[[{Prologue to the Guardian} {Before the Prince}]] Who says the Times do Learning disallow? 'Tis false; 'twas never Honor'd so as now; When you appear, Great Prince, our Night is done; You are our Morning Star, and shall be' our Sun. But our Scene's London now; and by the rout We perish, if the Round-heads be about. For now no ornament the Head must wear, No Bays, no Mitre, not so much as Hair. How can a Play pass safely, when we know Cheapside Cross falls for making but a Show? Our only Hope is this, that it may be A Play may pass too, made Extempore. Though other Arts poor and neglected grow, They'll admit Poesie which was {always} so. Besides, the Muses of late times have bin Sanctifi'd by the Verse of Master Prin. But we contemn the fury of these days, And scorn no less their Censure then their Praise. Our Muse, Blest Prince, does onely 'on you relie; Would gladly Live, but not refuse to Dye. Accept our hasty Zeal; a thing that's play'd Ere 'tis a Play, and Acted ere 'tis Made. Our Ignorance, but our Duty too we show; I would all Ign'rant People would so so! At other Times expect our Wit or Art; This Comedy is Acted by the Heart.

[[{The Epilogue}]] The Play, great Sir, is done; yet needs must fear, Though you brought all your Father's Mercies here, It may offend your Highness, and we have now Three hours done Treason here, for ought we know. But power your grace can above Nature give, It can give Pow'r to make Abortives Live. In which if our bold wishes should be crost, 'Tis but the Life of one poor week t'has lost; Though it should fall beneath your mortal scorn, Scarce could it Dye more quickly then 'twas Born.

[[The Prologue]] Since it is held a crime, that on the Stage Wit should present it selfe (since that the Age) Degenerates so farre, that nothing may Be countenanc't, that shews but like a Play; How shall these sceanes scape free (ye wiser few) That are not retrograded with the crew O'the reforming ones, since tis enacted That nought but fiery Faction shall be acted; And since the prudent now have ordered so, Fooles onely speake {Cum privilegio}. We in conscience, so as we can Have given words to a Committee-man.

[[The PROLOGUE To The GENTRY]] Though {Johnson}, {Shakespeare}, {Goffe}, and {Davenant}, Brave {Sucklin}, {Beaumont}, {Fletcher}, {Shurley} want The life of action, and their learned lines Are loathed, by the Masters of the times; Yet your refined Soules, can penetrate Their depth of merit, and excuse their Fate: With this position those rude Elves that dare 'Gainst all Divine, and humane Laws, make War; Who count it treble glory, to transgresse Perfect in nothing, but imperfectnesse. Can finde no better engine to advance Their Thrones, then vile, and beastly Ignorance: Their bloudy Myrmidons, o' th' Table round Project, to raze, our Theaters to the ground: No marvell they lap bloud as milke and glory To be recorded, villaines, upon Story. "For having kill'd their King, where will they stay "That thorow GOD, and MAJESTIE, make way, "Throwing the Nobles, and the Gentry downe "Levelling, all distinctions, to the Crowne. So that (which Heaven forbid) should they reduce Our {English} world, to their confined use, 'Twill be admir'd, more then a prodegie To hear an Herald, state a prodigee; An 'twill be thought, a sharpe, and bitter blur To salute any, by the title (Sir.) We here present you, his deplored fall Whose Death will prove a ruine generall, (If Fates forbid not) and we hold to view What the world knows, is not more strange then true: An[[o recte]][a]tomizing Treason, damning them Who Murther'd {Charls}, to share His Diadem And to preserve their Soules in flesh, whose ends Unto the ruine, of all {Europe} tends: But {Joves} all potent thunder shall divide Their plots, and strike them, in their height of pride. [[{Exit}]] [[OF PRIGGS REVELS]] [[J.S.]]

[[The Prologue]] Since that the Apes and Parrots of the Stage, Are silenc'd by the Clamours of the Age; Like Conies forc'd to feed on Bran and Grass, (The true Desciples of {Pithagoras}) Whose Copper-Lace, and Copper-Noses once Made them to think themselves great {Prester-Johns}: You'l (sure) have cause to praise, and thank that man Can make each Thief a compleat {Roscian}: Then much good doe't you (Sirs) fall to and eat, You ne're had cheaper (perhaps) better meat. [[OF PRIGGS REVELS]] [[J.S.]]

[[Epilogue]] Our Authors Invention would not admit delay But strait produc'd new Plots, t'inlarge this play; And thinking to write what's fancy had commended, One comes and tells him, {Hinde} was apprehended: Whereat amaz'd he bids his friend adieu, And forth he's gone, to inquire if the news be true. [[HUMOR OFF A ROGE]]

[[{Gentleman:}]] I beleue thee, & aske what Is resonable In~ our powers & thou shalte haue Itt, -

[[{Roge:}]] Thatt I maye haue the Honor to speake to these Noble Gentlemen~,

[[{Gentleman:}]] Doe, - [[{Theye sett his cheare to the People}]]

[[{Epilogg},]] [[{Roge:}]] Worthye spectators, though I was a Roge, I heer presume to speake the Epologe, For my offenses, punishte was to Daye, Bye the Iuste Iudgments off our Iudginge Playe, Soe I am~ cleer, no punishmente Is Dewe, To mee, Exsepte freshe crimes, Com~itt a Newe, Iff pleasde, then clapp your handes, & I am~ freede, Iff nott; I wishe, that I weare Hangde Indeede, [[{After the Epeloge}, {theye Carye the Roge}, {In~ his Cheare vppon~ men~s sholders}, {& singes this followinge Songe as hee Goes In~}]], [[{The Songe},]] Loe heer you beholders, Hoyste vpp on~ mens sholders, The triumphante Roge, ouer Death, Beyonde moste men~s Hope, Hee disposde the Rope, For stranglinge, or stoppinge his breath, This fation~ once Made, Itt will spoyle the Trade, Off Hange man~, though hee weare your Brother Iudges off Asise, Though neuer so wise, Iff this holde maye hange one an Other, Reioyse then~ & Singe, Though hee had the Swinge, Hee Lightlye did hange as a fether, The Rope neuer straynde, Butt Gentlye Remaynde, His winde pipe, was tough as whitt-Lether, Butt pick pocketts knowe, All Can~ nott doe Soe, Presume nott, then~ off such a thinge, Iff Hanging you Trye Youle sertenlye Dye, Ande goe to heaven~ In a stringe, [[finis the 11: Seane off the Roge, & thatt Humor,]] [[AND ELIZABETH BRACKLEY]]

[[A Prologe to the Stage]] Ladyes I beseech you blush not to see That I speake a Prologe being a Shee For it becomes as well if votes cry Ey When then should I, a Petticote cry fye, Gentlemen if so you allow; is witt Why then not speake, I pray your patience sitt And now to tell you trueth of our new Play It doth become a womans witt the very way And I did tell the poet plainely trueth It lookes like 18. or 22. youth Or els it could not bee, as 'tis but well I'le say noe more untill yo#e# hands Playes tell [[The second Prologe spoke by a Woman./]] Though a second Prologe spoke to our Play I will speake trueth, 'tis woman all y#e# way For you'll not see a Plott in any Act Nor any ridged, high, ignoble fact Fearing you'll sensure mee now full of Tongue It's not fitt, that I should speake too longe./ [[A perticuler Prologe to your Lo:#pp#/]] My Lord If that your jugement doth approve of mee, I pray you smile, that all may truely see, You like, and doe approve of what wee say, And then each one will freely give their pass, If then your quicker witt doth crowne our Play. Your health shalbee our word today./ [[AND ELIZABETH BRACKLEY]]

> [[{Epilog}]] [[Lu:]] Truely the conflicts I did see w#th#in Which for to tell you, even would bee a sinn The severall wayes, and fansyes of their feares And yet they darr not speake for their Eares Now I am charged, not a word more to say But begg your likes, and then 'tis Hollyday.

[[{Epilog}]] [[Ta:]] And I was sent in all hast to you here For to assure you there is a great feare Not knoweing how the Comedy doth please Dislik'd there will bee a white Huds decease Ladies from you I begg, a smile of like If Hats the Poet's happy in this might. [[{An Epilog} In perticuler to your Lo:#pp#]] [[Lu:]] Now since your Excellence hath thought it fitt [[Ta:]] To stay a three howres Comedy of sitt [[Lu:]] And soe but speake of it as like [[Ta:]] Then are our Sceanes even happy in your sight [[Lu:]] And though wee have, smyles and hats if you dislike [[Ta:]] Wee're totally condemned, for tonight. Have you now read my Lord, pray doe not speake For I'm already growne, so faint and weake Not knoweing how you will now sensure mee As rash to thinke, noe witt a present bee But if you like not, I pray let mee knowe The Penn and Inke shall have a fatall blowe If you not pleas'd, it will impression make In my vaine selfe, for indiscretion sake But if you like you will mee Cordyall give And soe as witty, I shall ever live./

[[PROLOGUE]] Our play may own a fortune few have had Freely to say the truth of ...... bad, Which is the cause, we beg no pardon here For those to speak that lived not in the year, Or other freedom lent to Poetry Of which she borrows all, but leaves to lie. If some expressions here too fat do show, Accuse the pampered times that made them so. Nice use, not Reason, makes lust's terms appear Harsher than murder, theft, or to forswear. Within a court who spread his scenes, must be Tangled with filth or baser flattery, And he that harbours all the truth he meets Cannot avoid the fouling of his sheets.

[[EPILOGUE]] You that are wiser, we desire to fence Our candid Author from the impudence Of buzzing critics, who like flies do sit Blowing their spurious censures upon wit, And fail us actors from their paws that say Our carriage hath detracted from the play: A fault beyond our powers to vindicate, Without their spirits whom we personate. Yet, could our acting reach the writer's peg, We'd claim applause - which now we humbly beg.

[[{Prologue}]] Me-thinks, as if assur'd of some disgrace, I should step back, ere scarce I shew my face: 'Tis not through terror, that I know not how To fashion my approaches, vail, and bow, But that displeasure in your looks I spy, Which seem to turn aside and stand awry. Ere yet we can offend, are we disgrac'd? Or are our Benches, not your looks misplac'd? We wish we could have found this Roof so high, That each might be allow'd a Canopy, And could the wals to such a wideness draw, That all might sit at ease in {Chaise a bras}. But though you cannot front our Cup-board-Scene, Nor sit as easily as to stretch and lean; Yet you are so divided and so plac'd, That half are freely by the other fac'd; And we are shrewdly jealous that you come Not meerly to hear us, or see the Room; But rather meet here to be met, I mean, Each would see all, and would of all be seen. Which we but guess, respectfully, to shew You worthy of your selves, not we of you. Think this your passage, and the narrow way To our Elisian Field, the {Opera}: Tow'rds which some say we have gone far about, Because it seems so long since we set out. Think now the way grown short, and that you light At this small Inn, to bait, not stay all night: Where you shall find, what you will much despise; The Host grown old, and worse then old, half wise. Still former times applauds, the present blames; And talks so long, that he (indeed) Declaims. From Declamations of a long hours length, Made strong to last, by some dead Authors strength, Not pow'rful to perswade, but to provoke; Long, grave, and sullen in a mourning Cloak; I wish, if possible, you could scape free; But, plainly, and in brief, it can not be. These you must please to hear, and have no way To give the anguish of your Ears allay, But by our {Rostra's}, to remember {Rome}; Then hope, such mighty minds in time may come As think it equal glory to take care To speak wise things, as to do great in war: Declaiming well on what they well have done; Being best guides where they the race have run: Quickning by influence of their Noble deeds Glory in others, till it Vertue breeds: What do I mean? Sure there is something here Has such infection as I ought to fear! Here I a short and bashful {Prologue} came; But strait grow long and bold; that is, {Declame}. What patience can endure Speech bold and long, Where sence is weak too, when the Lungs are strong: Yet this will rare abridgement seem in me, When four shall come and talk a History. Well, I have now devis'd, for your relief, How you shall make these long {Declaimers} brief; When you perceive their voices fall with fear, (As not accustom'd to the Publike-Ear) And that they pause, grow pale, and look about; Laugh but aloud, and you will put them out.

[[{Epilogue}]] Too late we told you, some two Hours ago, The ills which you were sure too soon to know. Had we fore-warn'd you but the day before, By half so much, said at our outward door, We had been civil, but had weakly shown More care to watch your profit then our own. We have your Money, true; if you can call That ours, of which we make no use at all. The Poets never mind such toys as these - [[Shews money]] But keep them to be sent for when you please. [[in his hand.]] At worst (if you may credit, in frail times, Bankers, who turn and wind a World of Rimes) They are but bow'd, laid in a Trunk above, And kept, as simple Tokens of your love, If this were raillery, it could not please, After the tedious dull {Diogenes}: A Poet a mile longer, then, two more, To vex you, having heard too much before. Perhaps, some were so couzen'd as to come, To see us weave in the Dramatique Loom: To trace the winding Scenes, like subtle Spies, Bred in the Muses Camp, safe from surprize: Where you by Art learn joy, and when to mourn; To watch the Plots swift change, and counterturn: When Time moves swifter then by Nature taught; And by a {Chorus} miracles are wrought; Making an Infant instantly a Man: These were your Plays, but get them if you can.

[[PROLOGUE]] Before I enter'd, I was tould what now I see decypher'd upon every brow; A sullen sadnes, and close murmurs say, "The Title is enough to damn the Play "The Bill condemns before the Action, Pox "Vpon the Poet with his Paradox, "Noble Ingratitude, a barbarous sound! "Vertue will die to see that Monster crown'd: Strange voices these, strange censures from the wits, For such he takes you, every one that sits Spectatour here usurps a priviledge, Which is unjust, before he hears, to judge. Wise, and just, Iuries, who in every cause Strictly observe the custom of the Laws, The bottome sound, and ne'r their verdicts bring Vpon the superficies of a thing; They weigh the ground of a matter well, and ne'r Proceed to sentence till they see all cleer; Have patience then a little, and suspend Your judgments till you see us at the end Of the fifth Act; three hours will soon be pass'd, In Sceans and Songs the minutes fly too fast; Then if we don't maintain our Paradox, Let me be sham'd, and sit three hours i'th' stocks For punishing your patience; if the crime Deserves more rigour, let a longer time Of penance be prescrib'd me there; but I Hope from your judgments, justice, clemency, A nobler sentence, and that you'll allow Me next a Lawrell wreath to crown my brow.

[[EPILOGUE]] The Prologue promis'd something for the Play Vnder a penalty, I come to pay What he engag'd for, not to beg applause, But, if we have transgress'd the Comick laws, To suffer punishment; Beauties,to you First I addresse me for the Poets due; He seeks but justice from your Ivorie hands, As you like or dislike he falls or stands: Smile on the peice, and no man dares to frown, Your vote swayes both the Cavaleer and Clown: Yours are the leading voices, in your looks We read our future better then in books; Y'are pleas'd, for Heaven's displaid in smiles, so then I need say nothing to you, Gentlemen.

[[PROLOGUE To the Court]] Ha! What divine shapes strike mine eyes, and make My tongue to faulter, and my limbs to shake, Through a respe[[s recte]][c]tfull awe and reverence, What thus so strongly seyseth on my sense? These are no {Fantasmes}, such as we present, But true Divinities from Heaven sent To grace our Earthly Theater; then I, Who cannot stand before such Majesty, Fall on my knee, and in this posture pray I may be heard to speak before the Play: Madam, to you then, from whose beautious sight Those lesser Starrs derive their borrowed light, First I addresse me; and although I'm sent From the proud Poet with a complement To let you know that he protests and saith His Sceanes will please, I cannot have that faith: He sweares that he prepares a Peece so rich In high conceptions, that it will bewitch Your eyes and eares, a Banket that may please The Da[[ni recte]][in]ty Pallats of the Deities: Unheard of vanity! I cannot chuse, But undeceive you, know tis an abuse, You'll meet with no feast here, since the chief dish Which he presents, is neither flesh nor fish, But a meere {Fantasme}, garnish'd like a course, Larded, and serv'd up with some love discourse, Unsolid matter flourishes of witt, And airy fancies, in my judgment fit But for the publick Stage, not to appeare Within the verge of this illustrious Sphere, Where nothing but the quintessence of wit Should dare to enter: humbly I submit To your transcendent judgment my advise, And wish it may be found more rash then wise, For daign t'applaud the Play, and I'm content To suffer for it any punishment [[t recte]][T']Appease the Poett, whose rage will be hot Upon my head if you protect me not: Auspitious Planets, rule this night, and shed Sweet influences on your board and bed.

[[EPILOGUE to the Court]] Let me Star gaze a while, and calculate Those Heavens, to know our fortune, or our fate Before I dare to speak, I cannot see One cloud appeare that would discourage me; Tis a good omen: Faire Queen of this night, Not Cynthia, but a Goddesse far more bright, To you I kneel.From him, whose glory is To offer you a pleasing Sacrifice, I mean th'ambitious Poet I am come Humbly to begg a favourable doome Upon his {Fantasme}, who although he be At the full point of his felicity A perfect body now, yet if you frowne Upon his action, and so cry him downe, No more a feigned {Fantasme} to be made, He dyes indead, and flyes into a shade.

[[[{The} PROLOGUE {spoken from above by} Ceres.]]] Gallants ye'r Welcome, {Ceres} bids ye so, And hath a Blessing for you, er'e ye go. You that are {Clergy}, if you'll Merry be, I'll see your Tith-Shocks paid more Honestly; And he that Cheats you, this shall be his Pain, Above all Knaves, to be {A Knave in Grain}. If {Married Men} will Laugh; For them I pray May on their Heads fall {Cornu-Copia}. But he that from hence Discontented goes, May a whole Harvest of {Corns} grow on's Toes. And you Good {Women}, if you'll sit and see Both {Wives} and {Maids}, you shall all Fruitful be. You that {Good-Fellows} are, but like our Sport, And you shall have the price of Malt fall for't. In this, my Blessing to you all appears, I'll give you {Corn}, if you will lend us {Ears}. Fall to then Gallants; I confess your Fare Is course and homely, but you Welcome are. You'r Welcome; and in this your Welcome stands, That you would soundly ply your Mouths and Hands. [[{Exeunt.}]]

[[The EPILOGUE.]] All's well that ends well. This, tho not allow'd, Yet like light Gold, it may go in a Crowd. I know the Folks are pleas'd; they think it rare, Because it glitters. --- But {you} Touch-stones are. Our trembling Author wishes that it might Rather have gone a Trust, than pay what's Light. {Sir Homily} in's Pars'nage doubtful sits, Lest you put in your {Quare Impedit's}. {Marchurch} will bargain for a {Plaudite}, If you'l strike Hands, it's made.----Hum--S{imonie}. His {Cotquean Nephew} bids you, without stud'ing, Be fair-condition'd, and eat Bread with Pudding. {Hob} swears, if he were Parson, he would know Whether Laughs were due to him, or no? The {Basket-maker} to this Point will stand: In taking Jest you must not use Short-hand. Nay more; the {Tinker} (so it be by stealth) Hath made him swear, that he will drink your Health. Your Palm'stry is more than the {Gipsie}'s skill; Can tell your Fortune, whether Good or Ill.

[[{Ceres}, after the Epilogue, speaks from Above.]] Looking for Barley here, I hope you've found, With {Aesop}'s Cock, some Jewel on the Ground: And if you have; Truth, let it so appear Like Jewels, let each word hang on your Ear. The Sport was Innocent, and if I'd had A worthier Stage, I should have been more glad. Hower'e, these shall be welcome to this Place Each Year, and {Ceres} takes it for a Grace.

[[{PROLOGUE},]] [[{To the unfortunate Lovers}.]] Were you but halfe so humble to confess, As you are Wise, to know your Happiness; Our Author would not grieve to see you sit Ruling with such unquestion'd pow'r his Wit: How happy were I, could I still retain My Loyalty to him, yet fairly gain Your kind opinion by revealing now The cause of that great Storm which clouds his Brow, And his close murmurs, which since meant to you, I cannot think, or mannerly, or true? Well; I begin to be resolv'd, and let My melancholly Tragick Monsieur fret; Let him the several harmless weapons use Of that all-daring trifle, call'd his Muse; Yet I'le inform you what this very day Twice before witness, I have heard him say; Which is, that you are grown excessive proud; Since ten times more of Wit then was allow'd, Your silly Ancestors in twenty year, You think, in two short hours to swallow here. For they to Theaters were pleas'd to come, E're they had din'd, to take up the best Room: There sit on Benches not adorn'd with Mats, And graciously did vail their high-crown'd Hats To every halfe-dress'd Player, as he still Through Hangings peep'd to see the Gall'ries fill. Good easie judging Souls, with what delight They would expect a Jigg or Target-Fight, A furious Tale of {Troy} which they ne'r thought Was weakly Writ, if it were strongly Fought: Laught at a Clinch, the shadow of a Jest, And cry'd, {A passing good one I protest}! Such dull and humble-witted People were Even your Forefathers, whom we govern'd here: And such had been you too, he swears, had not The Poets taught you to unweave a Plot. To trace the winding-Scenes, and to admit What was true Sense, not what did sound like Wit. They arm'd you thus, against themselves to fight, Made strong and mischievous from what they write: You have been lately highly feasted here: With two great Wits who grac'd our Theatre: But, if to feed you, often with delight, Will more corrupt then mend your appetite; He vows to use you, which he much abhors, As others did, your homely Ancestors.

[[{EPILOGUE}.]] Our Poet in his fury hath profest, Yet gravely, with his Hand upon his Breast, That he will never wish to see us thrive, If by an humble Epilogue we strive To court from you that priviledge to day Which you so long have had to damme a Play; 'Las, Gentlemen, he knows, to cry Plays down Is half the business Termers have in Town; And still the reputation of their Wit grows strong; As they can first condemn, though right or wrong. Your Wives and Countrey-friends may Power exact To find a fault or two in every Act: But you, by his consent, most kindly shall Enjoy the priviledge to rail at all: A happy freedom, which you love no less Then Money, Health, good Wine, or Mistresses; And he, he hopes (when Age declines his Wit From this our Stage, to sit and rule the Pit) Shall cruelly assume a Charter firme. As yours, to kill a Poet ev'ry Term. And though he never had the confidence, To tax your judgment in his own defence, Yet the next night, when you your Money share, He'l shrewdly guess what your opinions are.

[[Prologue Cupid in Pastoral habit.]] How could it enter into mortall breast: That under humane shape, and past'ral vest, Lay hid a god? nay more, no god o'th woods, Or one of the inferiour rank of gods, A god Celestial: who doth justly claim, Among the greatest the most powerful name: Who often makes victorious {Mars} to lay His conquering sword, and bloody spear away. Great {Neptune} who so fils the world with wonder, Yeilds him his trident; {Jove} himself his thunder, Sure with this aspect, in this habit clad, {Venus} can ne're discern her smooth-fac'd lad, Or know him thus transform'd. I'm forc'd to fly, And hide my self from her, because that I Scorn for to be her subject, or my darts Should be her slaves: and only wound those hearts They're levell'd at by her, and what's that vain, Ambitious woman dares my shafts restrain? At Kings and Princes Courts she only will That 'mongst great Ladies I employ my skill, And to my lower Ministers conceads To practice theirs amongst the woods and Meads, In rustick breasts. I though you may me deem A boy, am none, and will, as best shall seem To me, dispose my shafts, since mine of old Are both th'omnipotent torch, and bow of gold: Wherefore (to hide my self and to fly from Her force, not, but her prayrs strong when they come From an importunate mother) in these plains, I refuge seek amongst the rurall swains, And my self shelter in these woods, but she Ceases not day nor night to follow me, Promising those would tell her where I were Or kisses sweet, or what's than them more dear: As if that she my giving too could bar Of kisses sweet, or what's more pleasant far, To those that hide me from her, this at least; I know my kisses will be counted best: (If I that love am of love understand) So that she oft seeks for me vainly, and Looses her pains: Since none so foolish are, As to disclose or tell her where I were. But least by counter-signs she should me know, My wings, my dart, my quiver, and my bow, I have laid by, yet come not I disarm'd, Or weaponlesse, for see how I have charm'd My torch into this rod; which has the same Force it had first, and burns though with a flame Invisible, this likwise is my old Dart that I us'd, which though its head of gold Be chang'd, yet this of divine temper'd steel Who er'e it pierces makes loves flames to feel. This day I'l make the triall; and my dart Shall shew its divine power o're the heart - Lesse bosome of the cruel'st nymph before This time that ever followed {Dians} Chore, And chastest {Silvia}'s plague shall be the same, (For that's of this hard-hearted Nymph the name,) As that of fam'd {Aminta}, who did feel Long since, the pow'r of my Divinest steel; When he and she both tender us'd to sport, In the chast pleasures of bright {Cynthia}'s Court. But cause the wound shall be more inward, I Will stay untill some pitie mollifie That so hard frost which round about her heart Her virgin-pride hath fix'd, then I'l my dart Let fly with it[[']]s full force; and cause I'l please My self in doing it, and do't with ease, I'l mix my self among the shepheards crew Which passed by just now, who alwaies do On holydayes make sport within this plain, And to be one of them my self I'l fain; Then with the best occasion give the blow, So slyly, as no mortall eye shal[[']]t know. In a strange manner shall these Woods, to day, Be heard of love to reason, that it may, Clearly (my sacred Deity is here) (And not my under Ministers) appear. These rustick {Silvane} brests I will endue With divine sences, teach them how to wooe In lofty language, that it may be known That love where e're he is, is alwaies one, Whether he pleases for to make his nest Or in a Swains, or in a Hero's breast. Then if my beauteous mother, who ha's tride Her utmost art to know where I abide By these feats knows not, she's more blind then I For blind by wrong, men call my Deity. [[TO BED OF A MONSTER]]

[[The Prologue]] Let merry Bells with Musick backwards Ring, Whilst we the praise of Mistris {Rump} do sing, Let all her friends at {Portsmouth} Bonfires make Of purest Straw they from Pis'd Beds can take; With Eccoes loud, like screeking of a Cart, And with shrill noise more sweeter then a F - For now shee's safe from danger brought a bed, Behold the {Monster} of her Maiden-head; The Nurse is paid, not by imagination, But by the new found Coyn call'd Sequestration. 'Tis strange a {Rump} that's rosted, boyl'd, and broy'd, Should dye, and yet produce a Monstrous Child; But yet Spectators now with patience view This Scene, 'tis call'd, {a false} Rump {never true}. [[TO BED OF A MONSTER]]

[[The Epilogue]] Rejoyce Great {Brittain} now, for King there's none Shall govern thee, but {Charles}, and he alone Will piece and plenty to this Nation bring, Who is the Son of {Charles} thy Martyrd King. The {Rump} of {Traytors}, that did sore so high To spill the blood of sacred Majesty, Are now defunct, Poor Whore, shees brought a Bed Of a long tayl, but neither Brains or Head. [[OF MRIS RUMP]]

[[EPILOGUE]] You that have seen this stinking Lump of Earth, Conceal her Name, since her prodigious Birth Is not worth minding, for her fatall fall Was great, I, and her Vertues none at all; Shee's not worth eating boyl'd or roast at Supper, Who had her Birth and Name from {Plutos} Crupper. Of's very Excrements, you all may tell By {Mulciber} her Corps was forgd in Hell. Let all Spectators now together jump Upon this noysome, beastly, stinking {Rump}, And say, here lyes interr'd a clod of Clay, Who killd her King, her God and Soul away, She sold, and that for Nasty Pelf, But now Old Bawd she is defunct her self. Since shee is dead and gone good People all Lament in Sack at this her Funerall. Cursd be the Divils Ar-- from whence did Spring This hellish {Rump}, to Murder {Charles} Our King; Yet by his Son we shall true Peace enjoy Singing with Eccoes loud {Vive le Roy}. [[OF THE LIFE AND DEATH OF MRIS RUMP]]

[[PROLOGUE]] You Gallants that some idle hours have spent, Her[e]'s pastime that may give you all content. It far excels {Bell}'s story and the {Dragon}, Or Pha'tons riding in the Firy Wagon. It's no Colchester Bull nor yet Mad Ox, Nor Tyrant {Nol}, mounted in a Coach-box. Let merry Bells then Musick backwards Ring, While we the praise of {Mris Rump} do sing. Let her Phanatick friends great Bonfires make. Of purest straw they from Pist Beds can take; With iccoes loud like screeking of a Cart, And with shrill noise more sweeter then a F - For now shee's safe from danger brought a Bed, Behold the {Monster} of her Maiden-head. The {Nurse} is paid, By Oaths, false Protestation, And by a new Coin called Sequestration. 'Tis strange a {Rump} that's roasted, boyl'd and broyl'd. Should after death bring forth a monstrous Child. Got by some Pettyfogging Knight o'th post Who in her Womb did leave his horrid Ghost, To vex the honest people of this Nation By her Base Brat, pretending Reformation, Who's bred and born, and then within a day Consum'd to smoak, and clearly fled away. But yet Spectators now with Patience view, This scene, 'tis cal'd {a false W-- never true}. [[OF THE LIFE AND DEATH OF MRIS RUMP]]

[[Epilogue.]] Rejoyce Great Brittain now, for Kings there's none Shall Govern thee, but {Charles}, and he alone Will Peace and Plenty to this Nation bring, Who is the Son of Charles thy martyr'd KING. The {Rump} of {Traytors} (that did sore so high To spill the blood of sacred Majesty.) Are now defunct, Poor Whore shee's brought a Bed O[[r recte]][f] a long Tayl, but neither brains or Head. FAG, RUMP, BUM, STUMP.

