Each bring his love a Bogland captive home;31
Such proper pages will long trains become;
With copper collars, and with brawny backs,
Quite to put down the fashion of our blacks.
Then fhall the pious Muses pay their vows, 35
And furnish all their laurels for
Their tuneful voice fhall raife for

your

brows;

your delights; We want not poets fit to fing your flights. But you, bright beauties, for whofe only fake Thofe doughty knights fuch dangers undertake, When they with happy gales are gone away, With your propitious prefence grace our play; And with a figh their empty feats furvey: Then think, on that bare bench my fervant fat; I fee him ogle ftill, and hear him chat; Selling facetious bargains, and propounding That witty recreation, call'd dum-founding. Their lofs with patience we will try to bear; And would do more, to fee you often here: That our dead ftage, reviv'd by your fair eyes, Under a female regency may rife.

45

51

PROLOGUE

TO THE

*MISTAKES.

ENTER MR. BRIGHT..

GENTLEMEN, we must beg your pardon ; here's no Prologue to be had to-day; our new play is like to come on, without a frontispiece; as bald as one of you young beaux, without your periwig. I left our young poet, fnivelling and fobbing behind the fcenes, and curfing fomebody that has deceived him.

ENTER MR. BOWEN.

HOLD your prating to the audience: here's honest Mr. Williams, juft come in, half mellow, from the Rofe-Tavern. He fwears he is inspired with claret, and will come on, and that extempore too, either with a prologue of his own or fomething like one: O here he comes

The Miftakes, or Falfe Reports, was not written, but, according to G. Jacob, fpoiled by Jofeph Harris, a comedian, who dedicated it to Mr. afterwards Sir Godfrey Kneller. It was acted in 1690. DERRICK.

to his tryal, at all adventures; for my part I with him a good deliverance.

[Exeunt Mr. Bright and Mr. Bowen.

ENTER MR. WILLIAMS.

SAVE ye, firs, fave ye! I am in a hopeful

way.

I fhould fpeak fomething, in rhyme, now, for the play :

But the deuce take me, if I know what to fay. I'll stick to my friend the author, that I can

tell ye,

To the laft drop of claret, in my belly.

5

So far I'm fure 'tis rhyme-that needs no granting:

And, if my verfes' feet ftumble-you see my own are wanting.

Our young poet has brought a piece of work, In which, though much of art there does not lurk,

It may hold out three days-and that's as long as Cork.

10

But, for this play-(which till I have done, we fhow not)

What may be its fortune-by the Lord-I know not.

This I dare fwear, no malice here is writ:

'Tis innocent of all things; even of wit,

He's no high-flyer; he makes no sky-rockets, His fquibs are only levell'd at your pockets. 16 And if his crackers light among your pelf,

You are blown up; if not, then he's blown up himself.

By this time, I'm fomething recover'd of my flufter'd madness:

And now a word or two in fober fadness. Ours is a common play; and you pay down A common harlot's price; just half a crown. You'll fay, I play the pimp, on my friend's fcore;

But fince 'tis for a friend, your gibes give o'er:

20

For many a mother has done that before. 25 How's this, you cry? an actor write? we know

it;

But Shakspeare was an actor, and a poet.
Has not great Jonfon's learning often fail'd?
But Shakspeare's greater genius ftill prevail'd.
Have not fome writing actors, in this age, 30
Deferv'd and found fuccefs upon the stage?
To tell the truth, when our old wits are tir'd,
Not one of us but means to be inspir❜d.
Let your kind prefence grace our homely.
cheer;

Peace and the butt is all our business here: 35
So much for that; and the devil take small

beer.

PROLOGUE

ΤΟ

KING ARTHUR,

SPOKEN BY MR. BETTERTON.

SURE there's a dearth of wit in this dull

town,

When filly plays fo favourily go down;
As, when clipt money paffes, 'tis a fign
A nation is not over-ftock'd with coin.
Happy is he, who, in his own defence,
Can write juft level to your humble sense;
Who higher than your pitch can never go;
And, doubtless, he must creep, who writes be-
low.

10

So have I feen, in hall of knight, or lord,
A weak arm throw on a long fhovel-board;
He barely lays his piece, bar rubs and knocks,
Secur'd by weakness not to reach the box.
A feeble poet will his business do,

Who, ftraining all he can, comes up to you:
For, if
you like yourselves, you like him too.