THE PROLOGUE
BY a dissenting Play-house frantick rage,
We the poor remnant of a ruin'd Stage,
Must call the very Storm that wrack't us kind,
Since we this safe, and pleasant harbour find:
So shipwrack't Passengers, if they espy
Any kind remnant of the Ship that's nigh,
Embrace with thanks the charitable Oar
That Fate prepar'd, and make towards the Shore.
Our tribe infected with the City fits,
Was setting up a Common-wealth of wits,
And still (to make the parallel more true)
Was falling out, and without reason too:
Mov'd by these broils, which rass'd us still more high,
We made at last a real Tragedy.
Old Relique's of th' infection still we bear,
For each man here is turn'd Petitioner.
And to your kindness, for the double recruit
Of Wit and Fortune, makes his humble Suit.
Faith 'twas high time to leave the noisy Town,
When what scarce made a show was pulling down.
When Our gay Ribbons, and such useless things,
Were all condemn'd to make new Bible Strings.
Our short-Jump Canters stifly have defy'd
All Rhymes, since David's good Burlesquers dy'd;
Have all things else but State-lampoons decry'd.
Good Poems they like Holy-water fear,
Because there seem's some kind of concord there.
Here Genuine peace do's ev'ry breast inspire,
And to a general calmness all conspire.
Rebellion, which is there the onely Prize
By which the canting, hot-brain'd Zealots rise,
In this fair Paradise dare's not show her face,
As if some flameing Cherub kept the place.
So when the Plague Our Climate did infest,
And with new-heats the late burnt Town posses't;
The fearful Steams (that lodg'd ith' circling Air)
Kept out of sight, and durst not enter here.
FINIS.