[[THE PROLOGUE]] They that have read of {Catalines} deep plot, Have surely thought that, such strange entrigues could not Be ever matcht; {Marius} and {Sylla} too Did much more harm than {Common-men} could do; Here's one out-does them all, {Cromwel} by name, A man of {mean extraction}, yet whose Fame Hath equall'd soaring {Caesars}*; if he spake, The well-built Pillars of three Kingdoms shake. By Treachery and Guile the Crown he gain'd, And by the Blood of Loyalists stain'd [[*Out-strecht]] The Land; no man of any sort was free, [[soaring {Caesar}]] Whether of Clergy or of Laity; Nobles of Commons, all was one to him: His Maxim was either {I'le sink or swim}. Long thus he domineer'd, at last he fell; Despairing dy'd a {Sacrifice for Hell}.

[[{A Prologue to the King}]] Long live the King! in your celestial eyes The vertue of our late Creation lyes; Our Re-creation, for on English earth You are to every thing a second birth. We must acknowledge, liberty nor lands Could come more grateful, then your dread commands Did to our very souls; but we are sorry We should this night attend on so much glory With such weak worth, or your clear sight engage To view the remnants of a ruin'd Stage; For doubting we should never play agen, We have play'd all our {Women} into {Men}, That are of such large size for flesh and bones They'l rather be taken for Amazons Then tender Maids; but your mercy doth please Daily to pass by as great faults as these. If this be pardon'd, we shall henceforth bring Better oblations to {my Lord the King}.

[[Epilogue to the King]] We have all done; if we have giv'n distaste It were much better we had done our last: But mighty Monarch, in your power it lies, And onely yours, to save or sacrifice: What we do want in playing, it shall be Supply'd in praying for your Majesty.

[[{A Prologue to the King, August 16, 1660}]] Sure such a glory, so serene, so bright, Started from {Chaos} when God call'd for light; For (like that glittering birth of beams) you do Transluminate this Western world: from you Our Saint, our Soul, our Sovereign, our King, We live and grow, as the sun broods the Spring: Then (as in loyalty oblig'd) 'tis fit We render part of our small stock, our wit, Which hath so long been crampt under their rage Who durst not see their actions on the Stage, That, numb'd with a stupidity, we fear We shall assault the softness of your ear. We have been so perplex't with gun and drum, Look to your hats and cloaks! the Redcoats come! {D'Ambois} is routed, {Hotspur} quits the field, {Falstaffs} out-filch'd, all in confusion yield, Even auditor and actor: what before Did make the {Red-Bull} laugh, now makes it roar: We curse the misery in which our trade is, And are secur'd; but our magnifick ladies, (Thinking to 'scape them) are torn by the throats, And (like Wine porters) put in petty-coats, Dragg'd to the {Muse} for plotters; but your presence Nullifies them, and gives us a new essence; Till you came hither, all was so folorn We wish'd we had been buried, or unborn: All things were retrograde; the night and day Were shrinking to {prima materia}. We liv'd in such a strange distorted age, Men durst not see their figures on the Stage, But furious, as the deform'd lady was, Who for revenge broke her own looking-glass, They crack'd our mirrour, and now none but you, Dread Majesty, can {mend} or make us {new}.

[[A Prologue to a Play Call'd "The Florentine Ladies", played in the night by gentlemen.]] You're welcome to our Ladies, and I know, Most courteous gallants, ladies will please you, Though at this hour, or midnight, else I'le swear Most of our knights are lost with the last year. These creatures are of {Florence}, and not scorn To let you know they are {Italians} born. Your Ladies, worthy Gentlemen, tis thought, Love things that are far fetcht and dearly bought: Why should not they, who of this opinion are, Let you love Ladies that are come so far? It is a question, and they may mistake Our Ladies to be Ladies of the Lake, Which in our English broadness is a whore: Then what are we? Nay, they that keep the door. What are you, too, my Masters? Something 'tis That make your wives thus follow you to this. A shrewd suspicion when our wandring knights Arrest strange Ladies, and so late at nights. But there's no hurt, for if they please but you, We doubt not they'l content the Ladies too. Pray take't as 'tis; the best we can afford: If we do please, why so. {Hab nabs} the word.

[[The Epilogue, on New-Years-Day at Night]] With the new year these Marriages begin, Which will be broke e're the next year come in, Unless your hands do give us; all our pains In Love is lost, if you forbid the banes: But if you grant us Licence, and appear Each day to see us thorow the whole year, Come to our Wedding, to requite your loves, Shew us your hands, we'l fit you all with gloves. [[FOUND HIS EYES]]

[[A Prologue to a Play of mine, call'd "Love Hath Found His Eyes, or Distractions."]] I know ye did expect me, but for what? To say we have a Play? the Bills say that. Why, let's begin then. Sound! - But some will say Are there no faults in th'Actors, or the Play To beg your patience for? Yes, faith, there's store, Yet all we craue is, you'l not make 'em more. A very just petition; and 'tis fit, I think, we bear no more then we commit. Yet there are some wise judges that do seek To raise their laughter on what you mislike, The errors of the Actors: and they be The witty tribe of our own quality. Why, let them laugh: they paid for't. Why should we Deprive a man of his felicity? That cannot help, nor hurt us; and I pray How ere it prove, don't call't a {pretty Play}: Let it be good or bad, that slight word {pritty} Shews the Play naught, and the depraver witty. The language is but low, and the invention No higher then a common apprehension; And (in a word) the Authours wish is such You'l not despair, nor yet expect too much. [[FOUND HIS EYES]]

[[The Epilogue, Spoken by {Cupid}]] I hope these mutual Marriages express My opticks are restor'd, for each distress, The Lovers once suppos'd they had by me, I have converted to a Jubilee. All's happy but my self, for I, poor I, That figure an eternal Deity, Must quit my glorious supremacy To stand the censure of mortality. Be curteous to a God then, whose high laws Commands all hearts, yet now must beg applause; For if you censure me like rig'rous men, You spoil the plot and strike me blind agen. All our distractions now are out of date; I would they were so too in Church and State, That {Englands} King and people were at rest, Without confounding eithers interest; That jealousies and fears might never more Let loyal hearts lie weltring in their gore; That so the God of Love may often view This Island, and present himself to you.

[[A Speech, by the way of Epilogue, to those that would rise out of the Pit at the {Red-Bull} in the last Scene, and disturb the conclusion by going on the Stage: {June 23, 1660}]] Pray keep your places, Gentlemen! don't rise, Stay and take t'other glass, as Peters cryes, 'Tis the Catastrophe crowns all the sport. I warrant, if you had places at Court, You would not part with them so soon: pray stay Till Grace be said, and we have took away. You wrong your Ladies in the nick of pleasure: They would see't out: women love {London} measure. Pray keep your seats; let us be your advisers; You see (of late) what comes of early Risers; But if your fancy to this custom tends, Hence forth we'l study Playes that have no ends.

[[A Prologue to the Comedy Call'd "The Tamer Tamed". June {24, 1660} Enter,reading of the Bill.]] {The Tamer Tam'd}! what do the Players mean? Shall we have {Rump} and {Rebels} in the Scene? {Junctos} of {Safety}, with the righteous rabble Of {Apron-Peers}, Knights of Sir {Arthurs} Table? Shall {Baxter}, {Hewson}, {Scot} and {Fox} be nam'd? These were our Tamers, but, I hope, they'r tam'd; For those were men who (in their holy rage) Did things too horrid for a civil Stage, Unless our company should all comply To leave good language and speak blasphemy. This play, {The Tamer Tam'd}, is {Fletchers} wit, A man that pleas'd all pallats: therefore sit, And see the last scene out: pray do not run Into confusion till the Play be done. Should strangers see you mix among us thus, They would be apt to think you some of {Us}. Pray, keep your seats: you do not sit in fear As in the dangerous days of {Oliver}: It is not now (in good time be it spoke) {Enter} the Red-Coats, {Exit} Hat and Cloak; But such a prosp'rous change doth now attend ye, That those who did affront ye, shall defend ye.

[[The Epilogue, Spoken by the Tamer, A Woman.]] With licence of my husband I apply My self to this honour'd society. I fear I have offended the good laws Of houshold government, and given cause By my example (in this wilde assay) For some to put in practice what we play, And, cause the {breeches} now come near the make Of {petty-coats}, may willingly mistake. These are old quarrels, and, no doubt, came in When {Adam} digg'd and Madam {Eve} did spin. They'r ne're the honester for that: the crime Of bold Rebellion is older then Time. The breach of trust is old, the breach of laws, Murther of Kings, witness {the good old cause}; But we exhibit to your approbation, Not the {Rebellion}, but the {Reformation}.

[[A Prologue, to introduce the first Woman that came to act on the Stage in the Tragedy call'd {The Moor of Venice}.]] I come, unknown to any of the rest, To tell you news: I saw the Lady drest. The Woman plays to day: mistake me not; No man in gown, or Page in petty-coat; A Woman to my knowledge, yet I cann't (If I should dye) make {affidavit} on't. Do you not twitter, Gentlemen? I know You will be censuring; do't fairly though. 'Tis possible a vertuous woman may Abhor all sorts of looseness, and yet play, Play on the stage, where all eyes are upon her. Shall we count that a crime {France} calls an honour? In other kingdoms husbands safely trust 'um, The difference lies onely in the custom; And let it be our custom, I advise: I'm sure this Customs better then th'Excise, And may procure us custom: hearts of flint Will melt in passion when a woman's in't. But, Gentlemen, you that as judges sit In the Star-Chamber of the house, the pit, Have modest thoughts of her: pray, do not run To give her visits when the Play is done. With Dam me, your most humble servant, Lady. She knows these things as well as you, it may be: Not a bit there, dear Gallants; she doth know Her own deserts, and your temptations too. But to the point. In this reforming age We have intents to civilise the Stage. Our women are defective, and so siz'd, You'd think they were some of the Guard disguiz'd; For (to speak truth) men act, that are between Forty and fifty, wenches of fifteen; With bone so large, and nerve so incomplyant, When you call {Desdemona}, enter Giant. We shall purge every thing that is unclean, Lascivious, scurrilous, impious or obscene; And when we've put all things in this fair way, {Barebones} himself may come to see a Play.

[[{Epilogue}]] And how d'ye like her? Come, what is't ye drive at? She's the same thing in publick and in private; As far from being what you call a Whore, As {Desdemona} injur'd by the Moor. Then, he that censures her in such a case Hath a soul blacker then {Othello's} face. But, Ladies, what think you? for, if you tax Her freedom with dishonour to your sex, She means to act no more, and this shall be No other Play but her own Tragedy: She will submit to none but your commands, And take Commission onely from your hands.

[[prologue:]] Part of Arcadia's flock; Sated: with Ease, And plenty, surfitts. Whils't the Rank desease, Rooted in Rebbells: bloud, To that height springs, That Their: proud heads: strikes at the Heads of Kings. T'was distance. They: not knew, nor fear'd the odds They' atempted not to warr: against the Godds. To whose dire vengance, wee: shall leave the crew: (Thirsty for bloud) in Their: owne bloud to brew. Whils't, wee: vertues: greate Queene: (Our shepheardesse) Present you: Tier'd in Her: Banish'd dress. A desent ornament, Though meane to be, A cover: to th' extent of Majestie. Sitt, And behold Her: then, And you: shall see, Nature (in Her) out vye'd curiositie. Such a Majestick minde, with vertue mixt., In mortall: soule, The Godds: (Themselves) ne'r fixt. And (now) Our Author: pardon, craves, that hee, (Not being inspier'd, with Her devinitie) Should (desperately) presume, to speak Her: sence. All (yet) come's short of, wee: call Eloquence. Her: prayes, you'll not be crewell, since Hee: ment Not to displease, but give you: some Content. If, you: must lash him: Hee'l endure the smarte.

[[Epilogue]] In vertues Queene: There's mercy still in store. Relieve. And pardon. Godds: can doe no more. And (now) Urania: humbly beggs you'l dress. (In Robes of joye) Our Banish'd Shepheardess. [[PROLOGUE]] The Author not distrusting of his Play, Leaves Customes Road, and walks another way: Expect not here Language Three stories high; Star-tearing Strains fit not a Comedy. Here's no Elaborate Scenes, for he confesses He took small paines in't, Truth doth need no Dresses. No Amorous Puling passions, here the Lord And Lady rather differ then accord. What can be in't, youl say, if none of these? It is all one; he's sure the thing will please The truly Loyal Party; But what then? Why, truly he thinks them the better men. But if in's Progress he does chance to hit Hab nab on something that may sound like Wit, Pray take no notice of't; for if you doe, You'l spoyl the Poet, and the Players too; They will grow proud upon't, and in the Street In stead of Cringing, Nod to those they meet. Yet now I think on't, 'twill not be amiss, We'd rather have your {Plaudit} then your {Hiss}: And promise faithfully we will endevour, If you do favour this, to please you ever. [[EPILOGUE]] Tis done, and now to Censure; But be just; Th'Authors name's committed to your trust. You have here in a {MIRROUR} seen the Crimes Of the late Pageantry Changeling Times. Let me Survey your Brows -- They are Serene, Not clouded, or disturb'd with what y'ave seen: None whose grand Guilt appears toucht to the quick. And in Revenge wou'd 'gainst their {MIRROUR} kick. Nor in a Corner can I one descry Sneaking, that dare give {Bellarmine} the Lie. So that we do conclude, the Authors fear Is now remov'd; there's no {Phanatick} here. You are a glorious Presence, cleer as Day, And innocent as Buds that sprout in {May}. 'Tis you must gild our Hemisphere, and give A life to us who willingly would live. Then, if you please to grant us our Request, Signe us your Servants, and we'l do our best.

[[PROLOGUE to the REVIV'D ALCHEMIST.]] The {Alchemist}; Fire, breeding Gold, our {Theme}: Here must no Melancholie be, nor Flegm. Young {Ben}, not Old, writ this, when in his Prime, Solid in Judgment, and in Wit sublime. The {Sisters}, who at {Thespian} Springs their Blood Cool with fresh Streams, All, in a Merry Mood, Their wat'ry Cups, and Pittances declin'd, At {Bread-street's Mer-maid} with our {Poet} din'd: Where, what they Drank, or who plaid most the Rig, Fame modestly conceals: But he grew big Of this pris'd Issue; when a {Jovial} Maid, His Brows besprinkling with {Canarie}, said. Pregnant by Us, produce no Mortal Birth; Thy active Soul, quitting the sordid Earth, Shall 'mongst Heav'ns glitt'ring {Hieroglyphicks} trade, And {Pegasus}, our winged Sumpter, jade, Who from {Parnassus} never brought to {Greece}, Nor {Romane} Stage, so rare a Master-piece. This Story, true or false, may well be spar'd; The {Actors} are in question, not the {Bard}: How they shall humour their oft-varied Parts, To get your Money, Company, and Hearts, Since all Tradition, and like Helps are lost. Reading our Bill new pasted on the Post, Grave Stagers both, one, to the other said, {The} ALCHEMIST? What! are the Fellows mad? Who shall {Doll Common} Act? Their tender Tibs Have neither Lungs, nor Confidence, nor Ribs. Who {Face}, and {Subtle}? Parts, all Air, and Fire: They, whom the {Authour} did Himself inspire, Taught, Line by Line, each Tittle, Accent, Word, Ne're reach'd His Height; all after, more absurd, Shadows of fainter Shadows, wheresoe're A {Fox} he pencil'd, copied out a {Bear}. Encouragement for young Beginners small: Yet howsoe're we'll venture; have at All. Bold Ignorance (they say) falls seldome short In {Camp}, the {Countrey}, {City}, or the {Court}. Arm'd with the Influence of your fair Aspects, Our Selves we'll conquer, and our own Defects. A thousand Eyes dart raies into our Hearts, Would make Stones speak, and Stocks play well their Parts: Some few Malignant Beams we need not fear, Where shines such Glory in so bright a Sphere.

[[THE PROLOGUE TO HIS MAJESTY At the first PLAY presented at the Cock-pit in WHITEHALL Being part of that Noble Entertainment which Their Majesties received {Novemb}. 19. from his Grace the Duke of ALBEMARLE.]] Greatest of Monarchs, welcome to this place Which {Majesty} so oft was wont to grace Before our Exile, to divert the Court, And ballance weighty Cares with harmless sport This truth we can to our advantage say, They that would have no {KING}, would have no {Play}: The {Laurel} and the {Crown} together went, Had the same {Foes}, and the same {Banishment}: The Ghosts of their great Ancestors they fear'd, Who by their art of conjuring Poets rear'd, Our {HARRIES} and our {EDWARDS} long since dead Still on the Stage a march of Glory tread: Those Monuments of Fame (They thought) would stain And teach the People to despise their Reign: Nor durst they look into the Muses Well, Least the cleer Spring their ugliness should tell; Affrighted with the shadow of their Rage, They broke the Mirror of the times, the Stage; The Stage against them still maintain'd the War, When they debauch'd the {Pulpit} and the {Bar}, Though to be {Hypocrites}, be our Praise alone, 'Tis our peculiar boast that we were none. [[']] What er'e they taught, we practis'd what was true, And something we had learn'd of honor too, When by Your Danger, and our Duty prest, We acted in the Field, and not in Jest; Then for the {Cause} our Tyring-house they sack't, And silenc't us that they alone might act; And (to our shame) most dext'rously they do it, Out-act the Players, and out-ly the Poet; But all the other Arts appear'd so scarce, Ours were the {Moral Lectures}, theirs the Farse: This spacious Land their Theater became, And they {Grave Counsellors}, and {Lords} in Name; Which these Mechanicks Personate so ill That ev'n the Oppressed with contempt they fill, But when the Lyons dreadful skin they took, They roar'd so loud that the whole Forrest shook; The noise kept all the Neighbourhood in awe, Who thought 'twas the true Lyon by his Pawe. If feigned Vertue could such Wonders do, What may we not expect from this that's true! But this Great Theme must serve another Age, To fill our Story, and adorne our Stage. [[ FOR THE KING'S RESTORATION]]

[[The private Speech OF The {AUTHOR} In Society with his Friends, to entertain the Time before the Masque begun.]] You know (Dear Friends) That, {Video}, {Vindico}; is God's Motto upon Traitors: but it is our duty to want Gods time; for, he that {shall} come, {will}: and he that {will} come,{is}; to the help of his Anointed. God (hath in mercy) made his people to return, return to their duty, of praying for the King. His very Name now, is pretious; his Presence, long'd for; and a General joy, attends the hope, to see him, in his Throne. So that now (seeing) the Royal Son, begin to rise; and my Loyal fancy, to be as lucky, as divine: My heart reviv'd, my Muse rejoyc'd, to bring, Her Off-spring out, to welcome in, the King. Two Virgins (dress'd in Print) with blest accord, To give a {Salve}, unto our Soveraign Lord. The Elder, is a Sybillian; and to acheer the King) doth (by a Prophetick Pen) write a Praediction, in a Lamentation. The Younger, is a Masquer; and she also (to acheer the King) doth (by pretty Scenes) praesagingly-praeact, his (just) Inauguration. They are Both, the Issue, of one Parent; Legitimate, and Loyal: but - upon the very Conception of the Masquer; much troubled I was; on whom, and where, and how, to lay the Scene. I once thought to have made {England}, the Nation; {Westminster}, the Place; and then - My purpose was, the Powder-traitors Plot; For to have made my Subject; and their Lot, (To Ruine last) have shewn. I had thought, To've made their way, a Warning; and had brought, Examples, pertinent; prophane, but true; To make their share, as fearful, as its due. But, this not fully reaching, to the aim, Of what I would; I then begun again; Consulted God, and took my Object higher; I made my Subject, sacred; and came nigher, To shew a Traitors Doom from Scripture: then - I pitch'd on {Zedekiah}. - Knowing well, That, {Zedekiah} when he did Rebell, Against th' Covenant, made; and Oath, he took; To be the King of {Babels} Vice-Roy - look. Oh how the faithful God, did take to heart; The wrong, thus offer'd, unto Either Part: His (1) Name; the Heathens (2) Right, and {Israels} (3) Law: Made (1) Vain; as (2) Void; and (3) Vile: by {Zedekiah}. Treasons abhord and God would make him know it, And (maugre {Egypt}, and all's Force) did show it. The {Caldee} Army came at length, to prove, A Traitors tongue, calls Vengance from Above; And God, and Man, to right such wrongs doth move. {Jerusalem}, - that strong and stately City, Is close besieg'd; without regard, or pity, Of either Place, or Persons; want, within; And Fear, without; makes every face look thin. Within, they faint; without the walls, they fall; The City's broken up; the King, and All, Fly for their Lives: - but whither shall they fly, Whom God pursues, with's Anger's Hue and Cry? King {Zedekiah} (now the woful scorn, Of the {Chaldean} Army) is folorn: (Pursude, and taken) he is Vilifi'd; To {Riblah} hurried: and there justly tri'd: Tri'd by the Prince abus'd; and the same King, Who gave him leave to Rule, as Underling; He is his Judge; and rightfully condemns, His Treasons, and his Traitrous stratagems. He slayes his Sons before him; makes him see, His Sin hath ruind his Posterity. Then puts out his Eyes, as having been, The Visible Contrivers of that Scene. At last he (bound in Chains) in Prison lies; And (living Poor, and Blinde) there (wretched) dies. [[ FOR THE KING'S RESTORATION]]

And here, I stopt; - Two Subjects more (more fit) Catching my Fancy; thus my Fancy writ. {Zimri} would be King of {Israel}: And so would {Shallum} too: Two Subjects: but, Both, Traitors: Both, Murderers: and Murdered: A wicked Pair well met; and truly matcht; For Fate, and Fortune, equal: strangely hatcht. Each, was a King: In Name; but, not by Right: Not by Succession; but, by Trechery: Not by Choyce; but, Usurpation: Not by Conquest; but Rebellion: They matter'd not which way; So the End were gotten. But, - ah how soon, Is the Head of Ambition, turn'd round? With what prodigious speed, Doth the short time, of their Tryumphing fly? A certain shame, Waits on, their futile glory; And their deceitful Glass, Of false-reflecting-Beauty While 'tis but lookt upon, 'tis broken. Though Presumption leads the Van; Despair, brings up the Rear; Of all their Squadron. {Zimri}, is scarce seated in the Throne; But, Vengeance follows him: His seven dayes Reign, is dearly bought; And his End, is as dreadful, as his Treason. He saves the Executioner, a labour; And by a Strange Device, To put his Ashes in a Royal Urn, He Fires the Pallace, and Himself doth burn. And was not {Shallum} hanged, With as ill Success, in as high a Fortune? {Past Grace}, {past Shame}. He dares Heaven to defend the King: While he inspires to Murder him. Not because, {Zachariah} was as Bad, as Any; But because, He was Above All: He had the Supremacy; And {Shallum} longs for't: And now, his Pride; Admits no Obstacle, - as legal: The Thirst of his Ambition, Must be quench'd with Blood; Not Popular; but Royal; Not of Any Prince; but his Own; Not [[a in recte]][in a] Private; but a Publique way; Not by Others; but his Own hands: Thus, he contrives to Kill; And Kills, to Reign; And Reign he doth; - A Rebel, - but no Soveraign. Yet now; - (as arrogant as the Devil) The Glory of the world's His: He won it, by the Sword; And by the Sword he'le keep it. A Traitors Plea right: He that set him, to this School; Taught him his Lesson well. But, - the Feet of wool, have Hands of Iron: God, is Slow, but Sure: {Shallum} (with a vengance) findes it; He findes it: but ------ Not so much Slow - and - Sure, As Sure - and - Sudden. {Shallum} kill'd his Lord; And the Servant, kill'd {Shallum}. {Zimri} was destroyed by Himself: {Shallum}, by Another: {Zimri}, at a Weeks End: And {Shallum}, at a Months. Thus, he that Kills his Prince, to wear his Crown; To warm his Fingers, burns a Pallace down: Deludes, destroyes himself; and while he venters, To round, a seeming Heaven; Hell, concenters. Villain forbear, don't suck thy Princes blood: Forbidden meat, is no fit meat for Food. @BPROSE> And here (notwithstanding the time I had spent; and model, I had made; and had (as in a manner) laid the Scene, upon these Persons, and this Peece, of thus revenged Treason: yet) my minde was farther prest, to take another, and to begin anew. @BVERSE> At last, the Needle left her trembling Round: And my Magnetick Fancy, fixt I found. I found my Subject: and when All is done, My Subject's {Jeroboam}, {Nebat}'s Sonne {Jeroboam} Whose Hope, though (at the last) it was deceived; and his Policy, defeated; and his Pride, debased; and his Person, destroyed;(for, The Lord strook him, and he died.) Yet, this Catastrophe, --------- Of That {Ominous Politician}: Was (for many years) as really Improbable. - But stay, This ruder Peece, is dedicated to the publick view; and the contingency of censure: I will (therefore) no longer detain you, from your Places; nor anticipate your fancy. My good wishes, wait upon your favour; and the better Omen of the Masque, upon your Persons, and your Fortunes. [[So we All arose, and went into the Theater; where (we being sate) four Trumpeters did enter; and having sounded a {Victoria}, a Levite presents himself, and speaks -]] [[ FOR THE KING'S RESTORATION]]

@BPROSE> {The Argument}. [[1 King.11.16.]] In the dayes of {Rehoboam} (the Son of {Solomon}) did {Jeroboam} (the Son of {Nebat}) rebel against his King. [[1 King,12.19.]] In which Rebellion, when he had continued eighteen [[2 Chron.13.1.]] years: then began {Abijah} (the Son of {Rehoboam}) to reign over {Juda}. [[Ver.2.]] In the third year of whose Reign, he waged war; and set the Battel in Aray, against {Jeroboam}: who, when he had [[1 King.14.20.]] plaid {Rex}, so long a time, as two and twenty years: and [[1 Chron.13.3.]] had an Army, do Great, as of Eight hundred Thousand, chosen men, being mighty men of Valour: yet then, even then; was the Lord pleased, to make his Army, bare; his Justice, known; the Truth, prevalent; and his Name, glorious. For, this so successful Treason, this numerous Army, [[2 Chron.13.]] and unhappily-happy Traitor; were, in their best Condition; [[13.]] and their greatest Confidence, totally subdued and fearfully [[15.]] overthrown; five hundred thousand of them slain: their [[16.]] General enforc't to fly; and (as a Warning to all [[17.-19.-20.]] Rebels) exemplarily struck dead by the Hand of the Lord. In a grateful Commemoration, of which Signal Victory; and in an holy Preomination of the years succeeding Fortunate, to the Truth and Loyalty; was, this new-mysterious Masque first made: - wherein - {Abijah}, and King's Cause; {Jeroboam}, and the Rebels; (With the justice, and success, of Both; are timously made obvious; to The Comfort, and Encouragement, Of All Loyal Subjects. [[Psal.37.36.37]] {I my self} (saith the Royal Prophet) {have seen the} {Ungodly in great power, and flourishing like a green Bay Tree}: {And I went by, and lo, he was gone; I sought him, but his Place could no where be found}. [[Psal.92.6,7.]] {An unwise man} (saith the same Author) {doth not well consider This; and a fool doth not understand it}. {When the Ungodly are green, as the Grass; and when all the workers of wickedness, do flourish; then shall they be Destroyed for ever}. [[Epis.3.]] For (saith {Ignatius} Martyr) {Nemo qui se contra Praestantiorem extulit; impunitus unquam abiit}. [[{With that} ({he going off the Stage}) {a young Prince Enters; wearing a Purple Robe, and his head, Crown'd: in the one hand, holding an Olive branch, in the other, a Palm; and speaks} -]] [[ FOR THE KING'S RESTORATION]]

[[{The Prologue}.]] [[He walks]] What means this Dress, [[stately; and]] And to what purpose, thus; [[looks upon]] Am I Attir'd? [[himself.]] The manners ominous A true Praesage, of strange Events; to come, On After Ages; by a Present Doome. What means this Place, What Persons do I see? I see, great Persons; and their Places, be, Upon {Selostris} wheele: My Soveraign's Crown, In's Grand-child's time usurpt; and Rebels own. I see again By Scripture, and by Reason; An End, both Sad, and sure; attends on Treason: His Sin is Fatal, who his Fall laments not; His Fall, is Final; who his Sin repents not. Traitors, as Witches are; And Witches never, Become Converted, but Condemned ever. When Loyal Subjects, (Howsoere they Fare) As Blessed Angels (Angels blessed) are. Their hope-and-love espouse, And faith doth ty, Their true Allegiance, fast, to Soveraignty. 'Tis not the Tempest of the roughest Crosses, Can shipwrack their Obedience, with their Losses. It's so observ'd: And {Psyche} (by the way) Is Staid, and Pray'd, their Banner to display; And here it's done, in a Triumphant Story; Which flouts, and routs, all traitors shameful-glory. This is the Subject, of the Sequel Masque; Which {Psyche} now, makes Mine; and I, your Task: I, to resume; and You, for to revolve; And Each, by Application, to resolve; That this Sad-Sacred-pleasing Scene, is laid; To make the Good rejoyce; the Bad, afraid. But hark ----- The Musick sounds; To my preventing: May all, have Mirth: and {Psyche} ---- True contenting [[{Exit}.]] [[ FOR THE KING'S RESTORATION]]

[[{The EPILOGUE}.]] [[{Psyche}.]] [[{Angel}.]] Ah woe is me (unhappy One) And is my Guide, and Guard, thus gone? [[{ECCHO}.]] {Gone}. But hark ye[[']][ ]n[o]t That, the Musique choyce, Of his fair Hand, and warbling Voyce? {O-yes}. The {Eccho}'s His: ah could I know, But whether I am mockt, or no? {Noe}. [[{Psyche}.]] [[{Angel}.]] Oh (my dearest) were I there, Or (my dearest) were you here. [[{ECCHO}.]] {U--here}. Descend I prethee, and fullfill, Or mine, or Thine; what's your's my Will. {I--will}. Oh haste, I faint; what shall I say? What shall I doe? Oh speak, I pray. {Pray}. The Duty's just; and I'le persever, (If thou wilt {Teach} me) in It ever. {Ever}. [[{With that, she Bowes, & Kneels; and (Kneeling) prayes}: {The Angel comes, and each (Ascending) sayes}:]] Farewell, Fare-well: ----Yea, Wellfare may our Farewell be, To his most {saCRed Majesty}. The (1) Oil, the (2) Olive, and the (3) Vine, Their Boughs, as well as Roots, entwine. The (1) stately, (2) cheerfull, (3) fruitfull Trees. Emblematize Prosperitie: That; (1) {Power}, (2) {Peace}, (3) {Plenty}, may - Be still our Pillars, for our {Stay}. Enough, - now, our {Divining Masque} is done: We must attend upon the {Rising Sunne}. Leaving {Good Times}, to prove our {Better Newes}, As True, as Told, in {Speeches}, {Songs}, and {Shewes}. [[{THE END}.]] [[K.F.]]

