THE BUSY BODY.

MRS. CENTLIVRE, after the taste of Mrs. APHRA BEHN, was a Writer of that Comedy, which may be termed the Intriguing Drama-built upon chancemedley and situation, mistakes, closets, veils, balconies, old guardians, and young profligates, with a set of ladies who seem bound by no other laws than their inclinations.

I know, positively, no one of her plays which, morally speaking, may not do mischief; but they have bustle, they have business, and carrying the commercial passion with them into their amusements, the English love that their drama should be crowded with cha. racer, and that its personages should be all people in plentiful business.

What may, when her outset in life is considered, be deemed surprising, is, that her Comedies all evidence very forcibly for her acquirements in learning-her assiduity must have augmented with her years,

"Vires acquirit eundo."

For the modern languages were obviously her own; and of Latin she seems to have had more than to fe

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males is usually given, even where the educ been regular.

She was assuredly an illustrious female But the literary LADIES of our own times din ceding claims to the rank of Dramatic Wri Mrs. CowLEY, Miss LEE, and the Novel d BURNEY.

PROLOGUE.

THO' modern prophets were expos'd of late
The Author could not prophecy her 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 prophetick lies please fools o' fashion,
And women are so fond of agitation,

To men of sense I'll prophesy anew,

And tell you wondrous things that will prove true.
"Undaunted Col'nels will to camps repair,
« Assur'd there'll be no skirmishes this year ;”
On our own terms will flow the wish'd-for peace,
All wars except 'twixt man and wife will cease;
The Grand 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 begone,

My lord cann'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 labour'd for an heir,
Where many a courtier may their wants relieve,
But by the waters only they conceive:

The Fleetstreet sempstress-toast of Temple sparks,
That runs spruce neckcloths for attornies' clerks,
At Cupid's gardens will her hours regale,
Sing fair Dorinda, and drink bottled ale:
At all assemblies rakes are up and down,
And gamesters where they think they are not known.
Should I denounce our author's fate to-day,
To cry down prophecies you'd damn the play:
Yet whims like these have sometimes made you laugh;
'Tis tatiling all, like Isaac Bickerstaff.

Since war and places claim the bards that write,
Be kind, and bear a woman's treat to-night;
Let your indulgence all her fears allay,
And none but women-haters damn this play.