To the Northern Lass.

IF any here, this Prologue, does cry down,
Henceforth I'le not allow one Wit i'th Town:
As Houses haunted with ill Spirits, are
All Noise, and Lies, such, is our Theatre.
Ye talk of Wits, the Devil a Wit is here.
Wherefore to let you know
What Wit is not, I think can't be amiss,
For no man here, I'me sure, knows what it is.
First then,
Wit is no Scarf upon Phantastick Hips,
Nor an affected Cringe, t'approach the Lips.
'Tis not, I gad, O Lord, or, let me die,
Nor is it Damme ye Son of a Whore, ye Lie:
'Tis not to tell how lewd you were last Night,
What Watches, Wenches, Windows felt your spite;
Nor is it an abusive Epilogue,
Nor being Drunk, and cry, more Wine ye Dog:
'Tis not the Pert, Dull, Nonsense, e'ry day
Ye teaze the Gallery Nymphs with, who t' each Play,
Like Weavers, with unlawfull Engines, come
And manage twenty Shuttles with one Loom;
Whilst honest labourers that use but one,
For want of work, lie still, and are undone:
'Tis not your Scholar, Trav'ler, nor Math'matician,
Poet, nor Player, and faith 'tis no Physician:
Were I now clapt I were in a sweet condition.
'Tis none of these, that, singly, Wit can be,
But all in one man meeting's, Wit; that's Me.


WHEN this Old Play first came upon the Stage,
You see 'twas e'en like now, a Whoring Age.
And youre Forefathers, in those Grandame days,
Kind, much like you for Wit, and Vertue praise.
Wherefore I mean t'advise you all to Night:
Give good attention, Sparks, and profit by't.
I've long since observ'd, with mighty grief of mind,
You're like my Knight, to Widows much inclin'd:
They're grown a common Vice, Match-maker fell 'em;
Ugly or Old some buy 'em, others steal 'em.
Consider by a Youth, well Made, well bred,
Much in his Veins, though little in his Head,
Shou'd quit Delights, yet hardly well enjoy'd,
Shou'd be so soon with Love's sweet Manna cloy'd,
And on that Nausious bit, a Widow, venter,
That rank Egyptian Flesh-pot with a Joynter.
A Widow! what's a Widow? Let me see,
Nothing so like a Sapless hollow Tree.
And thus the Parallel most aptly holds,
The Schreech-Owl's in her Branches when she scolds.
She with much Mossy rottenness o'regrown,
From her late Husband's and her own,
Who weeds her lives a Prisoner in a Tomb,
Decay'd, disquiet, and I'le smell his Doom.
Hee's haunted all the Day with jealous Sprights,
And horrid, due Benevolence a Nights:
The poor endeav'ring Creature does his best,
Yet the foul Fiend, as greedy as before,
Still with unsatiate Fury, yells out more.
Which Curse light on you all for your deceiving,
While we poor Younlings are too much believing,
He who next wrongs a kind yielding Maid,
Too apt, by specious Oaths to be betray'd,
In recompence for Spoils so basely got,
That bottomless pit of Widow be his Lot.

Printed for C. Corbet at the Oxford-Arms in Warwick-lane. 1684.

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