[[{An EPILOGUE}]] We'le follow not the common course, to say, {Courteous Spectators}, {how d'ye like this Play}? Wee'l beg no {Plaudites}, nor desire you Wee'l tell ye news, Our Play is spoil'd, we fear, For our prime Subject[[s]] is* confin'd, howere [[{In the Tower}]] In hopes he soon may visit {Holborn} air, And as in Devices, have a share In false* {Hughs} Punishment, we have thus much said, [[{Peters}]] To tell ye how he deserves t'advance {Dun's} Trade.

@BPROSE> [[Prologos, {a Shoomaker bringing in Boots, Slippers, and Pumps}.]] {Gentlemen}, You must understand that a Shoomaker is the {Showmaker}. I have been two daies making a pair of Boots, Shooes, Slippers, and Pumps; and they had not been done yet, but that I went through stich with Aule. These Boots methinks should fit any man, but those that are too big in the Calf; these Shooes will pinch no man, but he that is troubled with Corns: these Pumps will fit any man, but those that hold Dancing superstitious; these Slippers will please any man I am sure, but he that is out at the Heels: however I'le go presently and put them on; only thus much I'le speak in my own defence. {Must not we speak of such like things as these, We shallow Wits wade not above the knees: These lowly things I hope will not distast; Men of our Trade go not beyond the Last.

[[EPILOGUE; Spoken by {Shoomaker}.]] If Bungler-like my Work be brought to end, I'le be a {Cobler}, who ye know may mend. Next time I hope my Work shall be more meet, Now I have learnt the length of all your feet: But if in Workmanship I do excell, I know your bounty, ye will pay me well. Or else I'le trust, and book't at your Commands, So that ye will subscribe it with your Hands.

[[The Prologue]] Hells Higher Court of Justice, why I pray Call you this so? may some fond Critick say 'Tis a New title for a play, Ile sweare, Nor is it fitting, That what we had here So late in Earnest, should be made a jest. But let me tell him hees no welcom Guest; For who with Titles, will find fault before He has read the booke, will suerly carp at more; But let him carp, he sure will not dislike All in't for all I'me sure is not alike; Some hope there's therefore that although, something do Displease, yet something may be pleasant too: But if [it] don't, The matter will with ease Be passed by, if ought int do but please The Moderate Reader, I have nothing short Of my desire if not I'm sorry for't.

[[The EPILOGUE]] Tis done, and they condemn'd, may but the Play Scape condemnation, we have got the day. Yet wee'd have Justice done, and if you grudge Us that, {Pluto} himself shall be our Judge: Hee'l say w'ave righted him, and sure tis evil To carp at what contents the very Devil.

[[A Prologue to the Poor Mans Comfort Enter, reading the Title. May 28, 1661.]] {The Poor Mans Comfort:} this title some will say Is fitter for a {Pray'r-book} then a {Play}; And some may censure, who are {Democraticks}, The times will change; Players are turn'd {Phanaticks}, And the {Red Bull}, where sports were wont to be Is now a Meeting-house: would 'twere for me A good full Meeting-house! we should not be Contrivers of a new {Fifth-Monarchy}, And charge up for King {Judas}. No, the very Plain truth is this: we meet but to be merry. Then do you judge what pitty 'tis that we Should every day want merry company! Surely the fault is ours, or yours, or both. Let us consider where it lyes: in troth You will appear most guilty I'm afraid: 'Tis a full House that makes the {Play} well play'd. A numerous presence doth at once inspire Actor and Auditor with mutual fire: Therefore, pray meet: come as you do to tother, If not for us, yet to meet one another. But let me see: what was I going to say? O! 'tis about the title of the Play. {The great Mans Comfort} is above my thought: {The Merchants Comfort} is a ship full fraught; {The Plow mans Comfort} is a field well till'd, Our {Poor Mans Comfort} is a House well fill'd. [[JESUIT NEW-LEVEN'D]]

[[The Prologue Enter Galen Junior,a Physitian {He holds up a Urinal with water in it, and Looks in the water}]] [[{Gal}.]] It is high-colour'd, shews the blood's inflam'd, Yet pretty clear. Th'Evil may well be nam'd Without offence. Somthing I find of waight Sink to the Deep; which Mist-like rises straight, And clears again. I cannot rightly call This a Distemper, when I judge of all. Gentlemen, help a little, look with me, Whose Water judge you this I cast to be? You know not. No? Nor shall I tell in hast, Lest then perhaps the man himself be cast, More than his Water. This I freely say, The Poets Water 'tis that made this Play. And yet no Water-Poets. The Play then, Is high, and clear, and deep, and clear again, Just as the Poets Water. Who indeed Had he not been a {Patient} forc't to bleed, Had never Poetiz'd. By this I know [[{He looks in the water}.]] He's tendred Poet from this Comick Shew. He courts you all by me, and recommends His Jesuit in the Play, to you as Friends. For him abroad: He gives you notice how The Dev'l himself is turn'd Jesuit now. Yet thus declares; He quarrels not with all Only with Devilish and Pragmatical Church Empericks. As he is, be you mild: He kils the Dragon, but he spares the Child. [[{Exit}.]] [[JESUIT NEW-LEVEN'D]]

[[{The Epilogue} {Enter} Galen Junior {with his Urinal} {He holds it up}. Enter a Drawer hastily]] [[{Draw}.]] Urinal, stand by: the Mark's out of your Mouth. Gentlemen: Did ye call? The Authour's near. And Drinks your Healths. His Epilogue is here. Welcome Men here's, and if our lang be scanty, Th'{Italian} Tongue welcoms you {tutti quanti}. He humbly throws himself beneath your feet; Believe it, pray, although you do not see't. Accept his first poor Industry: and know it, Your kind Acceptance may create a Poet. A Jesuite he regards as {Garnet's Straw}, A Monk, as {Sergius}, who proud {Mahomet}'s Law Did first invent: He was a Monk, and yet To the {Alcron} he shar'd his hot-cold Wit. What such do mouth, our Author will not mind: He fears least {Beaux Espirits} be unkind. Obedience is a vertue, law in show, The worth of which we cannot see, but know. Good Men good Subjects were, the Field is ample: The Monk or Jesuite's no good example. Now Peace and Plenty sing a {Requiem} to us, Nothing but Disobedience can undoe us. May then all honest Hearts or say or sing, {Vivat Rex}, {Vive le Roy}, God save the King. {All's paid, and ye are most kindly welcome, Gentlemen} [[{Exeunt}.]]

[[{Prologue}]] What if we serve you now a trick? and do Like him who posted Bills that he would show So many active feats, and those so high, That Court and City came to see him fly? But he, good man, careful to empty still The Money-Boxes, as the House did fill, Of all his Tricks, had time to shew but one: He lin'd his Purse, and, Presto! he was gone! Many were then as fond, as you are now, Of seeing stranger things than Art can show. We may perform as much as he did do; We have your Money, and a Back-Door too. Go, and be couzen'd thus, rather than stay And wait to be worse couzen'd with our Play. For you shall hear such coorse complaints of Love, Such silly sighing, as no more will move Your Passion than {Dutch} Madrigals can do, When {Skippers}, with wet Beards, at {Wapping} wooe. Hope little from our Poets wither'd Wit; From Infant-Players, scarce grown Puppets yet. Hope from our Women less, whose bashful fear, Wondred to see me dare to enter here: Each took her leave, and wisht my danger past; And though I come back safe and undisgrac'd, Yet when they spie the WITS here, then I doubt No {Amazon} can make 'em venture out. Though I advis'd 'em not to fear you much; For I presume not half of you are such. But many Trav'lers here as Judges come; From {Paris}, {Florence}, {Venice} and from {Rome}: Who will describe, when any Scene we draw, By each of ours, all that they ever saw. Those passing, for extensive breadth and height, The inward distance to deceive the sight. When greater Objects, moving in broad Space, You rank with lesser, in this narrow Place, Then we like {Chess-men}, on a Chess-board are, And seem to play like {Pawns} the {Rhodian} War. Oh Money! Money! if the WITS would dress, With Ornaments, the present face of Peace; And to our Poet half that Treasure spare, Which Faction gets from Fools to nourish War; Then his contracted Scenes would wider be, And move by greater Engines, till you see (Whilst you securely sit) fierce Armies meet, And raging Seas disperse a fighting Fleet. Thus much he bad me say; and I confess, I think he would, if rich, mean nothing less; But, leaving you your selves to entertain, Like an old Rat retire to Parmizin.

[[{Epilogue}]] Though, bashfully, we fear to give offence; Yet, pray allow our Poet confidence. He has the priv'lege of old Servants got; Who are conniv'd at, and have leave to Doat; To boast past service, and be chol'rick too, Till they believe at last that all they do Does far above their Masters Judgments grow: Much like to theirs, is his presumption now. For free, assur'd, and bold his Brow appears, Because, he serv'd your Fathers many years. He says he pleas'd them too, but he may find, You Witts, not of your Duller-Fathers mind. Which, well consider'd Mistress-{Muse} will then Wish for her Gallants at Fri'rs agen; Rather than be by those neglected here, Whose Fathers civilly did Court her there. But as old Mistresses, who meet disdain, Forbear through Pride, or Prudence, to complain; And satisfie their hearts, when they are sad, With thoughts of former Lovers they have had: Even so poor Madam-{Muse} this night must bear, With equal pulse, the fits of hope and fear; And never will against your Passion strive: But, being old, and therefore Narrative, Comfort her self with telling Tales, too long, Of many Plaudits had when she was young.

[[EPILOGUE to the King at {Whitehall}, at the Acting the Siege of Rhodes]] If Mighty Sir, Your Goodness will do Grace, To the supream of {Ottomans} high Race, Who so much honoured Vertue even in Foes, That oft when conquer'd they did nothing lose. If to that Beauty you will favor shew, Which he ador'd and your lov'd {Titian} drew; {Roxana}, who restor'd th'Hungarian Crown, And nurs'd the Royal Infant as her own. If you will favour that {Sicilian} Wife, Who oft her Honour, and her Husbands Life, Sav'd by her Vertue, when the Victor strove, At once to vanquish {Rhodes} and conquer Love. If {Rhodians} from oblivion you'l redeem, Rescuing their Fame, though none could rescue them; Whose valor there the highest Wonders wrought, Where the brave Subjects of your Empire fought. If these contracted, and in little shown, You after conquest on the Scene will own; Then {Rhodes} shall nobly gain by being lost; And th'{Ottomans} may grieve whilst we may boast. That they got less when they did {Rhodes} subdue, Then now the Muses get by gaining you.

[[PROLOGUE, {To the} WITS]] Bless me you kinder Starrs! How are we throng'd? Allass! whom hath our harmless Poet wrong'd, That he should meet together in one day A Session, and a Faction at his Play, To judge, and to condemne? It cannot be Amongst so many here, all should agree. Your expectation too, you so much raise As if you came to wonder, not to praise. And this Sir-Poet (if I e're have read Customes, or Men) strikes you, and your Muse dead! Conceive now too, how much, how oft each Ear Hath surfeited in this our Hemisphear, With various, pure, eternal Wit; add then Young Comick-Sir, you must be kill'd agen. But, to out-doe these miseries a sort Of cruel spies (we hear) intend a sport Among themselves; our mirth must not at all Tickle, or stirre their Lungs, but shake their Gall. So this, joyn'd with the rest, makes me agin To say, you and your Lady Muse within Will have but a sad doom; and your trim Brow Which long'd for Wreaths, you must wear naked now; Unless some here, out of a courteous pride, Resolve to praise what others shall de[[c recte]][r]ide. So they will have their humour too; and we, More out of dulness then Civility, Grow highly pleas'd with our success to night, By thinking both, perhaps, are in the right. Such is your pleasant judgements upon Plays, Like Par'lels that run straight, though sev'ral ways.

[[{EPILOGUE}]] The bus'nes of this Epilogue, is now, To smooth and stroke the wrinkles from each brow; To guide severer Judgments (if we could Be wise enough) untill they thought all good Which they perhaps dislike; and sure, this were An over-boldness, rais'd from too much fear. You have a freedom: which you now may use, To raise our youthful Poet and his Muse With a kind doom; who will tread boldly then, In newer Comick-Socks, this Stage agen. [[FIND OUT THE WAY]] [[T.B.]]

[[Epilogue]] Through many hazards, Love hath found a way For friends to meet: good Omen to our Play. If love hath brought you hither, Gentlemen, Love will find out the way to come agen. And we dare promise, if you rellish these, Our Loves shall find out other ways to please. [[T.R. ]] [[OF COLEMAN STREET]]

[[{The Prologue}]] As when the Midland Sea is no where clear From dreadfull Fleets of {Tunis} and {Argier}; Which coast about, to all they meet with, Foes, And upon which nought can be got but Blowes; The Merchand Ships so much their passage doubt, That, though full-freighted, none dares venture out, And Trade decayes, and Scarcity ensues; Just so the timerous Wits of late refuse, Though laded, to put forth upon the Stage, Affrighted by the Critiques of this age. It is a Party numerous, watchfull, bold; They can from nought, which sailes in sight, with-hold. Nor doe their cheap, though mortal, Thunder spare; They shoot, alas, with Wind-gunns, charg'd with Air. But yet, Gentlemen Critiques of {Argier}, For your own int'rest I'de advise ye here To let this little Folorn Hope goe by Safe and untoucht; That must not be (you'l cry) If ye be wise, it must; Ile tell yee why. There are Seven, Eight, Nine,......stay....there are behind Ten Playes at least, which wait but for a Wind, And the glad News that we the Enemy miss; And those are all your own, if you spare This. Some are but new trim'd up, others quite New, Some by known Shipwrights built, and others too By that great Author made, whoere he be, That stiles himself Person of Qualitie. All these, if we miscarry here to-day, Will rather till they Rot in th'Harbour stay, Nay they will back again, though they were come, Ev'n to their last safe Rode, the Tyring room. Therefore again I say, if you be wise, Let this for once pass free; let it suffise That we your Soverai[[ng recte]][gn] power here to avow, Thus humbly ere we pass, strike sail to You. [[OF COLEMAN STREET]]

[[Added at Court]] Stay Gentlemen; what I have said, was all But forc'd submission, which I now recall. Ye're all but Pirats now again; for here Does the true Soveraign of the Seas appear. The Soveraign of these Narrow Seas of wit; 'Tis his own {Thames}; He knows and Governs it. 'Tis his Dominion, and Domain; as Hee Pleases, 'tis either Shut to us or Free. Not onely, if his Pasport we obtain, We fear no little Rovers of the Main, But if our {Neptune} his calm visage show, No Wave shall dare to Rise or Wind to Blow. [[OF COLEMAN STREET]]

[[Epilogue spoken by CUTTER (Without his Peruique)]] Me-thinks a Vision bids me silence break, And some words to this Congregation speak, So great and gay a one I ne'er did meet As the {Fifth Monarch's} Court in {Coleman-street}. But yet I wonder much not to espy a Brother in all this Court call'd {Zephaniah}. Bless me! Where are we? What may this place be? For I begin by Vision now to see That this is a meer Theater; well then, If't be e'en so I'l {Cutter} be again. [[(Puts on his Peruique)]] Not {Cutter} the pretended Cavaleer: For to confess ingenuously here To you who always of that Party were, I never was of any; up and down I rowld, a very Rakehill of this Town. But now my Follies and my Faults are ended, My Fortune and my Mind are both amended, And if we may believe one who has fail'd before, Our Author says He'l mend, that is, He'l write no more. [[OF COLEMAN STREET]]

[[EPILOGUE At Court.]] The Madness of your People, and the Rage, You've seen too long upon the Publique Stage, 'Tis time at last (great Sir) 'tis time to see Their Tragique Follies brought to Comedy. If any blame the Lowness of our Scene, We humbly think some Persons there have been On the World's Theatre not long ago, Much more too High, than here they are too Low. And well we know that Comedy of old, Did her Plebeian rank with so much Honour hold, That it appear'd not then too Base or Light, For the great {Scipio's} Conquering hand to Write. How e're, if such mean Persons seem too rude, When into Royal presence they intrude, Yet we shall hope a pardon to receive From you, a Prince so practis'd to forgive; A Prince, who with th'applause of Earth and Heaven, The rudeness of the Vulgar has Forgiven.

[[The Prologue for the Stage.]] You'd have new Playes, & when you have them, you Do by them, as Children by their Trifles do, Slight and dislike them, and then cry for more, And use them just as you did those before: And this you think fine sport now, so do[[']]n[']t they, (I tell ye Gentlemen) who make the Play. Notwithstanding, our Author gives you one This once, and comes with resolution, To try whether or no, t' be a Disease That reigns amongst you, no new Playes can please. And if he finde it so, he bid me say, All th'harm they'l do him who condemn his Play; They'l bring him off oth' Stage, into the Pit, To judge with them, of others Playes and wit. [[Additions for the Court]] To others this. But to your Majesty, Our Author here with all humility, Offers his Labours: chiefly he' underwent, Most Royall Sir, for Your Divertisement. Counting it highest Happiness can befall, To delight Him, who's the Delight of all.

[[The Epilogue.]] We do confess your curiosities Have purified the Stage, that otherwise Had been all dross e're this; and nothing there That might delight a curious Eye or Ear. And we'ar so far from taking of it ill, We thank you for it, pray be curious still: So shall the Poet, and the Actors too, In time become as curious as you. For just as Judges by their rigidness, Make men more carefull, and offend the less: So do you, us, ith' Boxes and the Pit, In whose verge chiefly it lies to judge of it. Do then by this Play as y'are wont to do By others; if't be bad, condemn it too: If good, we hope you'l give some sign that may Declare your approbation of the Play.

[[The Prologue to be Spoken by {Eugenes Junior}, the Poor Scholar]] What? have our City Wits been guilt[y]? that they Of late a'n't able to beget a Play? Or rather (troubl'd with Feares Quaking Fits) Is {London} frighted out of all its Wits By the {Phanatick} Crews late Insurrection? Or have they been molested with th'infection Of the dull City air? with which their brains Perhaps do sympathize, and take more paines Now to produce a Play, then {Randolphs} Quill Wou'd have required the {Theater} to fill; Have {London} wits drank down some deadly potion? Are onely Academick Wits in motion? Must Genus, Species, which of you were won[[']]t To trudge a foot, at last be forc'd to mount The {Muses' Paegasus}? then I'le spur on And ride a Scholars pace from {Helicon} To th' {City Theater}, and humbly beg Your courteous audience with a scrape, or leg, (Though't be but Scholar-like perform'd,) and dare My wants i'th' hearing of you all declare, I'le tell you, that I hope you are not so Cruel, as to let Wit a begging go, And that, if you'le grant me your approbation I shall be richer then the {Indian} Nation.

[[Epilogue to the Spectators Eug. Jun.]] Before you all, my Father does declare, That he intends me for his Lawful Heir. My Poverty henceforth I'le not bewail, For now I may, Top and Top gallant sail In th'Ocean of his wealth, nor will I fear The Shipwrack of my Fortunes, whil'st I stear My course, so you, like th'{Laplanders}, will sell A Gale of your Applause, my Sails to swell.

[[{Prologue}]] To cheat the most Judicious Eyes, there be Wayes in all Trades, but this of Poetry: Your Tradesman shews his Ware by some false Light, To hide the Faults, and slightness from your Sight. Nay, though 'tis full of Bracks, he'l boldly swear 'Tis excellent, and so help off his Ware. He'l rule your Judgement by his Confidence, Which in a Poet you'd call Impudence; Nay, if the world afford the like again, He swears he'l give it you for nothing then: Those are words too a Poet dares not say; Let it be good or bad, you're sure to pay. .......Wou'd 'twere a pen'worth;...but in this you are Abler to judge then he that made the Ware: However his design was well enough, He try'd to shew some newer fashion'd Stuff. Not that the name {Committee} can be new, That has been too well known to most of you: But you may smile, for you have past your doom; The Poet dares not, his is still to come.

[[{Epilogue}]] But now the greatest thing is left to do, More just {Committee}, to Compound with you; For, till your equal Censures shall be known, The Poet's under Sequestration: He has no Title in his small Estate Of Wit, unless you please to set the Rate. Accept this half years purchace of his Wit, For in the compass of that time 'twas Writ: Not that this is enough, he'll pay you more, If you your selves believe him not too poor: For 'tis your judgements give him wealth, in this, He's just as rich as you believe he is. Wou'd all {Committees} cou'd have done like you, Made Men more rich, and by their payments too.

[[PROLOGUE]] Since you expect a Prologue, we submit: But let me tell you, this Excise of Wit, Though undiscern'd, consumes the Stock so fast, That no new Fancy will be left at last. Wit's not like Money; Money though paid in Passes about, and is receiv'd agen: But Wit when it has once been paid before, There it lies dead, 'tis currant then no more. Nor must we plead for what we do present, As in Law-Cases, by a Precedent: Poets and Mountebanks in this strange Age Practise with equal hopes upon the Stage; For 'tis expected they shou'd both apply To every Humour some new Remedy: And one's as likely every man to please, As t'other to cure every man's Disease. ....But you are welcom all; and what men say Before a Feast, will serve before a Play: Here's nothing you can like: Thus he that writes Or makes a Feast, more certainly invites His Judges than his Friends; there's not a Guest But will find something wanting or ill-drest. The Proverb but thus varied serves I fear; Fools make the Plays, and Wise-men come to hear. [[T.P.]]

[[(Epilogue)]] [[{Enter Moders alone}, {applying her self to the {Auditory}]] [[{Mod}.]] I've past one Tryal; but it is my fear I shall receive a rigid sentence here; You think me a bold Cheat, put case 'twere so, Which of you are not? now you'd swear I know; But do not least that you deserve to be Censur'd worse then you can censure me. The Worlds a Cheat, and we that move in it In our degree do exercise our Wit: And better 'tis to get a glorious Name However got; then live by common Fame.

[[THE PROLOGUE]] As I appear, (me-thinks) I hear some say, O, this is He that must excuse the Play! They better guess than those who think I'm sent To dare the Censures of th'Impertinent; Such a Poetique Choler would appear Just like that Courage which is rais'd by Fear. But (Gentlemen) in troth I'm only come To tell ye that the Author is gone home, To shun your Doom, like some poor Couzen'd Wench That has not Confidence t'out-face the Bench. We were such Fools as to perswade his Stay, But (smiling at us) He made haste away, And said ye could not so much honor lack, As to speak ill of him behind his back.

[[EPILOGUE to the VILLAIN; A Dorekeeper in hast to Mr. {Betterton}]] What? ere I shift my Cloaths? can he not stay, Till our own Scouts bring Tidings of the Play. There's ten times more ado with a young Wit, Then with old Fools that have old Volumes writ. Well plainly, and in Brief (howe're we speed) I wish the louder Criticks would take heed. Perhaps, before they get to the next street, Some of their Consort may a challenge meet: Good Gentlemen! do not mistake, I pray, Our Author in misconstruing what I say. He would not challenge any one to fight, But, which is worse, does threaten all that write.

[[The Prologue to {Selindra}]] Ladyes, we have made choyce to shew this Daye, A longe Romance, contracted to a Playe. And humbly wishe, for your owne sakes, and ours, That you'l suspend your censures, for three howers, To winke at faults; and like, what like you maye, That so your purchace, maye seeme worth your paye; For, to disgust your selves, will make it worse, And bringe no monny, back into your purse.

[[The Epelogue to {Selindra}]] Our Author, sent his Epelogue so late, That I, in hast, by a senister fate, Have lost my paper, and forgott my speeche. Some lines there were, in which he did beseeche Your wisdoms, if you lik'd, or lik'd it not! But I, have all his Eloquence forgott, In favor of the Playe, as frind to us; Only the two last lines, I thinke were thus: If his first fancy, does no creditt gaine? Twere impudence, to trouble you againe.

[[THE PROLOGUE.]] A many famous Poets do not refuse, With {Prologues} t'usher in the Tragick Muse: The Reason (Gallants!) I presume to say; To {Tomos}, you are welcom all to day. For fear (lest when y'ave seene't) you should repent Both of your Mony, and your Time misspent, I tell you (though our Play is new) 'tis writ, After an ill mode, with little wit: For in't there is a Divell and a Fool; Such sights as Boyes affect that go to School. This said, you have our Leave (without Offence) To take your mony again; And to go hence. Nothing of {Ovid} then! Enough, Enough: Dancing and fighting; And much amorous stuffe. If any of these invite your stay; Pray know We hope to please you; whether you will, or no: But (if you shall dislike it) Gentlemen Revenge your selves, and never see't agen.

[[THE EPILOGUE]] Noble, and generous Spectators, stay! A word at Parting, and then go your way. Our Author is stoln hence in mighty hast, Because he thought the House was overcast With Clouds on every Brow; and was in dread, A Storm would else have faln upon his head. I am his friend left purposely behind, T'inform him how his Fate prove harsh, or kind. Beseech you Ladies smile: Their general Frown, Portends the Men will hiss our Tragedy down. Command them clap their hands; for it is strange, If men forbear, when women bid them clap. I thank you Ladies! thank you Gentlemen! Tomorrow, you may be welcom here agen.

[[The Prologue to the King; Spoken by M:#r# Alex: Read.]] Most Royall Sir. Our Lawyer {Ignoramus} does invite Your Princely audience to the Bench this night, And humbly supplicates that he may be Admitted to the Barr of Equitie: Hee'l splitt his Clients Causes, plead as free As if he had his {Legem-pone}-ffee: He 'affects no Syllogizing Arguments, No Classick-Authors, Bookes, or Presidents; Although he came from th' University, Tis but by extract, not proficiency: ffor tis a Rule predestin'd by the ffates, Lawyers and Schollars to be Disparats; Yet Story tells us 'twas another thing, When both joynd issue to Entertaine the {King}, (Your Royall Grandfather of blessed memory) Then did the issues of the Schollars braine Put {Ignoramus} on's Legiferous straine, Made him the Object-Royall of the Sport %And% @w#ch#@ brought him into favour with the Court Where first he liv'd; and being reviv'd agen Our Play's made New by a Paraphrastick-pen; Wherein the Author having us'd his art, Reffers the action to the Actors part, The Judgment to You; whate're we do or say Wee all subscribe Your Audience makes the Play; Wherefore our Lawyer hath remov'd his Tryall ffrom the Common-place, into this Court-Royall.

