'll sigh, and stitch a gown to pass the time

away.

Gay city-wives at Tunbridge will appear,
Whose husbands long have wished for an heir;
Where many a courtier may their wants relieve,
But by the waters only they conceive.
The Fleet-street sempstress, toast of Temple
sparks,
[clerks,
That runs spruce neckcloths for attorneys'
At Cuper's gardens will her hours regale,
Sing Fair Dorinda, and drink bottled ale.
At all assemblies rakes are up and down,
And gamesters, when they think they are not
known.

Should I denounce our author's fate to-day, To cry down prophecies, you'd damn the play ;

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