PROLOGUE to Dame Dobson the Cunning Woman.
Spoken by Mrs. CURRER.
GAllants, I vow I am quite out of heart,
I've not one smutty Jest in all my part.
Here's not one Scene of tickling Rallery;
There we quite lose the Pit and Gallery.
His London Cuckolds did afford you sport.
That pleas'd the Town, and did divert the Court.
But 'cause some squeamish Females of renown
Made visits with design to cry it down,
He swore in's Rage he would their humors fit,
And write the next without one word of Wit.
No Line in this will tempt your minds to Evil,
It's true, 'tis dull, but then 'tis very civil.
No double sense shall now your thoughts beguile,
Make Lady Blush, nor Ogling Gallant Smile.
But mark the Fate of this mis-judging Fool!
A Bawdy Play was never counted Dull,
Nor modest Comedy e're pleas'd you much,
'Tis relish'd like good Manners 'mongst the Dutch.
In you, Chast Ladies, then we hope to day,
This is the Poets Recantation Play
Come often to't that he at length may see
'Tis more than a pretended Modesty:
Stick by him now, for if he finds you falter,
He quickly will his way of writing alter;
And every Play shall send you blushing home,
For, tho you rail, yet then we're sure you'll come.
Thus Brides are Coy and Bashful the first night,
But us'd to't once, are mad for their delight.
Do not the Whiggish Nature then pursue,
Lest like Whig-Writer, he desert you too.
Whig-Poet when he can no longer Thrive,
Turns Cat in Pan and writes his Narrative.
No Irish Witness sooner shall recant,
Nor oftner play the Devil or the Saint.
EPILOGUE to the Same!
Spoken by Mr. JEVORN.
THo I am no great Conjurer you see,
Nor deal in Devil or Astrology,
Yet from your Physnomies I shrewdly guess
The Poet stole the French Divineress
But let not that, pray, put you in a passion,
Kidnapping has of late been much in fashion.
If Alderman did Spirit men away,
Why may not Poets then Kidnap a Play?
[Page 2]Poets are Planters, Stage is their Plantation,
But tho they are for Trade and Propagation,
Yet don't like Thievish Whiggs Rob their own Nation.
But, Fellow Citizens, beware Entrapping,
For, whilst y'are busie sending Folks to Wapping,
'Ygad your Wives e'ne go abroad Kidnapping.
Tending to this, of late I heard such stories,
That I for safety Marry'd 'mongst the Tories.
And see from City Prigg I am become
A Beau Garcon, a man of th' Sword: rare Thumb!
Ierné I am all Tory now, par ma foy
I hate a Whigg: I 'm l'Officiere du Roy.
And now I bid defiance to the City,
Nor Whig, nor Critick shall from me have pitty.
And as in Valour, I in Wit am grown,
Then to'em Gillet; let 'em know their own.
You Whigs, but Criticks are amongst the Cits
And Criticks are meer Whigs amongst the Wits.
Thro your cross Nature you'l no mercy show,
But would the Monarchy of Wit o're throw;
And Criticks here with the same spirit stickle
For Liberty, as Whigs in Conventicle
'Gainst Sheriffs and Poets equally you Baul,
You Riot in a Play-House, they 't Guild-Hall.
But Noise, you see, and Faction often fails,
Law is our Shield against your Prot'stant Flails
Law and large Fines may send you all to Jails.
And if you Criticks here are troublesome
I'l Diametrically upon you come.
And maul you with my Charm, Firm, Close, Standfast Thumb!
Then there's your Wheadling Critick, seems a Friend,
Commends by halves, and with a But i'th' end,
Has sly reserves which still to Faction tend.
They praise a Play, and on the Poet fleer,
But, his back turn'd, loll out their tongue and Jeer.
Thus amongst Wits, as Whiggs too, these are Trimmers,
They'r like a sort of Half Crowns we call Swimmers.
Broad to the Eye, but though the Stamp seems fair
Weigh 'em they're light, and damn'd mixt Metal are.
These blame the City, but uphold their Charter,
They Rail at Treason; but give Traitors Quarter,
And when a Rebel's hang'd, they stile him Martyr.
For Perjur'd Villains they wou'd have Reprieve
And to False Witnesses can Pensions give,
Yet won't allow a Mayor may choose his Sheriff.
They cry, to Magistrates we'l give all Honor:
But let's have Law: —Then Holloo—take him Coroner.
But, Friends, don't think that you shall longer Sham us,
Or that we'll Bugbear'd be by your Mandamus;
You see Dame Dobsons Devil long was famous,
But fail'd at last: so will your Ignoramus.
London: Printed for Io. Hindmarsh, Bookseller to his Royal Highness, at the Black Bull in Cornhil, 1683.