[[{A General Prologue to all my Playes}]] Noble Spectators, do not think to see Such Playes, that's like {Ben.Johnsons} Alchymie, Nor Fox, nor Silent Woman: for those Playes Did Crown the Author with exceeding praise; They were his Master-pieces, and were wrought By Wits Invention, and his labouring thought, And his Experience brought Materials store, His reading several Authors brought much more: What length of time he took those Playes to write, I cannot guess, not knowing his Wits flight; But I have heard, {Ben. Johnsons} Playes came forth, To the Worlds view, as things of a great worth; Like Forein Emperors, which do not appear Unto their Subjects, above once a year; So did {Ben. Johnsons} Playes so rarely pass, As one might think they long a writing was. But my poor Playes, like to a common rout, Gathers in throngs, and heedlessly runs out, Like witless Fools, or like to Girls and Boyes, Goe out to shew new Clothes, or such like toyes: This shews my Playes have not such store of wit, Nor subtil plots, they were so quickly writ, So quickly writ, that I did almost crye For want of work, my time for to imploy: Sometime for want of work, I'm forc'd to play, And idlely to cast my time away: Like as poor Labourers, all they desire, Is, to have so much work, it might them tire: Such difference betwixt each several brain, Some labour hard, and offer life to gain; Some lazie lye, and pampred are with ease, And some industrious are, the World to please: Some are so quick, their thoughts do move so fast, They never stay to mold, or to forecast: Some take great pains to get, and yet are poor, And some will steal, for to increase their store: Some brains know not what Subjects for to chuse, And with considering, they their wit do lose: Some only in designs, do spend their time, And some without designs do only rhime; And some do take more pains a Plot to lay, Than other some to plot, and write a Play. As for {Ben. Johnsons} brain, it was so strong, He could conceive, or judge, what's right, what's wrong: His Language plain, significant and free, And in the English Tongue, the Masterie: Yet Gentle {Shakespear} had a fluent Wit, Although less Learning, yet full well he writ; For all his Playes were writ by Natures light, Which gives his Readers, and Spectators sight. But Noble Readers, do not think my Playes, Are such as have been writ in former daies; As {Johnson}, {Shakespear}, {Beamont}, {Fletcher}, writ; Mine want their Learning, Reading, Language, Wit: The Latin phrases I could never tell, But {Johnson} could, which made him write so well. Greek, Latin Poets, I could never read, Nor their Historians, but our English {Speed}; I could not steal their Wit, nor Plots out take; All my Playes Plots, my own poor brain did make: From {Plutarchs} story I ne'r took a Plot, Nor from Romances, nor from {Don Quixot}, As others have, for to assist their Wit, But I upon my own Foundation writ; Like those that have a little patch of Land, Even so much whereon a house may stand: The Owner builds a house, though of no shew, A Cottage warm and clean, though thatch'd and low; {Vitruvius} Art and Skill he doth not take, For to design, and so his house to make; Nor Carpenters, nor Masons doth not hire, But builds a house himself, whole and intire: Materials none from forein parts are brought; Nor hath he Stone and Timber with art wrought; But some sound Tree, which on his ground did grow, Which he cuts down with many a labouring blow; And with his hatchet, and his saw, he cuts His Tree in many parts, those parts he puts In several places, beams, posts, planchers layes, And thus a house with his own stock doth raise: He steals nor borrows not of any Neighbour, But lives contentedly of his own labour; And by his labour, he may thrive, and live To be an old rich man, and then may leave His Wealth, to build a Monument of Fame, Which may for ever keep alive his name. Just so, I hope, the works that I have writ, Which are the buildings of my natural wit; My own Inheritance, as Natures child, But the Worlds Vanities would me beguild: But I have thriftly been, housewiv'd my time, And built both Cottages of Prose and Rhime, All the materials in my head did grow, All is my own, and nothing do I owe: But all that I desire whenas I dye, My memory in my own Works may lye: And when as others build them Marble Tombs, To inurn their dust, and fretted vaulted Rooms, I care not where my dust, or bones remain, So my Works live, the labour of my brain. I covet not a stately, cut, carv'd Tomb, But that my Works, in Fames house may have room: Thus I my poor built Cottage am content, When that I dye, may be my Monument.

@BPROSE> [[AN INTRODUCTION.]] [[{Enter 3. Gentlemen}.]] [[1. {Gentleman}.]] Come {Tom} will you goe to a play? [[2. {Gentleman}.]] No. [[1. {Gentlemen}.]] Why? [[2. {Gentleman}.]] Because there is so many words, and so little wit, as the words tire me more than the wit delights me; and most commonly there is but one good part of humour, and all the rest are forced in for to enterline that part, or humour; Likewise not above one or two good Actors, the rest are as ill Actors as the parts they Act, besides their best and principle part of humour is so tedious, that I hate at last what I liked at first, for many times a part is very good to the third Act, but continued to the fifth is stark naught. [[1. {Gentleman}.]] The truth is, that in some Playes the Poets runs so long in one humour, as he runs himself out of breath. [[3. {Gentleman}.]] Not only the Poet but the humour he writes of seems to be as broken-winded. [[1. {Gentleman}.]] I have heard of a broken-winded Horse, but never heard of a broken-winded Poet, nor of a broken-winded Play before. [[3. {Gentleman}.]] I wonder why Poets will bind themselves, so as to make every humour they write, or present, to run quite through their Play. [[2. {Gentleman}.]] Bind say you? they rather give themselves line and liberty, nay they are so far from binding, as for the most part they stretch the Line of a humour into pieces. [[3. {Gentleman}.]] Let me tell you, that if any man should write a Play wherein he should present an humour in one Act, and should not continue it to the end: although it must be stretched, as you say, to make it hold out, he would be condemned, and not only accounted an ill Poet, but no Poet, for it would be accounted as ill as wanting a Rhime in a Copie of Verses, or a word too short, or too much in a number, for which a Poet is condemned, and for a word that is not spell'd right, he is damn'd for ever. [[1. {Gentleman}.]] Nay, he is only damned if he doth not write strictly to the Orthographie. [[3. {Gentleman}.]] Scholars only damne Writers and Poets for Orthographie, but for the others, they are damned by the generality: that is, not only all readers, but all that are but hearers of the works. [[1. {Gentleman}.]] The generality for the most part is not foolishly strict, or rigid as particulars are. [[3. {Gentleman}.]] Yes faith, they are led by one Bell-weather like a company of silly Sheep. [[1. {Gentleman}.]] Well, if I were to write a Play, I would write the length of a humour according to the strength of the humour and the breadth of my wit. Let them judge me and condemn as they would; for though some of the past, and present ages be erroniously or malitiously foolish in such cases; yet the future Ages may be more wise, and better natur'd as to applaud what the others have condemned. But prithy {Tom} let us goe. [[2. {Gentleman}.]] No, I will not goe for the reasons before mentioned, which is, they tire me with their empty words, dull speeches, long parts, tedious Acts, ill Actors; and the truth is, theres not enough variety in an old play to please me. [[1. {Gentleman}.]] There is variety of that which is bad, as you have divided it, but it seemes you love youth and variety in playes, as you doe in Mistresses.

@BPROSE> [[3. {Gentleman}.]] Playes delight Amorous men as much as a Mistris doth. [[1. {Gentleman}.]] Nay, faith more, for a man and his Mistris is soon out of breath in their discourse, and then they know not what to say, and when they are at a {Non-pluss}, they would be glad to be quit of each other, yet are ashamed to part so soon, and are weary to stay with each other long, when a Play entertaines them with Love, and requires not their answers, nor forceth their braines, nor pumps their wits; for a Play doth rather fill them than empty them. [[2. {Gentleman}.]] Faith most Playes doth rather fill the spectators with wind, than with substance, with noise, than with newes; [[1. {Gentleman}.]] This Play that I would have you go to, is a new Play. [[2. {Gentleman}.]] But is there newes in the Play, that is (is there new wit, fancyes, or new Scenes) and not taken out of old storyes, or old Playes newly translated. [[1. {Gentleman}.]] I know not that, but this Play was writ by a Lady, who on my Conscience hath neither Language, nor Learning, but what is native and naturall. [[2. {Gentleman}.]] A woman write a Play! Out upon it, out upon it, for it cannot be good, besides you say she is a Lady, which is the likelyer to make the Play worse, a woman and a Lady to write a Play, fye, fye. [[3. {Gentleman}.]] Why may not a Lady write a good Play? [[2. {Gentleman}.]] No, for a womans wit is too weak and too conceited to write a Play. [[1. {Gentleman}.]] But if a woman hath wit, or can write a good Play, what will you say then. [[2. {Gentleman}.]] Why, I will say no body will believe it, for if it be good, they will think she did not write it, or at least say she did not, besides the very being a woman condemnes it, were it never so excellent and rare, for men will not allow women to have wit, or we men to have reason, if we allow them wit, we shall lose our prehemency. [[1. {Gentleman}.]] If you will not goe {Tom}, farewell; for I will go see this Play, let it be good, or bad. [[2. {Gentleman}.]] Nay stay, I will goe with thee, for I am contented to cast away so much time for the sake of the sex. Although I have no faith of the Authresses wit. [[3. {Gentleman}.]] Many a reprobate hath been converted and brought to repentance by hearing a good Sermon, and who knowes but that you may be converted from your erroneous opinion; by seeing this Play, and brought to confesse that a Lady may have wit.

[[Prologue.]] Noble Spectators, you are come to see, A Play, if good, perchance may clapped be; And yet our Authoresse sayes that she hath heard, Some playes, though good, hath not been so preferr'd; As to be mounted up on high raised praise, And to be Crown'd with Garlands of fresh bayes: But the contrary have been hissed off, Out from our Stage with many a censuring scoff; But afterwards there understanding cleer'd, They gave the praise, what they before had jeer'd. The same she sayes may to her Play befall, And your erroneous censures may recall: But all such Playes as take not at first sight, But afterwards the viewers takes delight: It seemes there is more wit in such a Play, Than can be understood in one whole day: If soe, she is well content for her wits sake, From ignorance repulses for to take; For she had rather want those understanding braines, Than that her Play should want wits flowing veynes.

[[EPILOGUE.]] Noble Spectators, you have spent this day; Not only for to see, but judge our Play: Our {Authoress} sayes, she thinks her Play is good, If that her Play be rightly understood. If not, 'tis none of her fault, for she writ The {Acts}, the {Scenes}, the {Language} and the {Wit}; Wherefore she sayes, that she is not your Debtor, But you are hers, until you write a better; Of even terms to be she understands Impossible, except you clap your hands.

[[PROLOGUE.]] This Play I do present to Lady wits, And hope the wit, each several humour fits; For though all wit, be wit, as of wit kind, Yet different be, as men, not of one mind; For different men, have different minds we know, So different Wits, in different humours flow. The cholerick Wit is rough, and salt as brine, The humble Wit flows smooth, in a strait line: A wise Wit flows in streams, fresh, pure and clear, Where neither weeds, nor troubled waves appear: But a wild wit in every ditch doth flow, And with the mudde doth foul, and filthy grow. [[AND DEATHS BANQUET]]

[[{PROLOGUE}.]] The Poetress sayes, that if the Play be bad, She's very sorry, and would wish she had A better plot, more wit and skill to make A Play that might each several humour take; But she sayes, if your humours are not fixt, Or that they are extravagantly mist; Impossible a Play for to present With such variety, and temperiment; But some will think it tedious, or find fault, Say the Design or Language is stark naught; Besides, the loose unsetled brains, she fears Seeth with squint eyes, and hears with Asses ears; But she is confident all in this round, Their understandings clear, and judgements sound; And if her Play deserves not praise, she knows They'l neither scoff in words, nor preposterous shows: Without disturbance, you will let it dye, And in the Grave of silence let it lye. [[AND DEATHS BANQUET]]

[[{Margaret Cavendish} (Epilogue to second part)]] [[{EPILOGUE}.]] Noble Spectators, now you have seen this Play, And heard it speak, let's hear what you now say; But various judgements, various sentences give, Yet we do hope you'l sentence it may live. But not in Prison be condemn'd to lye, Nor whipt with censure, rather let it dye Here on this Stage, and see the Funeral Rites, Which is, to put out all the Candle lights. And in the grave of darknesse let it rest, In peace and quiet, and not molest The harmless soul, which hopes {Mercury} may Unto the Elizium fields it safe convey. But if you sentence life, the Muses will Attend it up unto {Parnassus} Hill. If so, pray let your hands, here in this place, Clap it, as an applause, the triumph grace. [[AND DEATHS BANQUET]]

[[{My Lord Marquess, writ these following Speeches}.]] [[{A Souldier}.]] Silence all thundring Drums, and Trumpets loud, with glistering Arms, bright Swords, and waving Plumes. {And the feared Cannon powdered}, {shall no more}, {Force the thin Aire with horrour for to roare}; {Nor the proud steeds, with hollow hoofes to beat The humble Earth, till Ecchoes it repeat}. {This Lady makes Greek Tacticks to look pale}, {And Caesar's Comentaries blush for shame}. {The} Amazonian {Dames}, {shakes at her Name}.

[[{Poets}.]] The Lady Muses are deposed, unthroned from their high Pallace, of {Parnassus}-Hill. {Where she in glory, with Poetick flames, there sits}. {In Triumph}, {Emperess of wits}; {Where her bright beams}, {our Poets doth inspire}, {As humble Mortalls}, {from her gentle fire}: {She is the only Muses}, {gives Phancy store}, {Else}, {all our Poets}, {they could write no more}.

[[{Oratour}]], Were the oyled tongue of {Tully} now alive, and all the rest of glibed tongued Oratours, with their best arguments, to force a truth, or else with subtilty of flight to avoid it; those tongues with trembling Palsies, would be all struck dumb, with wonder and amazement, to hear truth Cloathed so gently, as to move all Oratours, their passions into love, admired Virgin. [[{Then all the Auditory goeth out}.]] [[{Here ends my Lord Marquesses}.]]

[[EPILOGUE.]] Our Auth'ress bids me tell you She thought fit For to divide this Fair CABAL of WIT. For one Play 'twas too long, which was her sorrow, The other half, if come, you'l see to morrow. You'l thank her then, dividing it to make You rise with Appetites, no Surfets take. WIT's Surfet's dangerous: Take the Fruition Of new-born Fancies without Repetition. But hold your hands, as you are men to day, And as our Friends to morrow Clap our Play. [[{The Marquiss of} Newcastle {writ this} Epilogue.]]

[[PROLOGUE.]] A Tragedy I usher in to day, All Mirth is banish'd in this Serious Play: Yet sad Contentment may She to you bring, In pleas'd Expressions of each sev'ral thing. Our Poetress is confident, no Fears, Though 'gainst her Sex the Tragick Buskins wears, But you will like it, some few howers spent, She'l know your Censure by your hands what's meant. [[{This Prologue was written by my Lord Marquiss of} Newcastle.]]

[[EPILOGUE.]] If subtile Ayr, the Conduit to each ear, Hearts passion mov'd to draw a sadder tear From your squess'd brains, on your pale cheeks to lie, Distill'd from every Fountain of each eye; Our Poetress hath done her part, and you To make it sadder, know this Story's true; A plaudity you'l give, if think it fit, For none but you will say this Play is well writ. [[{The Lord Marquess of} New Castle {writ this} Epilogue.]]

[[PROLOGUE.]] Our Auth'ress says to make a Play is hard, To censure freely men are not afraid; Opinions easily do pass upon The wit of others, though themselves have none; And envie rounds the sense, and words about, Hoping some errors it may soon find out. But streams of wit do not so often flow, As salt rough censures, which to billows grow; And swell so big, till they in pieces fall, In their own ruines they are buried all. But if our Authors Play deserves a praise, She will not thank you, though you give her bays; Because she knows it is her right and due, And justice to receive the same from you. Wherefore she says, if you do take delight To read her Play, or acted to your sight, The bounty doth proceed from her alone; Her wit doth pleasure give to every one. The Play, if bad, she doth desire no praise, The Cypress will receive instead of bays.

[[EPILOGUE.]] Our Auth'ress here hath sent me for her pay, She's at the Charge of Wit to make the Play; But if you think it not worthy of Praise, Nor an Applause of Hands, her Fame to raise, She doth desire that it in pawn may lie, Till redeem'd by a better Comedie.

[[{An Epilogue spoken by the Lady} True-Love.]] O how my heart doth ake when think I do, How I a modest Maid a man did woo! To be so confident to woo him here, Upon the publick Stage to every Ear; Men sure will censure me for mad, if not To be in some unlucky Planet got, Or else will tax me of dishonesty, As seeming like a bold immodesty; Well, I have woo'd, yet I am not despis'd, But am by Virtuous honour highly priz'd; Because my Love was spotless, pure, and Chast, And on a noble worthy man was plac'd; Then why should I blush, weep, or yet repent, Or shun the wooing part to represent, But rather joy and glory in my choice? If you approve my Act pray giv't a voice!

[[PROLOGUE.]] Noble Spectators, this play that you'l see, Is taken out of Britains History; It is not pleasant, nor yields much delight, But it did serve the Poetress to write; She bids me tell you, she was glad to take Any dull plot, so she a play could make, Her vacant idle time for to imploy; For she loves writing more than Company; But if it pleases not your Eyes or sight, She doth not care, since it pleas'd her to write; For she indeavours, tryes all that she may To please her self in every honest way; Wherefore a praise, or yet applause from you, She expects not, nor challenges as her due.

[[THE EPILOGUE.]] {Noble Spectators}, In {Britain} Land, long, long ago, I say, There were such persons, as are in my Play; In {Chronicle} you'l find a story plain, A {Britain} Queen that happily did Raign. At last did marry one below her State, Which merited not a Crown, or Kingly Fate; For he, when Power got, did put away His Royal Wife; and married, as they say, Another Lady; She and he did live Like lawfull King and Queen, till God did give The ronged Queen, her Kingdom back again; For in a Battel, she her husband slain. And of the rest, in Stories you shall read, Such persons as my Play presents indeed. 

[[{THE PROLOGUE}.]] {The Polititian Cheated}, That's our Play To day; but how or what or by which way I may say ought t'advance it, I don't know I'th'least nor can imagine; for, thus now The case doth stand; It must be bad or good, For there's no {Medium} to be understood In things of this kind; And, if it be bad, 'Twill not be worth the pains that must be had In making of a Prologue; And 'tis fear'd If it be good, 'twill be the sooner marr'd By a bad Prologue; What shall I say then? Poets have harder dealings amongst men In these our days then ever; for they'll have Forsooth of late that which they never gave, Prologues before, and Epilogues succeeding And they not lik'd, unless they be exceeding Rarely compos'd: Consider't Gentlemen; And know, this is the first-fruits of the Pen Of this our Poet; If you like this, then You will incourage him to write again.

[[EPILOGUE. {By} Astutio.]] Pardon'd by {Ananias} I am come Hoping from you to get as mild a doome As I have done from him, you'll say 'twas ill, I'll grant it to be true too, but know still It was not so intended, all we doe Is to get your applause, for, pray, who 'Mongst all of you that having heard of one Whose whole Estate lay in one Ship alone, And that Ship cast away, would not be sad? Such is our Poets case now. The Play's bad He doth confesse, yet would be loth you sho'd Imagine it was meant for ought but good: This is his first, if you condemn this, then You'll make him fearfull to come here agen. [[{The Prologue} Enter {Momus}.]] [[{Momus}.]] Ha, ha, we're like to have a goodly Play y'faith when our Author swore just now he knew not whether Pegasus were Horse or Cow, if a be no Poet, I wonder the Devil how he came to be so poor; for I've heard some say, Poverty and Poetry are inseparable companions, but now I think on't, his fancie creeps in prose, and sometimes cuts a caper or two in verse, according as a was inspir'd by {Bacchus}......but that he could not purchase alwayes, {And that's the reason that there's here such lack Of wit, since there was want of sparkling Sack}. What can you then expect but the dreggs of Ale? the best title You can give him is but a red lettice scribler, whose rimes and the spiggot keep time together. [[{Enter Musoph}.]]

[[{Musophilus}.]] Courteous spectators........

[[{Momus}.]] Save your self the labour, I have spoke the {Prologue} already.

[[{Musoph}.]] Who sent thee?

[[{Momus}.]] My friends, Envy and Prejudice.

[[{Musoph}.]] Thy commission's false, get hence, thy breath infects the aire, and wu'd be contagious here, but that the serenety of each face I view becom's it[[']]s antidote. Avant!

[[The Prologue.]] Our Author wrote this Play, but cannot tell Whether or no his genius has done well. Mark well then what hee'l say, and doubtless you Will swear though't be not quaint, yet most is true. Heres no Utopian stories, nor such things, As some men fain, that flye upon the wings Of fancy only, and include the station Of their own projects in imagination. Experience dictates what we have to say, She being guide, I marvel who can stray. Hear't out with patience, for we'l all contend To please you all, and not a Mome offend.

[[THE Prologue.]] Lovers to You I come, without a Bribe, From one y#t# boasts himself of your own Tribe, And therefore hopes, that your good Natures may On his behalf, above your Judgements sway: What you'le see here is naturall, all pretence He disavowes, to Wit, or Eloquence: With Friendship he presents you, and with love, Such as are wont in his free breast to move, Such passions as he feels, our Author writes, And humours such, as he observes, indites: From Conversation bringing to the Stage, What he does think, will please the present Age. And if you do not grudge your time here spent, He will accept it for a Complement.

[[EPELOGUE]] Ladies, our Author has so great Respect To your fair Sex, he fears some gross Defect In his best Characters, may prove so short, Of your perfections, he needs pardon for't. If such sad fate, do now attend his Play, In's Cloak, thus muffl'd, he will sneak away; But if You like't, he will on tip-toe go, That all the World, may the proud Author know.

[[The Prologue to THE KING]] If Favours merit Thanks, what then is due For Blessings, Sir, deriv'd to Us from You? Such Blessings as no People, ever since They prosper'd into Kingdoms, ow'd a Prince: Three Nations (by all other disesteem'd) To Honour and to Freedom you redeem'd. Now your Nobility are Lords age'n, Your Commonalty Valiant Loyal Men. Th'Oil that Anointed you heal'd our sad wounds, Your Laws have fix'd us in our old just Bounds. When to your Throne you came, Justice return'd From Heav'n, and on the Bench (o're which she mourn'd) Sits in your Splendour, gives (not takes) the Word, And with her Ballance over-rules the Sword, Which now protects your poorest Subject's Plea, And guards the Labours of your Land and Sea. Nor is Toil barr'd from Pleasure any more, For, Publick Recreations you restore; Not {Roman} Theatres, that were design'd For Sword-play; our Plays recreate the Mind, Instruct the Judgment, which Mens Nature learns, And how to manage Low and High Concerns: Our whole Globe in this Hemisphere we see Enlightned with the Raies of Majesty. Where all, but th'Authors doubtful Eye, looks clear, But, Sir, he hopes you'l smile away his fear.

[[The Prologue to THE HOUSE]] Your looks are eager, Gentlemen; new Plays, Like our new Beauties, expectation raise So high, you promise to your selves a Feast Of Wonders; alas, Miracles are ceas'd: No working now by Supernatural means, {Beaumont} and {Fletcher} have writ their last Scenes: No {Johnson's} Art, no {Shakespear's} Wit in Nature: For, Men are shrunk in Brain as well as Stature. Little pure Wit is stirring, (I confess;) And that's cri'd down by those that have much less; And some by the Fanaticks have been taught To conclude, All Gentlemen do, is naught. When those Grave Criticks in their Cradles lay, Good plays grew faster than ill Weeds, than they: Now, one would think, that our slow Writers play'd A {Spanish} Mate at Chess, for Draughts are made, Since meer Gambetters kept the Stage in aw, For, (whoe'r sets the Men) they give the Law, Tyrannically, to our cost we know it, For (Right or wrong) they judge against the Poet. From such (whom Spleen and Prejudice transport) Th'Author refers himself to this just Court, These Noble Ladies, Lords, and Gentlemen, And humbly at your feet he lays his Pen: If bad, it shall not write another Letter; If't please, he'l take it up, and please you better Incourag'd Poets heighten their Designes, Like Painters, who at first draw under Lines.

[[The EPILOGUE Spoke by THE SLIGHTED MAID]] Slighted, you know, I was; but, Gentlemen, Resembling you in Shape and Courage, then I look'd upon it with an angry brow: 'Twould grieve me, if I should be slighted now. But though our Sex the proud {Italians} scorn, Th'{English} are Civil, you are Courtiers born, And she's curst in her Cradle, that promotes Her Sute to you, and is deni'd your Votes. Behold your Candidate before you stands: Your {Semele} for Thunder in your hands, Let's hear it: Claps that would make some afraid, Will make the {Slighted} the {Exalted} Maid.

[[Epilogue to the KING]] I've spoke before your Majesty, but yet I never kneel'd in such a shaking Fit; For, Sir, the Author bids me kneel and pray Against your Justice: all that he can say In his defence, is, that you would condemn His faults, if strictly you examin'd them. He hopes you will not; and why should he fear? Your Majesty was never yet severe To any thing well-meant, though ill-exprest; And he presumes, you think, he did his best To please you: therefore 'twould be hard, if he In making for your mirth a Comedy, Should write's own Tragedy, yet that's his Case; If your Impartial Justice should take place; But if your Gracious Favour intervene, The {Epilogue} is clearly his best Scene. [[T.S.]]

[[The first {PROLOGUE}, to Love a la Mode]] {Love a la Mode}! what doth the Poet mean? With Hoods and Scarfs for to bedeck the Scaene? Open a pack, and let each Lady chuse What best she fancies, or what's most in use? This cannot be his meaning; 'tis not fit That he should vent you Wares instead of Wit: Though Wit be hard to come by, and no doubt, Tho' much pretended to, 'tis quite worn out: And I believe, 'twill prove too great a pain T'indeavour bringing of it up again. {Love a la Mode}! many a pretty wench Hath taught a man to snuffle out more French: That I should be thus blockish! but I'll in And straight intreat the Actors to begin: For I believe before this Play is ended, Most here will know the Love's that's here intended. And if my judgement I do not abuse, This Gallick-love is here too much in use. But I'm too bold, and much your patience wrong: Here come the Actors, I must hold my tongue. [[T.S.]]

[[A second PROLOGUE]] To be spoken at the next acting of it. A Jury of noble Wits already past Upon this Play, when 'twas presented last; And having try'd it by Poetick Laws, Doom it to live with general applause. But not withstanding this fair precedent, If {Writs of errour} come, we must consent It stand a second tryal, whilst you sit Here round, the great Commissioners of wit, To canvase every Scaene; nay, we'll afford You liberty to censure every word. If some ambiguous are, or bear a sence That on the Ladies have an influence, To make them smile or blush; tell us, I pray, Where lies the guilt? in them, or in the Play? Words of themselves are innocent, 'tis your Waggish conceits that makes the sence impure: As once I stood behind a Ladies back When she was reading a religious tract, Wherein to {occupy} themselves 'twas said In goodness did become a virtuous Maid: She laugh'd aloud; the honest Fryer he Knew no bad[ ]senses in the word {occupy}. No more our Author doth; 'tis in your brest To make a civil or immodest jest. As for the Actors now, what faults they make Are not premeditate, but by mistake; Therefore with Reason for this mercy look, To have (when out) the benefit o'th' Book. [[T.S.]]

[[EPILOGUE]] Our Lovers Courtship, held no common road: In {France} it was conceiv'd, {Love a la mode}. {French} novelties still use to please our Nation, Better then an {English} home-spun Fashion; Which makes us hope, that this our Play will hit, Being made to the Meridian of your wit: Yet for all this, we have just cause to feare, All are not fashion-mongers that are here: And those that be, do change the Mode so fast, We are afraid, our wit can never last Above a Terme; which did our Poet move, To finish all in Matrimonial love; That love is antient, and must ever last; I would your loves were knit to us as fast: That of our Authors Muse you may beget Newer, and better off-springs of his wit.

[[{The Prologue Enters with a Play-Bill in his hand, and Reads}, This Day being the 15th of {December}, shall be Acted a New Play, never Plai'd before, called {The Adventures of Five Hours} A NEW PLAY]] Th'are i'the right, for I dare boldly say, The {English} Stage ne'r had so New a Play; The Dress, the Author, and the Scenes are New. This ye have seen before ye'l say; 'tis true; But tell me, Gentlemen, who ever saw A deep Intrigue confin'd to Five Hours Law. Such as for close Contrivance yields to none: A Modest Man may praise what's not his own. 'Tis true, the Dress is his, which he submits To those who are, and those who would be Wits; Ne'r spare him Gentlemen, for to speak truth, He has a per'lous Cens'rer been in's Youth; And now grown Bald with Age, Doating on Praise, He thinks to get a Periwig of Bays. Teach him what 'tis, in this Discerning Age To bring his heavy Genius on the Stage; Where you have seen such Nimble Wits appear, That pass'd so soon, one scarce could say th'were here. Yet after our Discoveries of late Of their Designs, who would subvert the State; You'l wonder much, if it should prove his Lot, To take all {England} with a Spanish Plot; But if through his ill Conduct, or hard Fate, This Forein Plot (like that of Eighty Eight) Shou'd suffer Shipwrack in your Narrow Seas, You'll give your Modern Poet his Writ of Ease; For by th'Example of the King of Spain, He resolves ne'r to trouble you again.

[[The PROLOGUE To COURT He Addresses himself to the Pit]] As to the dying Lamp, one drop of Oyl [[This refers to]] Gives a new Blaze, and makes it live a while; [[the Authors]] So th'Author seeing his decaying Light, [[purpose of]] And therefore thinking to retire from sight, [[Retirement, at]] Was hindred by a Ray from th'upper Sphere, [[that time when]] Just at that time he thought to disappear; [[his Majesty]] He chanc'd to hear his Majesty once say [[recommended this]] He lik'd this Plot: he staid; and writ the Play; [[Plot to him.]] So should Obsequious Subjects catch the Minds Of Princes, as your Sea-men do the Winds. If this Attempt then shews more Zeal, than Light, 'T may teach you to Obey, though not to write. [[He looking up]] [[and seeing the]] [[{King} starts.]] Ha! he is there himself.* Pardon my sight, [[*He kneels.]] My Eyes were dazled with Excess of Light; Even so the Sun, who all things else displays, [[He rises.]] Is hid from us i'th' Glory of his Rays; Will you vouchsafe Your Presence? You, that were given To be our Atlas, and support our Heaven? Will You (Dread Sir) Your Pretious Moments lose To Grace the first Endeavours of our Muse? This with Your Character most aptly suits Even Heaven it self is pleas'd with the first Fruits.

[[THE EPILOGUE]] [[{Diego} comes stealing in, and is follow'd by {Henrique}, who stays at the Door, and Listens]] [[{Die}.]] {Come Gentlemen}! Let the {Dons}, and {Monsieurs} say what they will; For our parts, we are for {Old England} still. Here's a fine Play indeed, to lay the Scene In three Houses of the same Town, O mean! Why we have several Plays, where I defie Th'Devil to tell where the Scene does lie: Sometimes in {Greece}, and then they make a step To {Transilvania}, thence at one Leap (To) {Greece} again: this shows a ranging Brain, Which scorns to be confin'd t'a Town in {Spain}. {Then for the Plot}; The possible {Adventures of Five Hours}; A copious Design, why'in some of ours Many of th'Adventures are impossible, Or if to be atchiev'd, no Man can tell Within what time; this shows a rare Invention, When the Design's above your Comprehension: Whil'st here y'are treated with a Romance Tale, And a Plot cover'd with a Spanish Veil. {As for the Style}; It is as easie as a Proclamation, As if the Play were Pen'd for th'whole Nation. None of those thundring Lines, which use to crack Our Breaths, and set your Wits upon the Rack. Who can admire this Piece or think it good; There's not one Line, but may be understood. {The Raillerie}; As innocent as if't had past the Test Of a full Synod: not one Baudy Jeast; Nor any of those Words of Double Sense, Which makes th'Ladies, to show their Innocence; Look so demure; whil'st by a simp'ring Smile, The Gallant shows he understands the Style. But here you have a Piece so subtly Writ, Men must have Wit themselves to find the Wit: Faith that's too much; therefore by my consent We'l Damn the Play.

[[{Henr}.]] Think'st thou, Impertinent, [[Pointing to]] That these, who know the Pangs of bringing forth [[the Pit]] A Living Scene, should e'r destroy this Birth. You ne'r can want such Writers, who aspire To please the Judges of that Upper Tire. The Knowing are his Peers, and for the rest Of the Illiterate Croud (though finely drest) The Author hopes, he never gave them cause To think, he'd waste his Time for their Applause. You then (most equal Judges) freely give Your Votes, whether this Play should Die, or Live.

[[THE EPILOGUE AT COURT]] W'Have pass'd the Lords, and Commons, and are come At length, Dread Sir, to hear Your Final Doom. 'Tis true, Your Vassals, Sir, may Vote the Laws, Their Sanction comes from Your Divine Applause. This Shining Circle then will all sit Mute, Till one pronounce from you, {Le Roy le Veut}.

[[Prologue for the Temple: At the Acting of {Five Hours Adventure}, To my Lord Chancelor]] My Lord, you in your early youth did sit, As Patron and as Censor too of Wit; When onely that which you approvd could please In Theaters, the Muses Palaces. As you were then our Judge, so now we come, In yearly trial to receive your doom. If we be Pris'ners, yet there still is care, To make for Pris'ners room at every Bar. And we suppose it should be least deny'd To those who hither come not to be try'd For actions past, but must be judg'd by you, Immediately for what they are to do. We Spaniards fight with Swords which are too long, To shew the Art of Fencing in a Throng: Nor do we fight with such a desperate Mind That to a Sawpit we could be confin'd. When our Don {Henrique} against {Octavio} draws, Both may incur the danger of your Laws, For wanting space to traverse here the ground, Missing themselves, they may Spectators wound. Though (noble Gentlemen) it long has bin, Your special Priviledge to hedg us in; Yet quit that ancient Priviledge to day, And venture not your Lives to spoil a Play.

[[A Prologue to y#e# designed Play of y#e# 4. hour's Adventure.]] Can y#e# adventures of 4. hours thrive And 5. hour's lawrell, still for fresh alive? Succeeding sceanes soe lyable to shame, May peep abroad, in a more private name. Doth y#e# fond Author deeme it such a bliss That such a play be Godfather to this? This needs must scandall fro~ y#e# name derive, 4. hours surely must fall short of 5. 4. hours it is (I must confess) y#e# age That should comprize y#e# plot of every stage What Play was ere in such a time ingrost? I fear y#e# Author's time is all but lost. Ile stay how e're, till all those Minutes pass And make my censure wayte upon y#e# glass If he deserves he shall obtain my Hand, If not, his Praise is written in y#e# sand - - -

[[Epilogue]] They're all departed, substitute in me Their's & y#e# Author's poor Apology If you esteeme it criminall y#t# hee Crowds not y#e# stage w#th# ffemale company The Author bids me vindicate him, w#n# One woman is enough for 40. men fflavia she hopes, Justinio's rigour may Excuse her disappearing in y#e# play Shee was confin'd & tis a modern dream That private chambers fit an open Scene: Castaneo's loss is but repriev'd at most, If you'le not own him he is still but lost: As for his love, Justinio thincks it due To be secur'd by him: Clapt up by you.

[[PROLOGUE]] [[For the Theatre at {Dublin}, written by the Earl of {Roscommon}]] The mighty Rivals, whose destructive Rage Did the whole World in Civil Arms engage, Are now agreed, and make it both their Choice, To have their Fates determin'd by your Voice. {Caesar} from none but You, will bear his Doom, He hates th'obsequious Flatteries of {Rome}: He scorns, where once he rul'd, now to be try'd, And he hath rul'd in all the World beside. When he the {Thames}, the {Danube}, and the {Nile} Had stain'd with Blood, Peace flourish'd in this Isle; And you alone may Boast, you never saw {Caesar} till now, and now can give him Law. Great {Pompey} too, comes as a suppliant here, But sayes He cannot now begin to fear. He knows your equal Justice, and (to tell A Roman Truth) He knows himself too well. Success, 'tis true, waited on {Caesar's} side, But {Pompey} thinks he conquer'd when he dy'd. His fortune when she prov'd the most unkind, Chang'd his Condition, but not {Cato's} Mind. Then of what Doubt can {Pompey's} Cause admit, Since here so many {Cato's} Judging sit? But you bright Nymphs, give Caesar leave to woo. [[{To the Ladies}.]] The greatest Wonder of the World but you. And hear a Muse, who has that {Hero} taught To speak as gen'rously, as e're he fought. Whose Eloquence from such a Theme deters All Tongues but English, and all pens but Hers. By the just Fates your Sex is doubly blest, You conquer'd {Caesar}, and you praise him best. And You (Illustrious Sir) receive as due, [[{To the Lord} A Present Destiny reserv'd for You. Lieutenant}.]] {Rome}, {France}, and {England} joyn their Forces here, To make a Poem worthy of your Ear. Accept it then, and on that {Pompey's} Brow Who gave so many Crowns, bestow one now.

[[EPILOGUE]] [[Written by Sir {Edward Deering},Baronet.]] Pleas'd or displeas'd, censure as you think fit, The Action, Plot, the Language of the Wit: But we're secure, no Bolder thought can tax These scenes of Blemish to the blushing Sex. Nor Envy with her hundred Eyes espy One line severest Virtue need to fly: As Chast the words, as harmless is the sence, As the first smiles of Infant Innocence. Yet at your Feet, {Caesar's} Content to bow, And {Pompey}, never truly Great till now: Who does your Praise and kinder Votes prefer Before th'applause of his own Theatre: Where fifty Thousand Romans daily blest The Gods and him, for all that they possest. The sad {Cornelia} sayes, your gentler breath Will force a smile, ev'n after {Pompey's} Death. She thought all Passions bury'd in his Urne, But flutering hopes and trembling fears return: Undone in {Egypt}, {Thessaly} and {Rome}, She yet in {Ireland} hopes a milder Doom: Nor from {Iberian} Shoars, or {Lybian} Sands Expects relief, but only from your hands. Ev'n {Cleopatra}, not content to have The universe, and {Caesar} too her Slave: Forbears her Throne, till you her right allow; 'Tis less t'have rul'd the World, then pleased you.

[[{Prologue}]] Since you affect things new, what I'm to say Shall be as great a Novel as our Play, Custom would have me speak a Prologue now, But that we may intire adherence show To Novelty (which in the Mode of Plays Like soveraign Nature over Custom sways) I mean my Prologue shall a Riddle be; And thus propound it to the Company. A teeming Muse big with imagination, Conceiv'd a Monster of so new a fashion That of the hasty birth, being brought to Bed, We found it neither had a Tail or Head. The Limbs are such, as no proportion bear, No correspondence have, and yet cohere: Of several use, and several forms they be, Yet in the whole contexture they agree: They are disjoyn'd and yet united too, Which cannot but a Monster seem to you; Yet such a Monster 'tis, as you'l admit For Pleasure, and still pay for Nursing it. I see y'are puzzl'd; but we so dispise Th'advantage we might make by a surprise, That to unridle this, you here may come And joyn your Heads together in one Room, Where for your Money, you shall sit at ease, Two hours a day, till CHRISTMAS if you please.

[[{Epilogue}]] Since you at Land no more can hurry'd be, The shifted Scene should turn us now to Sea: Where our small Bark does strike, where we d'spy You're the Admiral, with your Main-Top high. Our Pilot-Poet should his Laurel vayl, (Which is his Flag) as low as we our Sayl. To shew you things yet newer, we did mean To represent a {Mermaid} in that scene; Not proudly combing, with a Comb of Gold, Her long wet hair, till the vain wretch takes cold, (For so she's painted by each bungling Rogue) But in her hand a humble Epilogue; Which shee by signs (for {Mermayds} seldom speak) Should recommend to Criticks on the Deck: And by a court'sie, should a Plaudit beg - Note, female fishes never make a leg. But that's an observation by the by. And now, methinks, I hear some ask me why That observation's made? Our Author says 'Tis just like those which Criticks make at Plays. He said he wisht for your sakes, not his own, (Yet that's a charity but rarely known) Such Audiences as learning doe forbear; I mean, who never strive to shew it here. This Landtschap of the Sea (but by the way) That's an expression which might hurt our Play, If the severer Criticks were in Town; This Prospect of the Sea, cannot be shown: Therefore be pleas'd to think, that you are all Behind the {Row}, which men stile {Portugal}. The title at our dores was that which drew You hither by the charm of being new. You'l spoil the jest, unless the Play succeed; For then we may, e'en let our House indeed.

[[Epilogue to the Spectators]] Angelus told you that, th'Usurping Rogue, {Andronicus} has spoke the Epilogue Of his own Tragedie; it now remains That I to speak another take the pains, More suitable, then that, to {Englands} Stage, And what has acted on it been, this Age: Let {Nevill}, {Lambert}, {Vane}, and all that crew To their Usurping Power bid Adieu, Those {Meteors} must vanish, Charles our Sun, Having in {Englands} Zodiack begun His course, and that prodigious Comet's Tail Which dar'd presage that Monarchy should fail, And Kings should never rule our Brittish Nation Must vanish (like a short-liv'd Exhalation:) True Monarchy's supported by our play Which we to it as lawful Tribute pay, And hope all Loyal Subjects in the Nation Will therefore deign it their kind approbation.

[[THE PROLOGUE]] Custome prevails, and somewhat must be say'd To tye your Hands, and save the Author's head; 'Tis a new Play you'll cry - What then? - 'Twere [[too]] Too much to find you meat, and stomacks too: But since it must - Expect no Bill of fare, No - I shall only tell ye, What's not here: - We've no Sententious Sir - No grave Sir Poll; No little Pugge, nor Devil - Bless us all! No tedious Sieges in the Musick-room; Nor frisks abroad - No - Our Scene's all at home: But if you ask me, How? - Troth, I've forgot; And now I think on't; - It may spoile the Plot, To give't you before hand - What e're it be, Have but a little Patience, and you'll see.

[[ANOTHER, {Intended, upon the revival of the Play, but not spoken}.]] Sad News my Masters; And too true, I fear, For us - {Scruple's} a silenc'd Minister, Would ye the Cause? - The Brethren smile and say, 'Tis scandalous that any Cheat, but they: Well - To be short; H'as been before the Tryers, And (by good Fortune) is got out o'th' Bryers; Where, if he lost a Limb to save the rest, No hurt - Here's yet enough, to know the Beast: Nor let the sisters pale - (I'll tell y'a thing) He may be libb'd, and yet have left, a string.

[[THE EPILOGUE : SPOKEN BY MOPUS]] I had almost forgot - Let's see - What weather? Nor fair; - Nor foul; - Indifferent; - Both together; Clear, if no Clouds, nor misling; - If there shou'd, It shall proceed from former Causes: - Good. So much for Doctrine - To Apply it now; Yo've had A Play,But, whither good, or No, 'Tis past my Globe, - yet guess, the weather will Prove fair enough, unless you make it ill. 'Tis you must make the Play, or stand, or fall; Therefore, By me, To you, and you, and All, The Author bows - And perhaps reason for't; Some Men the Judge, others, the Jury Court; The one, more Just, if unconcern'd; The other, More Pitiful; If he claps both together, He means no hurt; for in a Common Hall, Noise carries it - He fain would please you All: Yo've had for Pit, for Box, for Gallery too; Keep your own Posts, and he is well enou': But - If you must lash out, And think you can't Be wits your selves, unless you pique, and rant; At your own Peril be't, And further know, Who gives a Character, in one, gives two: He hopes the best - Nor will we, be perplext; Laugh hearty now, and he shall fix you next.

[[The Prologue. Spoken by {Venus} from the Clouds.]] If ever you have heard of {Venus} name, Goddess of Beauty, I that {Venus} am; Who have to day descended from my sphere, To welcome you unto {Love's Kingdom} here; Or rather to my Sphere am come, since I Am present no where more, nor in the Sky; Nor any Island in the world, then this, That wholly from the world divided is: For {Cupid}, you behold him here in me, (For there where {Beauty} is, {Love} needs must be) Or you may yet more easily descry Him 'mong the Ladies in each beauteous eye; And 'mongst the Gallants, may as easily trace Him to their bosoms, from each beauteous face. May then fair Ladies you, Finde all your Servants true; And Gallants, may you finde The Ladies all as kinde, As by your noble favours you declare How much you friends unto {Love's Kingdom} are; Of which your selves compose so great a part In your fair Eyes, and in your loving heart.

[[PROLOGUE {to the} WILD GALLANT {as it was first acted}]] Is it not strange, to hear a Poet say, He comes to ask you, how you like the Play? You have not seen it yet! alas 'tis true, But now your Love and Hatred judge, not You. And cruel Factions (brib'd by Interest) come, Not to weigh Merit, but to give their Doome: Our Poet therefore, jealous of th'Event, And (though much boldness takes) not confident, Has sent me, whither you, fair Ladies, too Sometimes upon as small occasions goe, And from this Scheme, drawn for the hour and day, Bid me inquire the fortune of this Play. [[{The Curtain drawn discovers two Astrologers}; {The Prologue is presented to them}]]

[[{First Astrol}. {reads}.]] A Figure of the heavenly Bodies in their several Apartments, {Feb}. the {5th}. half an hour after three after Noon, from whence you are to judge the success of a new Play called the {Wild Gallant}. [[{2. Astrol}.]] Who must Judge of it, we, or these Gentlemen? We'l not meddle with it, so tell your Poet. Here are in this House the ablest Mathematicians in {Europe} for this purpose. They will resolve the question e'r they part. [[{1 Ast}.]] Yet let us judge it by the rules of Art. First {Jupiter}, the Ascendants Lord disgrac'd, In the twelfth House, and near grim {Saturn} plac'd, Denote short life unto the Play:- [[{2 Ast}.]] {Jove} yet, In his Apartment {Sagitary}, set Under his own Roof, cannot take much wrong; [[{1 Ast}.]] Why then the Lifes not very short, nor long; [[{2 Ast}.]] The Luck not very good, nor very ill,

[[{Prolo}.]] That is to say, 'tis as 'tis taken still.

[[{1 Ast}.]] But, Brother, {Ptolemy} the Learned says, 'Tis the fifth house from whence we judge of Plays. {Venus} the Lady of that House I find Is {Peregrine}, your Play is ill design'd, It should have been but one continued Song, Or at least a Dance of 3 hours long. [[{2 Ast}.]] But yet the greatest Mischief does remain, The twelfth apartment bears the Lord of {Spain}; Whence I conclude it is your Authors lot, To be indanger'd by a {Spanish} Plot.

[[{Prolo}.]] Our Poet yet protection hopes from you, But bribes you not with any thing that's new. Nature is old, which Poets imitate, And for Wit, those that boast their own estate, Forget {Fletcher} and {Ben} before them went, Their Elder Brothers, and that vastly spent: So much 'twill hardly be repair'd again, Not, though supply'd with all the wealth of {Spain}: This Play is {English}, and the growth your own; As such it yields to {English} Plays alone. He could have wish'd it better for your sakes; But that in Plays he finds you love mistakes: Besides he thought it was in vain to mend What you are bound in honour to defend, That {English} Wit (how e'r despis'd by some) Like English Valour still may overcome.

[[EPILOGUE {to the} WILD GALLANT {as it was first Acted}]] The {Wild Gallant} has quite playd out his game; He's marry'd now, and that will make him tame; Or if you think Marriage will not reclaim him, The Critiques swear they'll damn him, but they'll tame him. Yet though our Poet's threatned most by these, They are the only People he can please: For he to humour them, has shown to day, That which they only like, a wretched Play: But though his Play be ill, here have been shown The greatest Wits and Beauties of the Town. And his Occasion having brought you here You are too grateful to become severe. There is not any Person here so mean, But he may freely judge each Act and Scene: But if you bid him choose his Judges then, He boldly names true English Gentlemen: For he ne'r thought a handsome Garb or Dress, So great a Crime to make their Judgement less: And with these Gallants he these Ladies joyns, To judge that Language their Converse refines. But if their Censures should condemn his Play, Far from Disputing, he does only pray He may {Leanders} Destiny obtain: Now spare him, drown him when he comes again.

[[PROLOGUE {To the} RIVAL-LADIES]] 'Tis much Desir'd, you Judges of the Town Would pass a Vote to put all {Prologues} down; For who can show me, since they first were Writ, They e'er Converted one hard-hearted Wit? Yet the World's mended well; in former Days Good {Prologues} were as scarce as now good {Plays}. For the reforming Poets of our Age, In this first Charge, spend their Poetique rage; Expect no more when once the {Prologue}'s done; The Wit is ended e'er the {Play}'s begun. You now have Habits, Dances, Scenes, and Rhymes; High Language often; I, and Sense, sometimes: As for a clear Contrivance doubt it not; They blow out Candles to give Light to th'Plot. And for Surprize, two Bloody-minded men Fight till they Dye, then rise and Dance agen: Such deep Intrigues you'r welcome to this Day: But blame your Selves, not him who Writ the Play; Though his Plot's Dull, as can be well desir'd, Wit stiff as any you have e'er admir'd: He's bound to please, not to Write well; and knows There is a mode in Plays as well as Cloaths: Therefore kind Judges - [[A SECOND PROLOGUE Enters.]] [[2.]] - Hold; Would you admit For Judges all you see within the Pit? [[1.]] Whom would he then Except, or on what Score? [[2.]] All, who (like him) have Writ ill Plays before: For they, like Thieves condemn'd, are Hang-men made, To execute the Members of their Trade. All that are Writing now he would disown; But then he must Except, ev'n all the Town. All Chol'rique, losing Gamesters, who in spight Will Damn to Day, because they lost last Night. All Servants whom their Mistress's scorn upbraids; All Maudlin Lovers, and all Slighted Maids: All who are out of Humour, or Severe; All, that want Wit, or hope to find it here.

[[Epilogue by the Doctor]] 'Tis true, what as a iest our Poet meant, His little witt was in y#e# Prologue spent: None left t'excuse my part; unless you would Forbeare to damne it till t'were understood. T'would go ill w#th# us, should you give o#r# play Halfe y#ese# hard words y#at# I gave you to day. The Dco~rs man comes - & brings in an Urinall w#th# black water in it, & whispers y#e# Dco~r in his Eare. Whilst wee in vaine excuses wast our breath The Poet & his Muse are sick to death: Hees past my cure: as his condicon stands, I leave him in y#ese# abler Doctors hands.

[[The PROLOGUE To The KING At the COCKPIT AT {White-Hall}]] Sir, by the humble Writer I am sent To move you in a Suit by President, That you will please, like {Charles} the 5th, to lay Aside (this Night) the Business of the Day, And look upon slight Images, far short Of those presented in that Emp'rour's Court; For, Art does not our Powr so far inlarge, That we can make two {wooden armies} charge, Or a {carv'd Sparrow} fly: but we do bring A {Nightingale}, sweet Philomel to sing: And from old {Verulam} ('mong Time's Decayes Shrunk to a name) th'Inhabitants we raise, Who if in their new life they may invite The best of {Caesars} to the least Delight, To th[e] Authour 'twill be such a Joy, as none Conceive, but only those You smile upon.

[[The PROLOGUE To the STAGE]] What's here? so many Noble Persons met? Nay then I see, this House will not be let, Which by our Friends (from all parts of the Nation) Is so sell {warm'd} after the long Vacation, Believe me, Ladies, the pure Country-air Has made you fresh-complexion'd; and our Care Shall be (whil'st you'r in {London}) to expell Care from your hearts, that you may {still} look well. Gentlemen, when we lay becalm'd, you walk'd Over the pleasant Meadows, bowl'd, hunted, hawk'd, And having exercis'd you {Bodies} thus, To recreate your {Minds}, you come to us. Never were Friends more welcome....if I may Be bold to bid you welcome to a {Play} Of your own making; we confess, 'tis writ By th'Authour of The {Slighted Maid}; and yet You'r th'Authours of it: for I heard him say, When you {encourag'd} that, you {made} this Play. And now, since to your selves your {title}'s known, We hope, you'l have a kindness for your {Own}.

[[The EPILOGUE To the HOUSE, spoken by The STEP-MOTHER]] The Ancient Britains I have pleas'd; and now I come to their Descendants, to know how You'l censure me; my Doom I fain would hear, Yet, like you Lovers, what I {hope}, I fear. But fear arrives too late, the time is past; No going lesse, when once the Dice are cast, Whether I fairly {passe}, or have {thrown out}, You are to judge; pray, put me out of doubt.

[[The EPILOGUE to The KING]] Happy are those who {English} Playes first writ, They flourish'd in the {golden times} of Wit; Ripe Harvests then from Old and Modern Scenes Th'Industrious Poet {reap'd}, but now he {gleans}: In that kind Age every one prais'd all Playes, No {mercy}'s in the Criticks of our dayes. The Authour knew these Disadvantages, Yet ventur'd, hoping his {desire} to please; May Royall Pitty move: You represent That Pow'r for the {act} accepts th'{intent}.

[[The Prologue to {Love and Frindship}]] Though most Men Love, and some doe Frindship owne; Fewe Men find others Notions, like their owne. Who then, can Love, or Frindship, so define? That you maye Judge: And yet tis our designe, To shew them both, in figures to the life; Hopinge t'ingage a Simpathettick strife, In some of you; that if our Judgements err? We maye observe, which passion you preferr.

[[The Epelogue to {Love and Frindship}]] Since Presidents, be as knowne Lawes alowd; Why maye not Love, and Frindship be avowd? As in Cassandra; and Ormasdes Parts; Where Frindship, smothers Love, in both their hearts. And lest some Ladyes, maye the Princess blame, For not consealinge, her consuminge flame: Or men, should great Ormasdes passion doubt So long unseene! or by himselfe found out! Our Author sayes, both stories are well knowne, And by me, proffers you his oathe for one. He only doubts, his presentation maye Lessen their vallew, and disgrace the Playe. For tis not easie, to present this Age, With such new Characters, as will ingage The Auditors, in kindness to aprove, What few Folks practice, does alow for Love. Therefore, since he by much experience finds, Such varius Maxims, fixd in most mens minds; He'l not bestow the Bayes; but does Commit The choyce, for Love, or Frindship, to the Pitt.

[[The Prologue.]] If by your faces I can guess; to day, I fear but ill success attends our Play. Your looks me-thinks to me seem so severe, As if that none but Criticks now were here. And we've small hopes our Play should take; There sits So many here, that are, ow would be, Wits. Y'are lately grown so critically wise, There's scarce a Play that's writ, but you despise. And to speak truth, Nothing almost can be From your dislik, or from your censure, free. Such Fate our Authour fears; I heard him guess, And swear his Play would have the like success; But yet he say's, He cares not; for he writ Not to gain praise, or to be call'd a wit: The motives which induc'd him for to write This Play,he say's,was most for your delight. He hopes for that, if for no other cause, (Though undeserv'd) you'll give him your Applause. And hopes you'll pardon all the faults you find, Since that to recreate you 'twas design'd.

[[The Epilogue.]] The Play now being ended, I am come, Sent by the Author, for to know his doome: Ladies 'tis to your Censure He'll submit, And swears none else shall judge what he has writ. He vows that Priviledge is only due To your fair Sex; He writ it to please you. But he'd not have you think, 'tis his intent To gain your Favours by a Complement. He swears he's guilty, and convicted stands, Till that his Pardon's sign'd by your fair hands. You are his Judges, and if he be crost Once by your Votes, his hope for ever's lost. And though he hopes that you will think if fit To pardon him, since that he does submit; Yet he still doubts, if he shall Pardon find, Till that he hears it by your Hands is sign'd.

[[PROLOGUE Enter a Drunkard, a Morice-dancer, a Buffoon, a Bawd, a Whore and a She-Gypsie; they dance an Antick. Which done, Enter {Tragedy} in state, in a Crimson Robe held up by two Roman Gladiators, a Crown upon her head, a Scepter in one hand, and a Ponyard in the other; at whose entrance the Dancers all start back.]] [[Tragedy.]] You seem amaz'd; pray let me wonder too: I have more cause to stand amaz'd then you, To see your mimick faces usher in So deep a Tragedy. Those that have seen My Crimson Visage on the Stage before, Expect designes both deep and dark: nay more, Counsels of Kings disclos'd : They look to see Me usher'd in with wonted Majesty, No light Morice. Sure the Author's frantick, To present for a Prologue such an Antick; Or else he humours those that are so: few Can like things so extravagantly new, I mean, that are judicious: some think fit To number Dances in the rank of Wit. Such may his entrance please; whilst onely they Of deeper judgement do applaud his Play.

[[EPILOGUE]] Wit's grown so poor, those Poets now excel That in a Play express but one thing well: If new, 'tis such a Miracle of Wit, You ought [to] admire, but not to censure it. Yet Gallants, you do not consider this, But boldly censure every thing amiss; As if that Poets ought to have no fault, When very Gods themselves do sometimes halt. Troth you'd do well, before you censure it, To try your selves if you can better it: Which if y'effect, your Work much better shames Those you'd condemn, then now your loud exclaims. But this our Author knew when first he writ, He did create you Judges of his Wit, Without disputing of your learned skill; His Doom's wholly depending on your Will. Therefore proceed: whate'er your sentence be, 'Twill but at worst compleat his Tragedy. But if in's favour you your Verdict give, Loudly proclaim your Votes, and let it live. [[ET AL]]

[[PROLOGUE At The HOUSE]] From Greece, the place, where Wit and Learning grew, To Conquering Rome, the Banish'd Muses flew, With other Spoils adorning so her State, That all her Writers scorn but to Translate; From thence the {Roman} Eagle on her Wing, These Entertainments tow'rds the North did bring, Of such Delights cold Regions owe their part, Not to kind Nature, but to Care and Art: The Peach, the Tulip, Nectarine and Rose, Not in our Woods, but in our Garden grows; Who nothing will but what is Home-bred taste, Must live content with Acorns and with Mast; For your Diversion we this Night present, A Fruit which grew upon the Continent; Of all that's French, 'tis Rank'd among the best, And may prove better in our Language dress'd; As Flowers Transplanted recompense our Toyl, Doubling their Beauties with their Change of Soil; This you must judge of, only make us bold With kind Attention, and you shall behold How {Cleopatra} Looks, and {Caesar} Burns, How {Pompey} Dyes, and how {Cornelia} Mourns. [[ET AL]]

[[EPILOGUE At The HOUSE]] I know you Look for it, something we must say, Either to Praise or to Excuse the Play; Custom will have it so, and we Obey. It came from {France}, where it had good Success, Which makes us Hope well, though I must confess The {Mounsieur}'s something Alter'd in his Dress. That you may Cavill as, and we submit; But know you mighty Judges o' the Pit, 'Tis dangerous at this time to shew your Wit. If by Condemning this you stir our Rage, Wee'l those, who but Translaters were, engage To bring their own Inventions on the Stage. Tremble and be advis'd; but I was sent Ladies to you with a great Complement, To say the Truth, I knew not what is meant. And so forgot it, pardon want of care With the same mercy as the Play you spare, And though twice Kind you're not so Kind as Fair Your Favours with some Justice we may claim, The Lines are Chast and Spotless as your Fame. Ah, let not modest Men still bear the blame. [[ET AL]]

[[EPILOGUE To the King at Saint James's]] From Vulgar Witts that haunt the Theater, {Pompey} to you appealing (Royal Sir) Hopes for more Favour, as the Subject bears Better proportion to a Princes Ears. You in your long Retreat perhaps might find Some Forrein Courts made by this Story kind; This great Example of false {AEgypts} fate, Instructed Kings to set a higher Rate Upon their Faith, and hold their Fame too dear, To treat him Ill, for whom we Languish'd here. They that Translated this, but practice now To improve their Muse, and make her worthy you, That she hereafter may Adorn the Stage With your own Story, make the coming Age Admire the Firmness of a Mind so Young, Tost in those Tempests you indur'd so long. Confusion first with Horrour shall appear, Such as Involv'd was, while you Absent were, Then with a Change of Scene they shall behold Your Throne Establish'd, and an Age of Gold; Faith, Peace, and Piety, that banish'd Train, Let down from Heaven to make a Glorious Reign. This they design (Great Sir) if you allow A Gracious Smile to their Endeavours now. [[ET AL]]

[[EPILOGUE To the Dutchess at Saint James's]] Pompey at length, like Ships by Tempest Tost, Though blown a while upon some other Coast, Has overcome the Malice of the Wind, And reach'd the Haven which he first design'd, This Royal Audience, and such Virtue brought, As Madam only in your Court is taught. {Cornelia} does not tear her tender Cheeks, Nor your more gentle Ears with borrow'd Shrieks: But does lament with Passion, such as you (Which Heaven avert) in the like Case would do. Fair {Cleopatra} does no Favour show, But what severest Virtue might allow: And mighty {Caesar} does her Slave become, With as much Honour as he Conquer'd {Rome}, When first unsheathing his Victorious Sword, He seem'd the pattern of your Valiant Lord, Whose matchless Conduct might our Lions lead, As far as e'er the {Roman} Eagle spread. And, Royal Pair, though much he apprehends Your Doom, yet more he on your Grace depends; He knows your Gen'rous temper cannot frown On minds so Great, so High, so like your own; He knows your Nature is inclin'd to spare, And no {Photinus} can infect your Ear.

[[The Prologue to the USURPER]] As new made Pilots when they first Take Sea, Fear makes 'em think each Wave a Storm they see. And when Arriv'd, at the Appointed Land; Mistrust the Shoar, is some devouring Sand: So here our Poet; having brought his Play Unto the Stage, the Muses fatal Bay, Fears even the Coast, he labour'd most to Steer; Doubting his Danger will be Landing here. But this same Itch of Wit, so fain would thrive; Just as some Merchants, still with Losses strive; That no successless Voyage made before, Writers forewarns from Coming to this Shoar. Who though here Beggar'd, still Design and Try How to deserve, or get a Charity. But in Good faith, 'tis held as hard a Task To pardon Wit, as Give to All that Ask. For here's the Difference, and the Danger too; Wants will Presume, but Wit's oft poor from you. In these Extreams, 'tis Difficult to say; What is most safe, a Good, or Bad, new Play. Since 'tis his Danger, now who ere does writ, To want a Pitty, or to meet a Spite. Such strang Antipathies we well may fear, But from your failings, and our Authors here; Yet I dare swear, He'l Count it his Good Hap, Though Envy strike, if All of you will Clap.

[[The EPILOGUE to the USURPER]] The Moral Use of Plays, does make us know Actions, which virtues Raise, and vice lay Low: Teaching the Bad, though even dead, to fear They may be Reviv'd, to be punish'd here. As now this Play, by some such Magick Call Has rais'd a bold Usurper up, to Fall. And if I may advise you Gentlemen, Faith let him live, if but to dye agen. His Crime was horrid, and it is not fit, One death of the Usurper Expiate it: Let him dye often, He's content that way, Still to be punish'd, so you'l spare the Play Which by our Authors aim was meant to be Here, a Record of all such Loyalty; That after long Contests, did safely bring, Subjects to Rights, and to his Throne our King.

[[THE PROLOGUE Intended for the PLAY]] We nothing change that does the Plot concern, Though in the Verse some change you may discern; All tongues have proper idioms of their own, Their Elegance in ours is hardly shown; This, but a Copy, and all such go less, Great Beauties may be alter'd by the dress. You see how carefull an excuse we make, That one so mean, CORNEILLE does undertake; But sure no envy to his share can fall, Who once kept shop, translates, so keeps a stall: Those who have need we should interpret this, Their Clap bears the same value with their Hiss. Of one of these you are too lavish grown; A Song, a Dance; nay if an Ape were shown, You'd cast your Caps, but lest you them should loose Some in good husbandry, their hands mis-use. This bold digression thrust in by the way, Too oft the By exceeds the Main; the Play. What's French you like, if vain, exceed their height, What's Solid, Worthy, too few imitate: But we have those, when they things serious write, May give {Tham} Patterns, {You}, more just delight.

[[EPILOGUE spoken by LEONTINA.]] My part was bold, and high, throughout the Play, In all of consequence I bore the sway; I with my tongue the Tyrant often shook, Now I do so, fearing your angry look: Pass by our faults in acting, his low stile, And seal our pardons, though but with a smile.

[[An Epilogue upon S#r#. Tho: Clargis Heraclious being translated out of French: 1664 by him.]] In times of old our tale was great and swells With auncient feats our present chronicles. Our ffathers conquerd ffraunce, & left their sons T'admire and imitate w#t# they had done And they did well! yet tis not read among Those Chronicles they ere subdu'd their toung. Since then the French prevaild, what they could not Atchieve by force, by fashions they have gott, By feathers, fancy's, Pantalons, those whoe Outran before have over ran us now; Soe wild is our conformity even those Gett their diseas, they cannot get their cloths. Our Author in this Vassilage w#th#'s pen Renews y#e# war, and conquers them againe Attacks their Language, ransacks all their Witt Then throws himself and Trophies at you#r# feet. But some may call it Plunder, & dispise That as usurpt the Law of Arts makes prize Lett them goe on & still come int unfit, As tis far fetcht tis good for Lady's yet. But we contemne their censure cause we see Even Pray'rs in unknowne toungues is Popery. Since w#t# we know not then though ne're so good Or salt, is rather excrement then food: And what he did was only w#th# designe To make their witt as usefull as their Wine Our Authors to be praisd and we may say He's the best Protestant com~ends his play. [[AND HOWARD, ROBERT]]

[[PROLOGUE. As the Musick plays a soft Air, the Curtain rises softly, and discovers an {Indian} Boy and Girl sleeping under two Plantain-Trees; and when the Curtain is almost up, the Musick turns into a Tune expressing an Alarm, at which the Boy wakes and speaks.]] [[{Boy}.]] Wake, wake, {Quevira}; our soft Rest must cease, And fly together with our Country's Peace; No more must we sleep under Plantain shade, Which neither Heat could pierce, nor Cold invade; Where bounteous Nature never feels decay, And op'ning Buds drive falling Fruits away.

[[{Que}.]] Why should men quarrel here, where all possess As much as they can hope for by success? None can have most, where Nature is so kind As to exceed Man's Use, though not his Mind.

[[{Boy}.]] By ancient Prophesies we have been told Our World shall be subdu'd by one more old; And see that World already's hither come.

[[{Que}.]] If these be they, we welcome then our Doom. Their Looks are such, that Mercy flows from thence, More gentle than our Native Innocence.

[[{Boy}.]] Why should we then fear these are Enemies, That rather seem to us like Deities?

[[{Que}.]] By their protection let us beg to live; They came not here to Conquer, but Forgive. If so, your Goodness may your Pow'r express; And we shall judg both best by our success. [[AND HOWARD, ROBERT]]

[[Epilogue to the {INDIAN QUEEN}, Spoken by {Montezuma}.]] You see what Shifts we are inforc'd to try To help our Wit with some Variety; Shows may be found that never yet were seen, 'Tis hard to finde such Wit as ne're has been: You have seen all that this old World cou'd do, We therefore try the fortune of the new, And hope it is below your aim to hit An untaught Nature with your practic'd Wit: Our naked Indians then, when Wits appear, Wou'd as soon chuse to have the Spaniards here: 'Tis true, y'have marks enough, the Plot, the Show, The Poets Scenes, nay, more the Painters too: If all this fail, considering the cost, 'Tis a true Voyage to the Indies lost: But if you smile on all, then these designs, Like the imperfect Treasure of our Mindes, 'Twill pass for currant where soe're they go, When to your bounteous hands their stamps they owe.

[[THE PROLOGUE.]] Who cou'd expect such crowding here to day, Meerly on the report of a new Play? A man wou'd think y'ave been so often bit By us of late, you shou'd have learn'd more wit, And first have sent a Folorne-hope to spy The Plot and Language of our Comedy, Expecting till some desp'rate Critticks had Resolv'd you whether it were good or bad: But yet we hope you'l never grow so wise; For if you shou'd, we and our Comedies Must trip to {Norwich}, or for {Ireland} go, And never fix, but, like a Puppit-show, Remove from Town to Town, from Fair to Fair, Seeking fit Chapmen to put off our Ware. For such our Fortune is this barren Age, That Faction now, not Wit, supports the Stage: Wit has, like Painting, had her happy flights, And in peculiar Ages reach'd her heights, Though now declin'd; yet cou'd some able Pen Match {Fletcher}'s Nature, or the Art of {Ben}, The Old and Graver sort wou'd scarce allow Those Plays were good, because we writ them now. Our Author therefore begs you wou'd forget, Most Reverend Judges, the Records of Wit, And only think upon the modern way Of writing, whilst y'are Censuring his Play. And Gallants, as for you, talk loud i'th'Pit, Divert your selves and Friends with your own Wit; Observe the Ladies, and neglect the Play; Or else 'tis fear'd we are undone to day.

[[EPILOGUE. {Spoke by the Widow}.]] Sir {Frederick}, now I am reveng'd on you, For all your Frollick Wit, y'are couzen'd too: I have made over all my Wealth to these Honest Gentlemen; they are my Trustees. Yet, Gentlemen, if you are pleas'd, you may Supply his wants, and not your Trust betray.

[[Spoke by {Wheadle}.]] Poor {Wheadle} hopes h'as gi'n you all content; Here he protests 'tis that he only meant: If y'are displeas'd w'are all cross-bit to day, And he has wheadl'd us that writ the Play.

[[THE EPILOGUE.]] Like Pris'ners, conscious of th'offended Law, When Juries after th'Evidence withdraw; So waits our Author between hope and fear, Until he does your doubtful Verdict hear. Men are more civil then in former days; Few now in Publique hiss or rail at Plays; He bid me therefore mind your looks with care, And told me I should read your Sentence there; But I, unskill'd in Faces, cannot guess By this first view, what is the Plays success; Nor shall I ease the Author of his fear, Till twice or thrice, at least, I've seen you here.

[[PROLOGUE]] Prologues, like Folorn-hopes, first face the Stage, Before the main Battalions do engage: Just so our Poet, doubtful of the day, Ventures his Prologue first and next his Play. But stay, I fancy that I hear one call; I'le step but to the door, and tell you all. 'Troth 'tis the Poets voice, now danger's near; He sends me back as his Commissioner, To treat that he might fairly march away, If you would be content to have no Play. He offers fair: Should it prove very bad, As like enough it will, you'd wish you had: He has been wounded, proofs there need no more Than what you know, that he has writ before; For sure none ever scap'd that ever writ; There's no being shot-free in the Wars of Wit: Poets by dangers like old Souldiers taught, Grow wise, and shun the fame which once they sought. But if we must proceed - Wou'd you wou'd tell him which of all the ways You like in Prologues, us'd to help out Plays. Some tell you stories of the former Age, And swear that Faction now undoes the Stage; Sure such believe you'l do as you are bid, And that you paid your money to be chid. Some craftier Poets at each other hit, Knowing grave Rudeness has been took for Wit; This does a wretched dearth of Wit betray, When things of Kind on one another prey. Some Prologues are more modestly address'd, Just like Petitions, those he thinks are best; For such a one he means that this shall be, And therefore {humbly shews} as you shall see.

[[Just as the last Words were spoke Mr. Lacy enter'd and spoke the {EPILOGUE}.]] By your leave Gentlemen - After a sad and dismal Tragedy I do suppose that few expected me; But when I saw things grow so Tragical, I thought the Poet wou'd have kill'd us all; And craftily perhaps, so to prevent An Epilogue when all his Wit was spent: Besides, having been once a Poet, it does breed A foolish Itch to see how others speed. Troth we Poets have had ill success of late, But what you call our Faults, we call our Fate. I have rais'd a Scheme, and find that Poets are Damn'd with the Influence of the Blazing-Star, Here has been Rhime good store, and very fit, For well made noise sometimes has past for Wit. - 'Twou'd make you smile.- To see what confus'd faces Poets make, This walks about, and cryes 'twill never take: There's not one word of Mirth, nor Shew, nor Dance; A Man of Fars thought I may then advance; For I had promis'd, and I think you know it, A proper Crown for the next dullest Poet. Your Judgement is desir'd, and pray be free, Whether this shall be Crown'd by you or me.

[[{EPILOGUE}. Spoken by Mr. {Lacy}, who is suppos'd to enter as intending to speak the Epilogue for the Tragedy.]] By your leave Gentlemen - How! what do I see! How! all alive! Then there's no use for me. 'Troth, I rejoyce you are reviv'd agen; And so farewel, good living Gentlemen. [[{1}.]] Nay Mr. {Lacy}. [[{La}.]] What wou'd you have with me? I can't speak Epilogues {ex tempore}: The Poet has done craftily to day; H'as spoild my Epilogue, perhaps his Play; H'as cur'd 'um all; a very pretty prank! And from a Poet turn'd a Mountebank. Well, - If nothing pleases but Variety, I'le turn {Ragou} into a Tragedy. When {Lacy}, like a whining Lover, dies, Though you hate Tragedies 'twill wet your eyes. {Letters of Marque} are granted every where, And one Prize-Office is kept always here: All that are Phlegmatick are Enemies, Which makes Poets and {Dutchmen} certain Prize. All that I wish is that the Dutch may fight With as ill fortune as we Poets write. I thought to have spoke something of the Play; But you'l think what you please, what 'ere I say.

[[Inductio Spectator & Prolocutor.]] [[Sp.]] But prethee why these prologues to a play? [[Pr.]] Their the fashion [[Spe:]] fashion? throw't away tis old and troublesom. [[Pro:]] we must prepare the audience sir. [[Spe:]] for what I pray? [[Pro:]] to bear with any trespasse upon art or wit The play may be found guil(t)y to [[Spe:]] Twere fit you should correct that first. This is a Feast rather to mock, then enter(t)aine a guest to invite your freinds thus solemly to eates; and ask forgiveness for the unsavary meate. [[Pro:]] But prologues sometymes have the art t'allay Their rage that come resolvd to kill the play. A preface here may worke. [[Spe:]] Believe it not [[Pro:]] Oh. gainst this poyson no such Antidote. [[Sp:]] poyson. why ther's your erro#r#. you will make the fault then stumble at your owne mistake But why against your play, our stratagem? [[Pro:]] Malice to wit! [[Sp:]] why what is wit in them, which because you have not the subtle skill to understand right, you interpret ill. But theres an art to Judge. [[Sp:]] an art. P[ish.] [[Pro:]] I meane The knack, the what dee call it? [[Sp:]] Thou hast clean forgot what thow wouldst have. [[Pro:]] and do not they, who to be thought to understand a play find nothing but the faults? a Prologue might present some method here how to Judge right. [[Sp:]] I cannot thinke that any man should be Tied up to Judge by rules that is borne free Prologues are bold and petulant that dare Prescribe to judges what they must declare. Upon whose Censures you should rather waite As ye sole lords of your Drammatique fate. [[Pro:]] But do not some by usurpation hold this judiciall seate? [[Spe:]] no tis their own They pay fort and you share. In time some may turne Poets, and talk louder and not pay By the same law you will involve the wise With such as only see with others Eyes. [[Sp:]] Theres no such thing as Ignorant: you may spare distinction all are wisemen in the Chayre. and many cannot erre. [[Pr:]] I have heard so. [[Sp:]] But I must bid you wisely think so too. for wit nere climb'd his Achme till this age never were men so nimble for the stage. Either to iudge or write. tis com to passe wit's as high now as our %late Treason was%. We ha' been swinging rebells, from that sin did our Conversion to this wit begin some has the tang one still what it will be. if things hold on, tis past my %braine or me% @A strologie@ but what new playes how numerous toe? beside Heav'n knowes how many Chrysomes that have died Thus for the Poets, or the Priests that write: for the lay-wits, their numbers infinite. and to Judge well is the least thing yee can In Conscience allow a gentleman. Sir from these galleries, the Boxes pit, lies no appeale to any other wit. [[Pr]] I am convinc'd, and have but one word more we all do ow'n your legislative power and now we feare you but howe're things prove weele make it our whole ayme to gaine your love. [[Spe:]] Tis your best course. [[Exit]] [[Finis.]]

[[THE PROLOGUE, Spoken by {Alfeo}, a River of {Arcadia}.]] If from old Fame, and peradventure not Believ'd at all by you, or else forgot, O'th Amorous Brook ye heard the wonder ever, Which to pursue the coy and flying River Of his beloved {Arethusa}, ran (O force of Love!) piercing the Ocean, And the Earth's hidden bowels, to that Isle, Where underneath the huge Etnean Pile Upon his back the kicking Gyant lies, Spitting despightfull flames at hostile Skies, And leaves it doubtful to the world that's under, If heav'n at him, or he at heav'n thunder: That Brook am I. Though what you have been told Ye may, your eyes ye cannot doubt. Behold! Leaving my loved Nymph, and thridding back That well known way where I had made a track Through the great waters, I in person rise And view (with tears of gladnesse in mine eyes) That ancient and that venerable earth, From whose cold entrails I receiv'd my birth, Not thrall'd and plundered (as of late) but free And beautifull as it was wont to be. O my deer Mother! O Arcadia, known By me thy son, though so long absent! own Thy deer, and (being improv'd by travell) now Thy great {ALFEO}, and as fam'd as thou. These be the streets once so renown'd, these be The woods where the old russet honestie Did live and dye: unto this only nook O'th iron world, when she her flight had took From sinfull men,the golden age retir'd. Here (that which elsewhere is in vain desir'd) Freedome unstrain'd,and from suspicion free, Flourish'd in peace and sweet securitie. An unarm'd people had for their defence A wall of Vertue, and of Innocence, Stronger than that whose living stones were layd About great Thebes, whilst he that built it playd. For when tumultuous war flam'd most in Greece, And other her more warlike Provinces, Arcadia arm'd, to this blest part alone, This Sanctuary, there was never known The least Alarum, the least sound to come, Or of a friends, or of an en'mies Drum. And so much Corinth, Thebes, Mycene hop't To triumph o're their foes, as they were propt By this good people, and their care were held, Who were the Care of Heav'n, whom heav'n upheld. A blessed mutuall bulwark they did prove, Those to these here, and these to those above: Those fought with weapons, and these fought with Pray'r, Nor though each here a shepherds habit ware, And bore the name; yet either in his meen, Of exercises, was the shepherd seen. But some would place themselves as spyes to prie Into the Starres and Elements (the high Secrets of Heav'n and Nature) others here Were wholly giv'n to chase the fearfull Deer; Others, whom glory had inflamed more, T'encounter with a Bear, or tusked Bore. Some swift in running, some were terrible At Barriers, some in wrastling did excell; One threw a dart, another drew a flight, Both hit with cunning the intended white. Some one thing, some another did affect, (Each as his minde and fancie did direct) The sacred Muses Most, Virgins of yore In high esteem, though now despis'd and poor.

But now transported hither where the Po Falls into Dora, is Arcadia now? This is the cloyster surely, this the cave Of ancient {Erycina}, and that brave Aspiring Temple yonder is the same Was consecrated to great {Cynthia}'s name: How then remov'd? What new-come power can so Transplant a Land, and all the People? O Royall {Infanta} but a child in age, Yet ev'n already as a Matron sage! The vertue of your Name, power of your Blood Great {Catherina} (now 'tis understood) Wrought this; from that great House descended, which New Kingdoms daily, and new worlds inrich. Those great effects which we as wonders view, Are naturall and usuall things with you. As by that Sun which from the East doth rise, So many excellent varieties Are brought into the world, herbs, flow'rs & trees, So many beasts, fowl, fish, in earth, ayr, seas: So by the living Sun of your bright eyes (Which in the now more worshipt West did rise) New Provinces from every Clime about, New Realms, new Laurels, and new Trophies sprout. Low as my bottome then I bow to you, Majestick Daughter of that Monarch, who Enjoyes an Empire,so August, so great, That {Phoebus} in it doth both rise and set: And Wife of him, to whose brest, hand, and wit, Heaven did the wals of Italie commit. But Alpian rocks are needed now no more, Bulwarks, nor horrid cliffes to stand before Fair Italie, securer in your guard, Then in those hils which have her entrance barr'd. That bulwark so invincible in war, You make soft Peace's Temple, where from far Men come to worship her. Long live as one Yee Royall pair; this fair Conjunction Presages Christendome again shall boast Those many Eastern Scepters she hath lost. This is a field worthy of none but you (Magnanimous {CHARLES}) and a field trodden too By your brave Ancestors. This Land is great, Great are your names, great bloud in you is met; Great your designes,your minds, and your aspects, Great off-spring too, and deeds the world expects. But whilst I prophesie, and Fate prepares Circles of gold to crown your silver hairs, Disdain not ({mighty Souls}) this flowry wreath Gatherd on Pindus by those Maids that breath Life in dead men. Poor offring (I confesse) Yet such as, if Devotion it expresse, Ev'n Heav'n it self disdains not: And if from Your smiling heav'n a fav'ring gale shall come, This Lute, which from its gentle warbling strings Sending still Musick to your ears, now sings Soft Loves, and pleasing Hymeneall Rites, Shall turn a Trumpet to proclaim your Fights.

[[PROLOGUE]] Ladies, our Author does by me declare, Your Characters are still his chiefest care; That what he does present to Publique view, Hee'd have as Excellent, as he thinks you; If then his great respect, does make him raise A Figure rarely practic'd in our dayes? To set a Lustre on your sex, that may Your reserv'd Virtues to the World display! He hopes his Age, his fancy may excuse, If it flye low for a Romantick Muse! But if the {Ladies}! {Flora}'s part approve! He feares no men, who dare pretend to love; And then, if all who love, do like this play! No matter, what the rest o'th World do say.

[[The EPILOGUE To the {SIEGE} OF {URBIN}]] Epilogues we know, if well fitted! may Either excuse, or else set off the {Play}! But our Fantastick Author does believe, His Doublet may be wor'ne without a sleeve! He will no {Epilogue} allow; the {Pit} He sayes, of late hath surfeted of Wit; [[({poynts]] And therefore has this new rigg'd Pinnace Launc[h]'d [[to the]] Into these Deeps; and now too farre advanc'd [[Pit})]] Without a Rudder: Yet if friends! you may With gentle Gales this guidelesse Barke convey Through all its dangers, to the wished Port And so prove Pilots of the nobler sort. [[(note to Epilogue crossed out in MS only)]] We only do apeale from the newe Sect of such Prophetick Censores, as crye downe Playes a mounth before they are showen; and on the poore prisoner at the Barre, longe since, unseene, unheard by them condemnd; we humbly pleade that by the Lawe oth Land, such Sentence may %not stand% be ruld untill this Jury be informd; And then the Prisoner will submitt To any Censures you thinke fitt!

[[PROLOGUE.]] It is so hard to please, when things must be Mouldy with Age, or gilt with Novelty; That, in effect, 'tis but a Cross, or Pile, In all that's written, whether well, or ill: Nor have we ventur'd on this liberty, That we suspect your judgments - no - they're free; Free, as that Reason that inform's 'em first, And, were those common cloggs of Interest Once shaken off, would be the same agen; What shall I say? - shall I entreat ye then? A poor inducement! - If ye will not do't, Out of good Nature, let me bribe ye to't: I - now ye hearken - But mistake me not; We give no mony back, - That were a plot Upon our selves - Yet we've as good a shift; Ye that would learn to thrive, we'll teach ye Thrift; And ye that would get more - Why faith - for you, We have - the Lord knows what - new Projects too; And you' - I forget my self - To run too far May chance to cloy ye, ere you see your fare.

[[EPILOGUE.]] Plays, are but Morals, and the Antients, That first wrapt Truth in Tales, had their intents. Full well they knew, nothing discover'd Vice, Like its own Picture - So we hope of this: How ill {Suckdrie} appears! How odly those, That grasp at Shadows, and the Substance lose! Take you the Moral right - and say - The Stage Then does its Work, when it reforms the Age.

[[Prologue.]] Almighty Critiques! whom our {Indians} here Worship, just as they do the Devil, for fear. In reverence to your pow'r I come this day To give you timely warning of our Play. The Scenes are old, the Habits are the same, We wore last year, before the {Spaniards} came. Our Prologue, th'old-cast too - For to observe the new it should at least Be spoke, by some ingenious Bird or Beast. Now if you stay, the blood that shall be shed From this poor Play, be all upon your head. We neither promise you one Dance, or Show, Then Plot and Language they are wanting too: But you, kind Wits, will those light faults excuse: Those are the common frailties of the Muse; Which who observes he buyes his place too dear: For 'tis your business to be couz'ned here. These wretched spies of wit must then confess They take more pains to please themselves the less. Grant us such Judges, {Phoebus} we request, As still mistake themselves into a jest; Such easie Judges, that our Poet may Himself admire the fortune of his Play. And arrogantly, as his fellows do, Thinks he writes well, because he pleases you. This he conceives not hard to bring about If all of you would join to help him out. Would each man take but what he understands, And leave the rest upon the Poets hands.

[[EPILOGUE By A Mercury.]] To all and singular in this full meeting, Ladies and Gallants, {Phoebus} sends me greeting. To all his Sons by what e're Title known, Whether of Court, of Coffee-house, or Town; From his most mighty Sons, whose confidence Is plac'd in lofty sound, and humble sence, Ev'n to his little Infants of the Time That Write new Songs, and trust in Tune and Rhyme. Be't known that {Phoebus} (being daily griev'd To see good Plays condemn'd, and bad receiv'd,) Ordains your judgement upon every Cause, Henceforth be limited by wholesome Laws. He first thinks fit no Sonnettier advance His censure, farther then the Song or Dance: Your Wit Burlesque may one step higher climb, And in his sphere may judge all Doggrel Rhyme: All proves, and moves, and Loves, and Honours too: All that appears high sence, and scarce is low. As for the Coffee-wits he says not much, Their proper bus'ness is to Damn the {Dutch}: For the great {Dons} of Wit - {Phoebus} gives them full priviledge alone To Damn all others, and cry up their own. Last, for the Ladies, 'tis {Appolo}'s will, They should have pow'r to save, but not to kill: For Love and He long since have thought is fit, Wit live by Beauty, Beauty raign by Wit.

As a young Lawyer many years will drudge In hope at Last to be a Lazy judge Or as a statesman shews a busy face To Sneak or Rail himself into a pleas So a young actress strives yo#r# harts to Ingage That some kind man may take her of y#e# stage Were it my Lot I'm thinking where to Chase And who w'ld best becom y#e# Marriage

The Plague & Fire which half destroy'd the town And people also, once more put us down, As when old Noll usurp'd the realm & Crown. Some of us trembling here were forc'd to stay; Others to country quarters took their way, To live or starve upon brown-bread & whey. To day reviving from our trance-like state, Struggling against the hard decrees of fate, We once again for your approval wait. After so long a fast, methinks, you all Will hungrily on what we offer fall; The welcome hearty though the cheer be small. For though before the late too long distress, You shunned our house as if you liked it less, You'll now return with double eagerness.

[[THE PROLOGUE]] We have with Forraign Tales so fill'd your Ears, As if our Poets were all Foreigners; This Author begs you'l lend him but two hours, To entertain you with your Ancestours. He thinks no stories merit to be known, Nor can instruct us better than our own. But look not for great Actions in a Play, Contracted to the limits of a Day. Nor where the Scene is to one place confin'd, To those strict Rules the French their Poets blind: Yet none of them for this a Reason shows, But to their Mode of Writing, as of Cloths, They think the English ever should agree; Well, when some wit of theirs will let us see, Why in two hours they on their Stages play That which presents the Turns of a whole day; Our Poet then will make it full as clear, That in two hours he may include a year. It were not fit, in stories of that Age, When we rul'd {France}, French Laws should rule our Stage. Nor is it just in Poetry to bind Fancy, which is tormented, when confin'd. He hopes you will excuse him, if he strives To break those Laws a Forreign Nation gives. For sure, without your leave, he'l nere submit, That those whom our Swords rul'd, should rule our wit. [[E.M.]]

[[{Manent Attendantes} Ceciliae, {to speak the} EPILOGUE.]] [[{Pal}.]] Hum! ha! hum! [[{Phan}.]] {Palinodio} what dost mean to doe? [[{Pal}.]] Usher the Epilogue to the' Stage. [[{Phan}.]] Thou might'st, Were it a Lady. [[{Pal}.]] Such I'le prove it is, For as a Lady is cry'd up for fair By one to another but indifferent, And not so much by a third, but infinitely Cry'd down; so are our Playes and Epilogues. [[{Metr}.]] Yet a good Speaker i'th[e] Conclusion, (Which thou art not) may crye it up agen, Therefore give way to me {Phantasio}. [[{Pal}.]] Yes, were the Prologue to be sung, I would. [[{Met}.]] Tush! how impertinent you are! am not I The Poet? [[{Phan}.]] What then? so was the Water-man, Who puffing row'd his Prologue to the Stage As he was wont to toyl 'gainst tyde and winde. [[{Aug}.]] Away, you all contend but to no purpose, Was not the subject of our Play a Lady? Whom then but Ladies do's it most concern? Or whom, if not one of her sex, doth it Beseem to speak the Epilogue? [[{Pha}.]] 'Tis true, I grant for Ladies this sutes well. [[{Aug}.]] Then Poet To men make your Addresses. [[{Met}.]] I will, hum! ha! hum! [[{Aug}.]] More manners Sir, Ladies must first be serv'd. Ladies, {Augusta}, here (who would {Augusta} shine In Court like to your selves) lost her design, Yet still ambitious to be happier now, Courting the Female sex, I need not bow In a submissive way; for that would bee To wrong our Poet, who requested mee, Only to tell you, cause you are cry'd down As creatures of less merit, less renown) To set before your eyes what your sex can, At least as good if not excelling man. As constant, firm. as resolute in all; As vertuous every way, now when you shall Reflect upon the Master-piece you've seen, (Applauding that) you needs must have within A candid brest, (which fully shall requite Our Authors labour) that we call delight, Which ushers Vertue into higher strayns. You have his scope, to recompense his pains; But emulate his Copy, ...I'th[e] mean while It is enough t'obtain a Lady's smile. [[{Met}.]] Gentlemen, Sh' has said enough, what then is left for me? Onely t'entreat a quick Reflexion; see And well observe each Ladies Eye and Look, To sympathize with them is but to brook What pleases them; ...Ladies example give By clear Aspects whether we die or live: For we conclude, ...so sails our Ship to day, By Ladies we are sav'd, or cast away.

[[Prologue.]] [[I.]] He who writ this, not without pains and thought From {French} and {English} Theaters has brought Th'exactest Rules by which a Play is wrought. [[II.]] The Unities of Action, Place, and Time; The Scenes unbroken; and a mingled chime Of {Johnsons} humour, with {Corneilles} rhyme. [[III.]] But while dead colours he with care did lay, He fears his Wit, or Plot he did not weigh, Which are the living Beauties of a Play. [[IV.]] Plays are like Towns, which howe're fortifi'd By Engineers, have still some weaker side By the o'reseen Defendant unespy'd. [[V.]] And with that Art you make approaches now; Such skilful fury in Assaults you show, That every Poet without shame may bow. [[VI.]] Ours therefore humbly would attend your doom, If Souldier-like, he may have termes to come With flying colours, and with beat of Drum.

[[The Prologue goes out}, {and stays while a Tune is play'd}, {after which he returnes again}. Second PROLOGUE.]] I Had forgot one half I do protest, And now am sent again to speak the rest. He bowes to every great and noble Wit, But to the little Hectors of the Pit, Our Poet's sturdy, and will not submit. He'll be before-hand with 'em, and not stay To see each peevish Critick stab his Play: Each Puny Censor, who his skill to boast, Is cheaply witty on the Poets cost. No Criticks verdict, should, of right, stand good, They are excepted all as men of blood: And the same Law should shield him from their fury, Which has excluded Butchers from a Jury. You'd all be Wits - But writing's tedious, and what way may fail; The most compendious method is to rail: Which you so like, you think your selves ill us'd When in smart Prologues you are not abus'd. A civil Prologue is approv'd by no man; You hate it as you do a Civil woman: Your Fancy's pall'd, and liberally you pay To have it quicken'd, e're you see a Play. Just as old Sinners worn from their delight, Give money to be whip'd to appetite. But what a Pox keep I so much ado To save our Poet? He is one of you; A Brother Judgment, and as I hear say, A cursed Critick as e're damn'd a Play. Good salvage Gentlemen your own kind spare, He is, like you, a very Wolf, or Bear; Yet think not he'll your ancient rights invade, Or stop the course of your free damning trade: For he (he vows) at no friends Play can sit But he must needs find fault to shew his Wit: Then, for his sake, ne're stint your own delight; Throw boldly, for he sets to all that write; With such he ventures on an even lay, For they bring ready money into Play. Those who write not, and yet all Writers nick, Are Bankrupt Gamesters, for they Damn on Tick.

[[EPILOGUE. Written by a Person of Honour.]] Our Poet something doubtful of his Fate Made choice of me to be his Advocate, Relying on my Knowledge in the Laws, And I as boldly undertook the Cause. I left my Client yonder in a rant Against the envious, and the ignorant, Who are, he sayes, his onely Enemies: But he contemns their malice, and defies The sharpest of his Censurers to say Where there is one gross fault in all his Play. The language is so fitted for each part, The Plot according to the Rules of Art; And twenty other things he bid me tell you, But I cry'd, e'en go do't your self for {Nelly}. Reason, with Judges, urg'd in the defence Of those they would condemn, is insolence; I therefore wave the merits of his Play, And think it fit to plead this safer way. If, when too many in the purchase share Robbing's not worth the danger nor the care; The men of business must in Policy, ) Cherish a little harmless Poetry; ) All wit wou'd else grow up to Knavery. ) Wit is a Bird of Musick, or of Prey. Mounting she strikes at all things in her way; But if this Birdlime once but touch her wings, On the next bush she sits her down, and sings. I have but one word more; tell me I pray What you will get by damning of our Play? A whipt Fanatick who does not recant Is by his Brethren call's a suffring Saint; And by your hands shou'd this poor Poet die Before he does renounce his Poetry, His death must needs confirm the Party more Then all his scribling life could do before. Where so much zeal does in a Sect appear, 'Tis to no purpose, 'faith, to be severe. But 'tother day I heard this rhyming Fop Say Criticks were the Whips, and he the Top; For, as a Top spins best the more you baste her, So every lash you give, he writes the faster.

[[PROLOGUE]] We had rather have you Auditors to day, Than only bare spectators of our Play, And {exercise} your Wits as well as Eyes, The properest entertainment of the wise. Mean time our {Prologue} to our Play to fit, We'll say, it's dull, insipid, void of wit; Lame, and deficient much, in every part, Writ without judgment, plotted without art; In fine, stark naught: but stay I lye, and they, Must do so to, who discommend the Play.

[[The Epilogue spoken by {Clyton}]] To Lye is nothing, but do it dextrously, As not to be intangled in a lye, There's the Art of it, and I'll forbid any one, To do it dextrously as {Dorant} has done. And those who will not fail in the {dexterity}, Let them come often here, and learn to lye.

[[PROLOGUE]] Of all men those have reason least to care For being laugh'd at, who can laugh their share: And that's a thing our Author's Apt to use Upon occasion, when no man can chuse. Suppose now at this instant one of you Were tickled by a Fool, what would you do? 'Tis ten to one you'd laugh, here's just the case, For there are Fools that tickle with their Face. Your gay Fool tickles with his Dress, and Motions, But your grave Fool of Fools, with silly Notions. Is it not then unjust that Fops should still Force one to laugh, and then take laughing ill? Yet since perhaps to some it gives offence, That men are tickled at the worst of Sence; Our Author thinks he takes the readiest way To shew them all he has laugh'd at here fair play. For if ill-writing be a folly thought, Correcting ill is sure a greater fault. Then Gallants laugh, but chuse the right place first, For judging ill is of all faults the worst.

[[EPILOGUE]] Perhaps you Gentlemen, expect to day The Author of this fag end of a Play According to the Modern way of Wit Shou'd strive to be before-hand with the Pit, Begin to rail at you and subtly to Prevent th'affront by giving the first blow. He wants not Presidents, which often sway In matters far more weighty than a Play: But he no grave admirer of a Rule Won't by Example learn to play the fool. The end of Plays should be to entertain, And not to keep the Auditors in pain. Giving our price, and for what trash we please, He thinks the Play being done, you should have ease. No Wit, no Sence, no Freedom, and a Box, Is much like paying money for the Stocks. Besides the Author dreads the strut and meen of new prais'd Poets, having often seen Some of his Fellows, who have writ before, When {Nel} has danc'd her Jig, steal to the Door, Hear the Pit clap, and with conceit of that Swell, and believe themselves the Lord knows what. Most Writers nowadays are grown so vain, That once approv'd, they write, and write again, Till they have writ away the Fame they got; Our Friend this way of writing fancies not, And hopes you will not tempt him with your Praise, To rank himself with some that write new Plays: For he knows ways enough to be undone Without the help of Poetry for one.

[[PROLOGUE]] You must to day your Appetite prepare For a plain English Treat of homely Fare: We neither {Bisque}, nor {Ollias} shall advance From Spanish Novel, or from French Romance; Nor shall we charm your Ears, or feast your Eyes With Turkey-Works, or Indian Rarityes: But to plain {Hollinshead} and down-right {Stow} We the coarse Web of our Contrivance owe. Since Laces, Ribbands, and such Modish gear Fetcht from abroad are now forbidden here, Amongst those Forreign Toys (for ought we know) Fine Plots for Plays may be included too. {Greece}, the first Mistress of the Tragick Muse, To grace her Stage, did her own Heroes chuse; Their Pens adorn's their Native Swords; and thus What was not {Grecian} past for Barbarous. On us our Country the same duty lays, And English Wit should English Valour raise. Why should our Land to any Land submit In choice of Heroes, or in height of Wit? This made him write, who never writ till now, Only to shew what better Pens should do. And for his Pains he hopes he shall be thought (Though a bad Poet) a good Patriot.

[[EPILOGUE]] {Richard} is dead; and now begins your Reign: Let not the Tyrant live in you again. For though one Tyrant be a Nation's Curse, Yet Commonwealths of Tyrants are much worse: Their Name is Legion: And a {Rump}(you know) In Cruelty all {Richards} does outgo. First then by Acts of Grace your Power declare: Newly install'd, all Princes gracious are; All lesser Crimes within their Pardon fall; And Poets Sins are not held Capital. For your own sake you must some Mercy shew: Act not the Tyrant's Part, lest we act you. A formal Critick with his wise Grimace Will on the Stage appear with no ill grace: Most of that Trade in this Censorious Age Have little of the Poet, but his Rage: Perhaps old {Johnson's} Gall may fill their Pen; But where's the Judgement, and the Salt of {Ben}? Yet for himself our Authour does declare All that sit here, his Lawful Judges are: For 'tis but just, that in our lawless days, Since all Men write, all Men should judge of Plays.

[[The Prologue This to be spoak first, with y#e# Curtains in his hand,lookeing round aboute him. _____________________________________________]] Oh it is Joy, great Sums now wee shall wyn, How they are throng'd, Each Buttock so wedg'd In, Methinks I heare, y#e# Howse crack, 'tis so full. At every Purstring, Wee have had a Pull, Censure your worst, Wee care not what you do Rayle of the Poett, And the Actors too You have paid for it, take liberty to Day Loosers have leave to talk, And so you may; Well now have at you, something I must say As Prologue to the Gallants 'fore the Play [[ _____________________________________________]] Then comes forth, & say's this I'me glad to see you, faith y#e# late tym's Courses Made us a longe Vacation from your Purses Forc'd to take other Trads, but Wee liv'd barer Then now Wee play heer, Each of us a sharer S.#r# William Dav'enante, thanks you for his part And Loves your Company, with all his Heart [[ _____________________________________________]] [[A great Noyse within, then one enters presently, and says this]] Oh Gentlemen, there is such a Civill Warr amongst us within, the horriblest mistake, that ever was, in the World, Wee have spoken a wronge Prologue, never such a Stage Error, not in all the raigne of Shakespeare, Jonson, or of Fletcher; what shall wee doe, for the Prologue is never communicated amongst us, untill it be spoak and this was made by our Poett, as Gentleman, Usher to another Mans Play, to set it off. Now helpe us or never, this Error was [[was]] committed, whilst the Poett went to take a pype of Tobacco, Pox of the Indian Weeds, but when he came up and heard it, he swore it was a Rebellion, against his Monarchy of Witt; to overthrowe the Prerogative of his Crowne of phancy, and swore by all the Gods that wee went to make our selves a free State, and depose his imagination, and that he scorn'd our twenty shillings a Weeke in the Muse, and swore he would be an Independante and write to what Howse he pleased, and not be ty'd any more up in a Chayne to one Howse, by our grave Statsmen. Then he broak into a Poetick Fury, and did soe lugg, our Booke-holder by the Eares, As I doubt he will never give right Cue againe, Then our Actors doe so rayle at one another, that some of them are ready to fly for't, Soe there's no hopes of a Play at all, Gentlemen, for any thing I see, for your Mony, tis true, wee have it and it is now soe distributed, as wee cannot pay you presently, your best way I beleive wilbe, the next Tearme to sue us all upon an Assumsit; 'tis my Councell, I see noe Remedy, but you must take out your time her[e], in Musick, and some little Lovetalk with the Ladys, Lord what shall wee doe to pleas you? [[(he scratches his head)]] Let me see, faith, there is some Comfort, for one of our whole Sharers laught, and swore he would not be putt off from speaking the right Prologue for all this, shall he come, Then your silence is consent, why then I'le popp him out to you p#r#sently

[[The Second Prologue Enter Laughing _____________________________________________]] Ha, ha, ha, Gentlemen, I'm soe taken, I know not what to say So high exalted, with our dainty Play Each word, each lyne & Scene it will so fitt Your sharper Phancys, 'tis so full of Witt, Were you all Mellancholly from your birth %I'de% 'Twould swell your Spleens,& tickle you w.#th# mirth, Draw out your Handkerchifs, I'le tell you why, Mirth els will drownd yo#r# Cheeks, not wipe them dry And leave noe drop for the next Tragedy, Therefore take Councill, I'm yo#r# freind you know Beleive t'is truth, for I doe tell you soe.

[[The Epilogue Entering crying _____________________________________________]] Oh Gentlemen, our Witts hopes is folorne I wish with all my Heart, I'de neer bin borne To deceive you thus, that doth make me cry To tell you in the Prologue such a damn'd ly, Beleeve a Poett, at these yeares too when, I know they are the lying'st of all Men, Too much beleife, Oh how o#r# Play did fa[[']]ll And too much faith, y#t# may deceive you all. Can you forgive here on my Knees I come To ask yo.#r# pardons, speak, are you all dumb? No mercy, Oh release me from greifs bands And let me have it, under all yo#r# Hands.

[[The PROLOGUE.]] In our Old Plays, the humor Love and Passion Like Doublet, Hose, and Cloak, are out of fashion: That which the World call'd Wit in {Shakespears} Age, Is laught at, as improper for our Stage; Nay {Fletcher} stands Corrected, what hope then For this poor Author, {Shirley}; whose soft Pen Was fill'd with Air in Comick Scenes, alas, Your Guards are now so strict he'l never pass, And yet methinks, I hear the Criticks say 'Twas our fault, why should we revive his Play? But, Modern Poets, if you'l give me leave, To tell you what I humbly do conceive, The fault's yours, for our Stage shall be no Debtor For {Shirley's} Play, if you would write a better. Mean time we hope our noble Guests will think, Th'old Wine good, till the new be fit to drink.

[[Bub.]] Stay a little, and Ile along with you. Since I have mist my Wench, Ile ask these Gentlemens good wils to a second match, in stead of an Epilogue. {Courteous Spectators, and kinde Gentlemen}...

[[Gor.]] Why, how now? what, are you mad? will you speak the Epilogue? though you have plaid a fool in the Play, you will not shew your self an Asse before all this company. The Epilogue? I hope {I} am wiser ath' two, and the better read in Complement. {Judicious Gentlemen}...

[[Jen.]] Hark you, Master double-colours, and you goody {Gorgons}, here is one wiser, Asses you both, to pronounce the Epilogues, warrant you, and one, that knaws....to speak in as good English, Gentlemen, now {sans} Complement. [[The Epilogue.]] Our Love-tricks have been shewn, and we attend To know if your acceptance Crown the end, The World is full of Tricks, but it will be A Trick worth all, to have some Plaudite To these of Love. If then contentment dwell On you, we shall conclude, our Play shews well, Which we did Love-tricks call, that you might prove It was a Trick of ours to gain your Love. [[Exeunt omnes.]]

[[Prologue spoken at the {Duke's Theatre}]] Wit, which is all the Gold a Poet has, Can seldom far by any standard pass. Nor can great Pow'r by any stamp enjoyn Wit to the World as universal Coyn. For though most Nations oft have enmity, And in most things: yet always all agree, And ev'n like Subjects of one Pow'r submit, That all may differ in the price of Wit. 'Tis by allay, like Gold, more currant made: But Poets, joyned with States-men, should perswade You, our Free-States, and all great States t'agree How much allay in Gold and Wit should be. Pure Wit, like Ingots, but not for common pay. Th'allay's coorse metal makes the finer last; Which else would in the Peoples handling waste. So Country Jigs and Farces mixt among Heroique Scenes make Plays continue long. But there are some who would the World perswade, That Gold is better when the stamp is bad; And that an ugly ragged piece of Eight Is ever true in metal and in weight: As if a Guinny and Louis had less Intrinsick vallue for their handsomness. So divers, who outlive the former age, Allow the coorseness of the plain old stage; And think rich Vests and Scenes are only fit Disguises, for the want of Art and Wit. Since Wit's extrinsick vallue amongst all Has seasons, Money-like, to rise and fall; And since our Poet found his did begin To lessen, he, Prince-like, did call it in. And then he quickly melted it again: For what is hotter than a Poets brain? He hopes the second stamp has brought it forth With decoration and will raise the worth. Or it, at least, by being Mill'd, does get Form so exact as none shall counterfeit. For as in dearth of money, States grow bold With Laws, and suffer Coiners of false Gold; So you, our States, in want of Wit, he says Permit some publick Coiners of false Plays. If glist'ring shows, or jingling sounds you pass For current Plays, we justly pay you Brass.

[[Epilogue spoken at the {Duke's Theatre}]] I am so constant to you, Gentlemen, That, in pure kindness, I am come again. I'll tell you now my judgment of the Play, And not ask yours; for yours the Poets say (If Poets can speak truth) is very small: Lord! how I've heard 'em swear y've none at all! All Prologues cry, the Criticks are undone! Nay, I my self was offer'd to be one; But, since so many write, I did eschew Th'uncivil pow'r of judging some of you. 'Tis strange that you are thus turn'd back again To Infant-stature from Gigantick-men. The time has been you threw great Poets down, But now are by small Poets overthrown. Ours boasted that he felt your strength decline Since he made War; but this he said in Wine: I mean in fumes of such a frantick fit As Poets have, when Poems do not hit. I think, like Women, they grow cholerick, And scold because they hurt not whom they strike. Long have the Poets made rebellious War Against the Senates, who their Princes are. And though the Poets have still losers been, Yet after loss, Reserves are still brought in. Such is our Play; consisting of a few Old rally'd Forces, with as many new: He's weary of this War; and being near The danger of his Climacterick year, Does parley, and would urge, since he must treat, How little you will gain by his defeat. He will not of his weakness more declare To those, with whom he held so long a War: The Conquer'd who too much themselves debase, Do rudely then the Victors pow'r disgrace. [[AND CAVENDISH, WILLIAM]]

[[PROLOGUE.]] Fools, which each man meets in his Dish each day, Are yet the great Regalios of a Play; In which to Poets you but just appear, To prize that highest which costs them so dear: Fops in the Town more easily will pass; One story makes a statutable Ass: But such in Plays must be much thicker sown, Like yolks of Eggs, a dozen beat to one. Observing Poets all their walks invade, As men watch Woodcocks gliding through a Glade: And when they have enough for Comedy, They stow their several Bodies in a Pye: The Poet's but the Cook to fashion it, For, Gallants, you your selves have found the wit. To bid you welcome would your bounty wrong, None welcome those who bring their chear along. [[AND CAVENDISH, WILLIAM]]

[[EPILOGUE.]] As Country Vicars, when the Sermon's done, Run hudling to the Benediction; Well knowing, though the better sort may stay, The Vulgar Rout will run unblest away: So we, when once our Play is done, make haste With a short Epilogue to close your taste. In thus withdrawing we seem mannerly, But when the Curtain's down we peep, and see A Jury of the Wits who still stay late, And in their Club decree the poor Plays fate; Their verdict back is to the Boxes brought, Thence all the Town pronounces it their thought. Thus, Gallants, we like {Lilly} can foresee, But if you ask us what our doom will be, We by to morrow will our Fortune cast, As he tells all things when the Year is past.

[[{The Prologue} Enter a Gentleman, a Player, and the Poets Man.]] [[{Gent}.]] Who is the Authour of the new Play? [[{Po}. {Serv}.]] He's a Stranger, and my Master. [[{Gent}.]] He must be a bold Stranger indeed that will venture his reputation to the Censures of our Criticks. [[{P Serv}.]] Heaven forbid that any honest mans reputation should depend upon the making of a Play; But, I must tell you Sir, he had never ventur'd, if he had not seen the Wit of the times so easily acquired. [[{Gent].]] But why is modern wit so easily acquired. [[{P Serv}.]] Because a Trivolino, or a Skaramuchio that's dextrous at making of mouths will sooner raise a Clap than a high flown Fancy. [[{Play}.]] All the better for us if that be true, for we shall have new Playes come on like fresh Herring and Mackarell, all the year about; so that our Wits shall never be out of Season ------------------- [[{Aside}]] [[{Gent}.]] But Friend, you are in a monstrous errour; for if your Masters play be not provided with requisite Materials, both he and it will be condemned to the Nursery. [[{P Serv}.]] I pray what do you reckon them Sir? [[{Gent}.]] The Plot must be new, the Language easie, the Fancies intelligible, and the Comical part do delicately enterwoven, that both laughter and delight may each of them enjoy their proportion. [[{P Serv}.]] I have heard my Master say, that since the restauration of the Stage, he has seen all you have said represented to perfection, and yet blown upon with disdain. [[{Gent}.]] That's only by the young sucking fry of Wits; But tell me, has your Masters play the qualifications I told you of. [[{P Serv}.]] Not one of them, for the Plot is like all others of the time; viz A new Toot out of an old Horn; and in regard he saw small things so acceptable, he has dub'd his Trifle with the rest, in hopes that it will prove less considerable than any that's gone before, and consequently expects a better approbation. [[{Gent}.]] By that Character I perceive he's not ambitious to bear up with the Flag-wits. [[{P Serv}]] Right, onely a small Privatier to skulk among Creeks and Clifts. [[{Gent].]] My advise is then, that he quit the English Shore if he intend to thrive at Wit Capring, for the Natives of that Trade ha[[s recte]][ve] left so little now to pilfer, that the purchase will not defray the rigging of Ink and Paper, and let him try when he pleases, he'l find the Wit almost as scarce a commodity as the Money. [[{P Serv}.]] My Master was lucky then at his first setting out to cruise the Coast of {Spain}. [[{Gent}.]] If he has done so, he could not miss of a good Prize. [[{P Serv}.]] A small Caravel from {Sevill} which he freely bestows upon this good company, and that his present might be entire, he has given the Prize-Office the go-by. [[{Gent}.]] He might have saved that labour; for not being matter of money they wou'd ne're a look't after him. But tell me friend, without any more circumlocutions, what way is the Play drest? [[{P Serv}.]] What do you mean by that? [[{Gent}.]] That's whether it be set off with Blank verse, Rhyme, or Prose. [[{P Serv}.]] My Master is no Arithmetician, and so defies all numerical composition. [[{Gent}.]] This is the first Poet ever I heard of, cou'd not make Verse; But how shall the Expectations of the Audience and the Musick be prepar'd at the ending of Acts. [[{P Serv}.]] I am appointed with an Engine to do that. [[{Gent}.]] Which way? [[{P Serv}.]] This way. [[({The Poets man takes out a Rattle and whirles it about his Head}]] [[{Play}.]] 'Slife, I think this Prose Poets fancy will take; for if I be not mistaken, a Rattle will be better understood by a great many here then the best kind of Rhyme ---- [[{Aside}]] [[({The Gentleman takes the Rattle, and whirles it about}]] [[{Gent}.]] I see no reason but this same Engine ought to alarum the Minstrills to tune their Fiddles, and advertise the Audience to refresh their hams as well as a couplet of Rhyme. [[{Play}.]] But Sir, it may scare the Ladies from eating their fruit. [[{P Serv}.]] Pox take you for a Coxcomb, do you take them for Magpies and Jackdawes. [[{Gent}.]] I hope he has drest his Prologue in Rhyme. [[{P Serv}.]] No, I am to be his Jack-Pudding in the case, and deliver it by way of Harangue. [[{Enter a true Poet, and Friend to the Authour}]]

[[{Poet}.]] Forbear Sirrha, you are a sawcy Serving-man; your Master will not be pleas'd at this boldness of yours with this Company. I say be gone with your Jack-Pudding Speech, least the Audience take it for a Directory, and so choak their expectations of the Play. [[{Poet}.]] Ladies and Gentlemen, {You'r too well bred not to be kind to day; Since 'tis a Stranger that presents the Play: Stranger to our Language, Learning and Ryme; He sayes, to Wit too; and 'tis his first time. No boldness in our Prologue shall appear You, but too frequently meet that elsewhere: Wee onely your Divertisement intend, 'Cause on your Goodness all our hopes depend.}

[[Epilogue]] There is a Fate accompanies Play-makers, like the Curse upon the Women of {Holland}; which is, besides the Authors true birth, the Audience will not be Satisfied without a Soutterkine, and that forsooth trimm'd to a better advantage with trappings of Rhime then the Play itself. The truth is, our Poet bids me tell you hee'l rather run the hazard of being thought no Wit, then garnish the corners of his sence with such canting Gingles: and if happ'ly he shou'd pop upon a revery of {Dactylus} and {Spondaeus}, there's none knows him wou'd believe it his. Therefore in his own way, he sayes, that having brought his Present from {Spain}, and having 'scapt the boisterous Billows of the Bay of {Biscay}, he hopes at this time neither to dash or split upon these Boxes, nor be ingulfed in this Pit. And for his Friends above in the exalted Stalls, he expects the best from them, since he has complemented them with a Monky and a Jigge. All the Clap he expects from you is, not to be hist, and say with an indifferent Grimasse, 'tis well enough for a Novice. I am sure if you knew him so well as I, this cou'd never be refused, for he is a person that humours your good Men, and never boyled at the coursest of your Women. {If this prevail not, he hopes he's safe from danger, For Wit and Malice, ought not to reach a stranger.}

[[PROLOGUE Spoken by the Genius of {England}, holding a Trident in one hand and a Sword in the other.]] In {England}'s Genius, that Victorious Name, Which shakes the World and fills the mouth of Fame, So much forgot, as you mispend your Witt (which my Great Deeds as Greatly might have Writt) To court a Fancy, or improve a Dreame, And seek new Worlds for a less noble Theame? Can you in Armes conspiring Nations see, And think on any thing but Fame, and Me? While the loud Cannon, with prophetick sound, Foretells our King must be in {Paris} crown'd. And with such Heat once more invade the French, As all the Waves between us cannot quench, To the just fury of whose Fatall Blowes Fleets, Walls, and Armies they in vaine oppose; This Trophy, which so gloriously to yours Add's a fourth Crown, and those four Crownes secures, The {Belgian} Admirall usurping bore, And I from him and all his Tritons tore. He to another Element was blowne, Who thought himself Immortall in his owne; For still the Sea his Losses did Repair, Till our {Alcides} killd him in the Ayr. This Sword, which in {French} blood so often dyed Intail'd success on the young Edwards side, Resign'd to you shall all those Arts exceed Which made him Triumph and that Kingdome Bleed. Their frighted Lillies shall confess their loss, Wearing the Crimson livery of your Cross; And all the World shall learn by their Defeat, Our Charles, not theirs, deserves the name of Great.

[[PROLOGUE recte [EPILOGUE] TO THE KING]] The Poet, Sir, has offer'd to your sight An {English} Prince, whose Fame appear'd so Bright, As never any since his time was known, To shine with clearer Lustre, but your Own; For though Immortal Honour he did gain, By conquering {France}, and by restoring {Spain}, Yet, Sir, you brought Three Kingdomes to Remorse, And gain'd by Vertue more then he by Force; Which, Sir, on you a greater Name bestows By conquering Them by whom he conquered Those: 'Tis more by Vertue {England} to o'recome, Then by the {English} to beat Christendome. As when the Universe was to be made, The vast Design was on the Waters laid; So you in Conquering it like Method keep, Laying your first Foundation in the Deep: Though the Black Prince, so happy, Sir, did prove, As to be Crown'd with Victory and Love, Yet Sir, he knows from you he may receive A Nobler Crown then War or Love can give; This makes him like the Poet trembling stand, Till,Sir, that Crown be given him by your Hand. [[AND DAVENANT, WILLIAM]]

[[Prologue to the {Tempest}, or the {Enchanted Island}.]] As when a Tree's cut down the secret root Lives under ground, and thence new Branches shoot So, from old {Shakespear}'s honour'd dust, this day Springs up and buds a new reviving Play. {Shakespear}, who (taught by none) did first impart To {Fletcher} Wit, to labouring {Johnson} Art. He Monarch-like gave those his subjects law, And is that Nature which they paint and draw. {Fletcher} reach'd that which on his heights did grow, Whilst {Johnson} crept and gather'd all below. This did his Love, and this his Mirth digest: One imitates him most, the other best. If they have since out-writ all other men, 'Tis with the drops which fell from {Shakespear}'s Pen. The Storm which vanish'd on the Neighb'ring shore, Was taught by {Shakespear}'s Tempest first to roar. That innocence and beauty which did smile In {Fletcher}, grew on this {Enchanted Isle}. But {Shakespear}'s Magick could not copy'd be, Within that Circle none durst walk but he. I must confess 'twas bold, nor would you now, That liberty to vulgar Wits allow, Which works by Magick supernatural things: But {Shakespear}'s pow'r is sacred as a King's. Those Legends from old Priest-hood were receiv'd, And he then writ, as people then believ'd. But, if for {Shakespear} we your grace implore, We for our Theatre shall want it more: Who by our dearth of Youths are forc'd t'employ One of our Women to present a Boy. And that's a transformation you will say Exceeding all the Magick in the Play. Let none expect in the last Act to find, Her Sex transform'd from man to Woman-kind. Whate're she was before the Play began, All you shall see of her is perfect man. Or if your fancy will be farther led, To find her Woman, it must be abed. [[AND DAVENANT, WILLIAM]]

[[Epilogue]] Gallants, by all good signs it does appear, That Sixty Seven's a very damning year, For Knaves abroad, and for ill Poets here. Among the Muses there's a gen'ral rot, The Rhyming Mounsieur and the Spanish Plot: Defie or Court, all's one, they go to Pot. The Ghosts of Poets walk within this place, And haunt us Actors wheresoe're we pass, In Visions bloodier than King {Richard}'s was. For this poor wretch he has not much to say, But quietly brings in his part o' th' Play, And begs the favour to be damn'd to day. He sends me only like a Sh'riffs man here To let you know the Malefactor's neer; And that he means to dye, {en Cavalier}. For if you shou'd be gracious to his Pen, Th'Example will prove ill to other men, And you'll be troubled with 'em all agen.

[[The Prologue]] Bankers with Ginnyes may their purses fill, And travel safer over {Shooter}'s Hill, The Poets with their Stock can pass this Road; To rob them of Applause is now the Mode: He's scarce esteem'd a Gallant, in our dayes, Who has not Hector'd two or three new Playes. Joyn'd with this Party, as the Author's told, Are some, who neither spare new Playes, nor old. Censurers that, like Picklocks of the Law, In any thing that's penn'd, will find a flaw; And have a Peck to him, because he chuses A Subject, which new-modell'd Rhyme abuses: For Love and Honour (Theams of former Ages) Are turn'd into Bourlesque, on modern Stages; Where a Jack-Pudding acts great {Alexander}, And Puppets play mock-{Hero} and {Leander}. That {Hero} and {Leander} (further fam'd Then any Land which {Alexander} claim'd) Should be disparag'd; Mimick, scorn, not Wit, Deriding what the noblest Poet writ. Blame not our Poet, if he be inrag'd, Ladyes, You and your Servants are ingag'd; For {Hero}'s Injury concerns the Faire; {Leander}'s,all those Men, who bravely dare.

[[EPILOGUE.]] If the Original had not restrain'd The Copy; if our Poet might have feign'd: The Sea should have consented to restore, This {Hero} and {Leander} safe to Shoar. But what a Poet cannot do, You may; They'l live to Morrow, if You like the Play.

[[{Prologue to a reviv'd Play of Mr. Fletchers, call'd} The Woman Hater]] Ladies take't as a secret in your Eare, In stead of homage, and kind welcome here, I heartily could wish, you all were gone; For if you stay, good faith, we are undone. Alas! you now expect, the usuall wayes Of our address, which is your Sexes praise: But we to night, unluckily, must speake, Such things will make your Lovers Heart-strings breake, Bely your Virtues, and your beauties staine, With words, contriv'd long since, in your disdaine. 'Tis strange you stirr not yet; not all this while Lift up your Fannes to hide a scornfull smile: Whisper, or jog your Lords to steale away; So leave us t'act, unto our selves, our Play; Then sure, there may be hope, you can subdue, Your patience to endure, an Act or two: Nay more, when you are told our Poet's rage Pursues but one example, which that age Wherein he liv'd produc'd; and we rely Not on the truth, but the variety. His Muse believ'd not, what she then did write; Her Wings, were wont to make a nobler flight; Soar'd high, and to the Stars, your Sex did raise; For which, full Twenty years, he wore the Bayes. 'Twas he reduc'd {Evadne} from her scorne, And taught the sad {Aspacia} how to mourne; Gave {Arethusa}'s love, a glad reliefe; And made {Panthea} elegant in griefe. If these great Trophies of his noble Muse, Cannot one humour 'gainst your Sex excuse Which we present to night; you'l finde a way How to make good the Libell in our Play: So you are cruell to your selves; whilst he (Safe in the fame of his integritie) Will be a Prophet, not a Poet thought; And this fine Web last long, though loosely wrought.

[[The Prologue]] At a New Play all Poets must tell news. Ye'r welcome to the Labour of a Muse; Who do's implore (and 'tis your pitty worth Your helping hands to bring her firstling forth, And let me tell ye, 'tis most necessary Since 'tis her first you act more kind and wary, Shou'd you be rough and harsh in what you do, The brat might prove defective long of you. S'lid then all's spoil'd, your expectation crost The Muse discourag'd and her labour lost. Come, come, for once be kind and rul'd by me And let your smiles crown its Nativity. We question not {Lucina}'s help, if you Vouchsafe her safe delivery 'twill do, And that with Pomp and State, whilst ye are by Your presence makes it a solemnity. The beautys present blazing starr's appear As good Omens to this our hemisphear. Nor can we, whilst such lustre they dispence, Doubt of a favourable influence. But I digress, the gravid Muse I left Of all succour except bare hopes bereft. She's in the Midwives hands and much endures And cannot be reliev'd except by yours. [[{Exit}.]]

[[The Epilogue Spoken by a Messenger of State and {Plot-thrift}.]] [[{Mess}.]] {Plot-thrift} Impostor! Thou must forthwith come Before the Councelboard: They have past a doom, For thy Imprisonment: Upon Information Thou art a Rogue and Cozen[[s]] the whole Nation. Only these Ladies smiles can set thee free But if they frown you must too G[[oa recte]][ao]l with me,

[[{Plot}.]] And hang my self for want of Liberty How like you this {Coz}. As I am a sinner, An ill dish of News at a Wedding Dinner! Ladies, O dear Ladies, what shall I say Pox take the English Rogue that writ the Play! Won't you be kind to smile and clap me too? Should y'e ask me I'de do as much for you. Be not close fisted: Consider that it may Be your own case to want another day: You may command me then and thereupon Ile faithfully repay you three for one. Joyn all your forces now and set me free, One score of Claps and I'm at liberty. [[({Clap})]] [[{To the Gentlemen}]] Now Gentlemen I hope you'r satisfied On the same Covenants to clap my Bride. [[({Clap agen})]] [[{Exeunt}.]]

[[PROLOGUE]] The Poet had design'd His Play should be, Bestow'd on Both the Houses {Nursery}. His modest Judgement, deemed it most fit, In Nurseries to plant Young Twiggs of Wit. Thinking to shun A Publick Censure, since They count Ten People There, an Audience. Thus a Dull Sermon may be took for good, Preach't before few, where 'tis not understood. So He would shun the Censure of this Age, Where Poets for Their Playes are brought o'th'Stage. But new Resolves did tell him, that 'twas worse, To set the {Roman Gen'rals} out to Nurse, Then to expose them to the World; since They, Are Champions able to defend His Play. As for the Ladies which are in Distress, The Author does presume, You can't do less, Then entertain them, which Acceptance will, Render Them happy, and Him grateful still.

[[EPILOGUE]] If at a Feast, You should not chance to lite Upon one Dish, unto Your Appetite, You would condemn the Cook; just so You'l say, If not one Act prove good, throughout the Play. I Vow I did design to have good Cheer, Since You are like to pay for what is here, Which if rejected, or approv'd but Course, I'm sure the {Stationer} will fare the worse. But if the Entertainment You approve, He humbly beggs some token of Your Love. The Poet, if the Play no favour meet, Resolves for to do Pennance, in each Sheet; And will presume no more to be in Print, Since his first Coyn miscarry'd in the Mint. Your Kind Acceptance may prevent My fate, 'Tis the Kings Stamp, that gives the Mettal Rate. The Rate's inhaunc't, and 'tis made Currant too, So shall this Play, if it be stampt by You.

[[PROLOGUE {to the} WILD-GALLANT {Reviv'd}]] As some raw Squire, by tender Mother bred, Till one and Twenty keeps his Maidenhead, (Pleas'd with some Sport which he alone does find, And thinks a secret to all Humane kind;) Till mightily in love, yet halfe afraid, He first attempts the gentle Dairymaid: Succeeding there, and led by the renown Of {Whetstones Park}, he comes at length to Town, Where enter'd, by some School-fellow, or Friend, He grows to break Glass-Windows in the end: His valour too, which with the Watch began, Proceeds to duell, and he kills his Man. By such degrees, while knowledge he did want, Our unfletch'd Author, writ a {Wild Gallant}. He thought him monstrous leud (I'l lay my life) Because suspected with his Landlords Wife: But since the knowledge of his Town began, He thinks him now a very civil man: And, much asham'd of what he was before, Has fairly play'd him at three Wenches more. 'Tis some amends his frailties to confess; Pray pardon him his want of wickedness: He's towardly, and will come on apace; His frank confession shows he has some grace. You balk'd him when he was a young beginner, And almost spoyl'd a very hopeful sinner: But if once more you slight his weak indeavour; For ought I know, he may turn taile for ever.

[[EPILOGUE {to the} WILD GALLANT {reviv'd}]] Of all Dramatique Writing, Comick Wit, As 'tis the best, so 'tis most hard to hit. For it lies all in level to the eye, Where all may judge, and each defect may spye. Humour is that which every day we meet, And therefore known as every publick street; In which, if e'r the Poet go astray You all can point, 'twas there he lost his way. But, What's so common, to make pleasant too, Is more than any wit can alwayes do. For 'tis, like {Turkes}, with Hen and Rice to treat; To make regallio's out of common meat. But, in your Diet you grow Salvages Nothing but Humane flesh your taste can please: And, as their Feasts with slaughter'd slaves began, So you, at each new Play, must have a Man. Hither you come, as to see Prizes fought; If no Blood's drawn, you cry the Prize is naught. But fooles grow wary now; and when they see A poet eyeing round the Company, Straight each man for himself begins to doubt; They shrink like Seamen when a Press comes out. Few of 'em will be found for Publick use, Except you charge an Oph upon each house, Like the Traind-Bands, and every man ingage For a sufficient Foole to serve the Stage. And, when with much adoe you get him there, Where he in all his glory shou'd appear, Your Poets make him such rare things to say, That he's more wit than any Man ith' Play. But of so ill a mingle with the rest, As when a Parrat's taught to break a jeast. Thus aiming to be fine, they make a show As tawdry Squires in Country Churches do. Things well consider'd, 'tis so hard to make A Comedy, which should the knowing take: That our dull Poet, in despair to please, Does humbly beg by me his writ of ease. 'Tis a Land-tax which he's too poor to pay; You, therefore, must some other impost lay. Would you but change for serious Plot and Verse This mottley garniture of Fool and Farce, Nor scorn a Mode, because 'tis taught at home, Which does, like Vests, our Gravity become; Our Poet yields you should this Play refuse, As Tradesmen, by the change of fashions, lose With some content their fripperies of {France}, In hope it may their staple Trade advance. 

[[PROLOGUE.]] As young and spotless Virgins who appear Cloystred in modesty and cloath's with fear: Who blush at hearing of a Man but nam'd, And think they're by one wanton word defam'd, The more they curb their blood and check desire, The more their Veins boil with a secret fire: Which with such heat do's Honours Fort assail, The Tyrant Nature must at length prevail. Love do's alas! their tender brests invade, And by themselves they are themselves betray'd. Forgetful grown at once of fear and shame, Their former coyness do's increase their blame. So though our Poet all his powers oppos'd, And seem'd unwilling to become expos'd, Strugled with doubts, was fearful to be stung With the lewd touch of every Critick tongue; Yet the fierce humour did so fast encroach, He's faln at last into a {French} debauch, Just in the nick of time, when you decry That Nations Wit, and damn their Poetry. What way is there now left him to prevent The smartest doom your Censures can invent? He knows too well you can't with Plays dispence That have no Ornament but Plot and Sence; That every little Scene that is not full Of Gu-gaw show looks impotent and dull: Therefore lays all the blame on Frailties score, Hoping you'l pardon one ne'r sin'd before And pray consider, to oblige you to't, 'Twas hopes to please made him turn prostitute.

[[EPILOGUE. To the Lord LIEUTENANT.]] Our Poet was e'n going the old way, And had contriv'd how to excuse the Play, Though well he knew the Criticks were so keen That a submission would but whet their spleen. But in the Action, Sir, he chanc'd to spy Something of smile and favour in your eye. This chang'd him quite, and in a rage he tore That Epilogue which he had wrote before: Bidding me only say, he would not woo Others to like what had not displeas'd you.

[[{Prologue to} Horace, {spoken by the Dutchess of} Monmouth {at Court.}]] When Honour flourish'd ere for price 'twas sold When Rome was poor, and undebauch'd with gold That vertue which should to the world give Law First under Kings, its Infant breath did draw: And {Horace}, who his Soveraigns Champion fought Its first example to republiques taught. Honour and Love, the Poets dear delight, The field in which all Modern {Muses} fight; Where gravely Rhyme, debates what's just and fit, And seeming contradictions pass for witt. Here in their native Purity first grew, E're they th'Adulterate arts of Stage knew. This Martial story, which through {France} did come, And there was wrought in great {Corneliu's} Loom, {Orinda's} matchless Muse to {Brittain} brought, And Forreign Verse, our {English} Accents taught; So soft that to our shame, we understand, They could not fall, but from a Ladies hand. Thus while a Woman, {Horace} did translate, {Horace} did rise above a {Roman} Fate. And by our Ladies he mounts higher yet, While he is spoke above, what he is writ! But his triumphant Honours, are to come When, mighty Prince, he must receive your Doom; From all besides our Actors have no fear, Censure, and Witt, are beauties Vassals here And should they with Rebellion, tempt their rage, Our Basilisks, could shout 'em from the Stage! But that their Fate, would be too great to dye, By bright {Sabina's}, or {Camilla's} Eye.

[[PROLOGUE To the Duke of Lerma, spoken by M#rs# Ellen, and M#rs# Nepp]] [[Nepp.]] How, Mrs. {Ellen}, not Drest yet, and the Play ready to begin

[[El.]] Not so near ready to begin as you think for

[[Nepp.]] Why? What's the matter?

[[Ellen.]]The Poet and the Company are wrangling within.

[[Nepp.]] About what?

[[Ellen.]]A Prologue

[[Nepp.]] Why, Is't an ill one?

[[Nell.]] Two to one it had been so if he had writ any; but the Conscious Poet, with much Modesty, and very Civilly and Sillily - has writ none.

[[Nepp.]] What do they mean to do?

[[Nell.]] Nay, Fortune knows; They are now Compounding with him but for two Lines.

[[Nepp.]] And what says the wilful Rhimer?

[[Nell.]] Why he says for his Defence, that Prologues are like Corn well thrash'd, there's nothing left in the Straw.

[[Nepp.]] What shall we do then? 'Slife, let us be bold, And speak a Prologue. [[---------]]

[[Nell.]] [[-------------]]No, no, let us Scold

[[Nepp.]] Nay [[-------------------]] Since to be try'd here is our {Poet}'s Chance, We'll wish him sure a good Deliverance.

[[Nelle]] Why, then deliver him from you that sit And boldly Censure, what, you have not Wit: May you be poor, and know not what to do For Six-pence, and then rail at Money too.

[[Nepp.]] From you that have some Wit, and yet more Spight, May you be judg'd, as you do those that write, May all your Courted Mistresses to you Prove froward and malicious Criticks too.

[[Nell.]] May they observe with Care your ugliest Looks, As you do the worst things in Plays and Books.

[[Nepp.]] Deliver him from you that nothing spare; Nay you that would fain seem worse then you are, Out-talk your own Debaucheries, and tell With a fine shrug, {Faith}, Jack, {I am not well}.

[[Nell.]] From you that with much Ease, and little Shame, Can blast a Poet's, and a Woman's Fame; For at first sight a well-bred Trick y'have got, Combing your Wiggs, to Cry, {Dam me}, {She's naught}.

[[Nepp.]] Prithee let's say no more, but run away, For they'll revenge themselves on the poor Play.

[[Nell.]] No matter, we have here one Party fast, I mean the Gentlemen we spoke of last: Though they deny't the Poet, yet we know, On us they freely wou'd their Claps bestow. [[({Exeunt})]]

[[Epilogue Spoken by M#rs# Ellen]] Much injur'd Gentlemen, may you now please, You true Committee of such Grievances, Kindly to hear me now, and I will show it, We have been all ill us'd, by this days Poet. 'Tis our joint Cause; I know you in your hearts Hate serious Plays, as I do serious Parts, To trouble us with Thoughts and State-designs, A melancholy Plot ty'd with strong Lines, I had not the least Part to day you see, Troth, he has neither writ for you, nor me; You are not hard to please; though a Poet scarce Can make a Play, yet he might make a Farce, With small ridiculous things to stuff it full, And make you pay to laugh, not to be dull. Henceforth, against all sad and grave intreagues, We'll make Offensive, and Defensive Leagues; And for all those that dare write Tragedy, We'll make a Law, with a huge Penalty; And yet few Poets so much Wealth possess, Or Wit, where you might levy a Distress; Let the grave Poets then trouble but few, Write Elegies on Men; which few Men knew, And few perhaps will read; or let 'em write Rhimes for the Bell-man, to be spoke at night. This Poet may be pardon'd, lest it be said You did condemn before the Law was made, I mean, if's Play be good, I tell you True, He thinks it is, but pray now, What think you?

[[{Prologue to} Albumazar]] To say this Commedy, pleas'd long ago, Is not enough to make it pass you now: Yet gentlemen, your Ancestors had witt, When few man censurd, and when fewer writ. And {Johnson} of those few the best, chose this, As the best modell of his master piece; {Subtle} was got, by our {Albumazar}, That {Alchemist} by this {Astrologer}. Here he was fashion'd, and I should suppose, He likes my fashion well, that wears my Cloaths. But {Ben} made nobly his, what he did mould, What was anothere's Lead, became his Gold: Like an unrighteous Conqueror he Raigns Yet Rules that well, which he unjustly gains. But this our age, such Authours does afford As make whole Playes, and yet scarce write a word: Who in this Anarchy of witt rob, all, And what's their Plunder, their Possession call. Who like bold Padders, scorn by night to prey, But Rob by Sun-shine, in the face of day; Who scarce the common Ceremony use, Of stand Sir, and deliver up your Muse. But knock the Poet down; and, with a grace, Mount {Pegasus}, before the Owners face. Faith if you have such Country {Toms} abroad, Tis time for all true men to leave that Road. Yet it were modest, could it be but sed, They stript the living, but they rob the dead: 'Twill with the mummey of the Muses play, And make love to 'em the {Aegyptian} way. Or as a Rhyming Authour would have sed, Ioyn the dead living, to the living dead; Yet such in Poetry, may claim some part, They have the Licence, though they want the Art. Such as in {Sparta} might for Laurels stand, Poets, not of the head, but of the hand: They make their benefit of others studying, Much like the meales of Politick. {Jack}-Pudding. Where Broth to claim, there's no one has the courage, 'Tis all his own, after he has spit i'th' Porridge: But Gentlemen, y'are all concerned in this, You are in fault, for what they do a miss. For they their Thefts, will undiscover'd think, And durst not Steal, unless you please to wink: Now should we Letters of reprizall seal, These men write that, which no man else would steale.

[[Prologue]] New Poets (like fresh Beauties come to Town) Have all that are decay'd to cry 'em down, All that are envious, or that have writ ill For Wits and Heroes fain wou'd, dying, kill. Like Statesmen in disgrace, they ill endure A better conduct should our good procure: As an old Sinner, who in's youth has known Most Women bad, dares venture upon none. Our Author, seeing here the Fate of Plays, The dangerous Rocks upon the Coast of Praise, The cruel Critick and malicious Wit, Who think themselves undone if a Play hit: And like those Wretches who on shipwracks thrive, Rage if the Vessel do the Storm out-live, By others loss he stood a while forewarn'd, But against tempting hope no man is arm'd: Amongst great Gamesters, when deep play is seen, Few that have money but at last come in: He has known many with a trifling sum, Into vast Fortunes by your favours run: This gives him confidence to try his Fate, And makes him hope he is not come too late; If you'le undo him quite, like Rooks begin, And for this once in cunning let him win: He hopes the Ladies at small faults will wink, And a new Poet, a new Servant think.

[[Epilogue.]] Poets of all men have the hardest Game, Their best Endeavours can no Favours claim. The Lawyer, if o'rethrown, though by the Laws, He quits himself, and lays it on your Cause. The Souldier is esteemed a Man of War, And Honour gains, if he but bravely dare. The grave Physitian, if his Patient dye, He shakes his head, and blames Mortality. Only poor Poets their own faults must bear, Therefore grave Judges be not too severe: Our Author humbly hopes to scape your Rage, Being no known Offender on the Stage, He came by chance, is a meer Traveller; All Countries Civil unto Strangers are: Yet faith he's arm'd how e're your Censures go, And can prevent the harm, though not the blow. No Poet can from this one Comfort fall, The best ne're pleas'd, nor worst displeas'd you all.

[[{Prologue}]] [[1.]] No Country Lady ever yet did ask Such shrewd advice before a Ball or Masque (When curious dressing is the Courts great task) [[2.]] As now young Poets doe, in this nice Age, To gain the froward Lovers of the Stage; Whose heat of humors nothing can asswage. [[3.]] The Muse, disdain'd, does as fond Women doe; Instead of being courted she courts you: But Women are less valu'd when they wooe. [[4.]] And as Young Poets, like young Ladies, fear A Concourse, great as this Assembly here, Till they seek councell how they should appear, [[5.]] So all old Poets, like old Ladies, may Be more afraid to venture the survay Of many apt to censure their decay. [[6.]] Both know they have been out of fashion long; And, e'r they come before a shining Throng, Would dress themselves by Patterns of the Young. [[7.]] Well, our old Poet hopes this Comedie Will somewhat in the fine new fashion be; But, if all gay, 'twould not with Age agree. [[8.]] A little he was fain to moralize That he might serve your Minds as well as Eyes: The Proverb sayes, Be merry and be wise. [[9.]] This, Gentlemen, is all he bad me say Of his important Trifle call'd a Play; For which, he does confess, you dearly pay. [[10.]] But he did fear what he could hardly make A Prologue so in fashion as might take, For he does much of too much boldness lack. [[11.]] He never durst, nor ever thought it fit To censure those who Judges are of Wit. Now you expect the Rime will end in Pit.

[[{The Epilogue} {In a BALLAD, sung by Two}]] [[1.]] Ladies, who fine as Fi'pence are, You Men with bright Rose-noble Hair, Both all and some, for we now except none O thrust but your Ears and list to our moan. Attend and else hearken out of pure pitty To tydings dolefull yea in a sad ditty The Players grow poor and down they must fall, Though some say they get the devil and all. Alack, and alas! our hearts are e'n broken: But because in all Plays You still look for new wayes We mean now to sing what ought to be spoken. [[2.]] Since now those Poets get the Vogue Who still, with a bold Epilogue, Dare rattle Spectators and cry 'em down, As you do their Plays, we'll tell you your own. First, loving kind friends, who come from the Citty, You never think any Play can be witty But that in which Courtiers are shrewdly jeer'd. Out on it, and fy! was e'r the like heard? Why would you have us to bob and to gibe 'em, When the wiser complain That in private, for gain, You are the men who endeavour to bribe 'em. [[3.]] Some Gallant, though nameless, come here Expecting our Poets should jeer The City for Custards and for the Show When Pageants through rain do pass to and fro. Those very old frumps, perhaps, would be pretty; But Gallants, we have not the dulness to fit ye. They grow too stale, and the Reader who looks Upon the sad Notes of many Shop-books Will think that the Cits have seldome undone ye. Rather you, ev'ry year, Spoil their Shows, and their Chear, For they want your Wit, and you have their Money. [[4.]] Now up wi' Boots, and have at all! Ev'n you whom the Town-Gallants call; Who with your round Feathers make a great show; We mean you did wear such three years agoe; Come then, and stand fair, that now we may fit ye, Because ev'n like Turks without any pity, You visit our Plays, and merit the Stocks For paying Half-Crowns of Brass to our Box. Nay, often you swear, when places are shewn ye, That your hearing is thick, And so, by a Love-trick, You pass through our Scenes up to the Balcone. [[5.]] And some(a duce take 'em!) pretend They come but to speak with a friend; Then wickedly rob us of a whole Play By stealing five times an Act in a day. O little England! speak, is it not pity, That Gallants ev'n here, and in thy chief City, Should under great Perukes have heads so small, As they might steal wit, or have none at all? Others are bolder and never cry, shall I? For they make our Guards quail, And 'twixt Curtain and Rail, Oft Combing their hair, they walk in Fop-Ally. [[6.]] Gallants relent and eke repent For your so foul, nay, bad intent Of paying in Brass instead of true Coyne; And, for amends we only enjoyn, That ev'ry Man, to declare conscience in ye, Shall whisper a Friend, and borrow a Guinny; Which in our Box you may carelessly throw, And pay him who lends it to morrow to mow. And now to conclude, 'tis fit to acquaint ye That though this Epilogue Does not flatter and cogg Yet a new Ballad may pass for a dainty.

[[Prologue]] How popular are Poets now a dayes? Who can more Men at their first summons raise, Then many a wealthy home-bred Gentleman, By all his interest in his Countrey can. They raise their Friends, but in one day arise 'Gainst one poor Poet, all these Enemies: For so he has observ'd you alwayes are, And against all that write maintain a Warr. What shall he give you composition now? Alass, he knows not what you will allow. He has no cautionary Song, nor Dance, That might the Treaty of his Peace advance; No kinde Romantick Lovers in his Play, To sigh and whine out passion, such as may Charm Waitingwomen with Heroick Chime, And still resolve to live and die in Rhime; Such as your Eares with Love, and Honour feast, And play at {Crambo} for three houres at least: That Fight, and wooe, in Verse in the same breath, And make Similitudes, and Love in Death: ------ But if you love a Fool, he bid me say, He has great choyce to shew you in his Play; (To doe you service) I am one to day. Well Gallants, 'tis his first, Faith, let it goe, Just as old Gamesters by young Bubbles do: The first and smaller Stake let him but win, And for a greater Summ you'll draw him in. Or use our Poet, as you would a Hare, Which when she's hunted down, for Sport you spare. At length take up, and damne no more for shame, For if you only at the Quarrey aime, This Critick poaching, will destroy your Game.