XXXII.

PROLOGUE to the PROPHETESS.
By BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.
Revived by Mr. DR Y DE N.

Spoken by Mr. BETTERTON.

WHAT

HAT Nostradame, with all his art, can guess
The fate of our approaching Prophetess?
A play, which, like a perspective set right,
Prefents our vaft expences close to fight;
But turn the tube, and there we fadly view
Our diftant gains; and those uncertain too?
A fweeping tax, which on ourselves we raise,
And all, like you, in hopes of better days.
When will our loffes warn us to be wife?
Our wealth decreases, and our charges rise.
Money, the sweet allurer of our hopes,
Ebbs out in oceans, and comes in by drops.
We raise new objects to provoke delight;
But you grow fated, ere the second fight.
Falfe men, ev'n fo you serve your
mistreffes :
They rise three stories in their towering dress ;
And, after all, you love not long enough
To pay the rigging, ere you leave them off.
Never content with what you had before,
But true to change, and Englishmen all o'er.
Now honour calls you
Is to provide the horrid
VOL. II.

and all

hence;

your care

pomp

of war.

T

In

In plume and scarf, jack-boots, and Bilboa blade,
Your filver goes, that fhould fupport our trade.
Go, unkind heroes, leave our stage to mourn;
Till rich from vanquifh'd rebels you return;
And the fat fpoils of Teague in triumph draw,
His firkin-butter, and his ufquebaugh.
Go, conquerors of your male and female foes;
Men without hearts, and women without hofe.
Each bring his love a Bogland captive home;
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 Mufes pay their vows,
And furnish all their laurels for your brows ;
Their tuneful voice fhall raife for 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 survey:
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.

XXXIII. PRO

XXXIII.

PROLOGUE TO THE MISTAKES.

G

Enter Mr. BRIGHT.

Entlemen, 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, fniveling and fobbing behind the scenes, and curfing fomebody that has deceived him.

Enter Mr. BOWEN.

Hold your prating to the audience: here's honeft Mr. Williams, juft come in, half mellow, from the RofeTavern. He fwears he is infpired 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 to his trial, at all adventures; for my part, I wish him a good deliverance.

[Exeunt Mr. Bright and Mr. Borven.

Enter Mr. WILLIAMS.

Save ye firs, save ye! I am in a hopeful way.
I fhould fpeak fomething, in rhyme, now, for the

play:

But the duce 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.

}

So far I'm fure 'tis rhyme-that needs no granting: And, if my verses feet stumble—you fee my own are

wanting.

Our young poet has brought a piece of silboa blade,
In which, though much of art there

It

our trade.

may hold out three days-and tha as long as

Corke.

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-ev'n of wit.
He's no high-flyer-he makes no sky-rockets.
His fquibs are only level'd at your pockets.
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 fadnefs.

Ours is a common play; and you pay down
A common harlot's price-juft half a crown.
You'll fay, I play the pimp, on my friend's score;
But, fince 'tis for a friend, your gibes give o'er
For many a mother has done that before.

How's this, you cry? an actor write?we know it;
But Shakespeare was an actor, and a poet.
Has not great Jonfon's learning, often fail'd?
But Shakespeare's greater genius ftill prevail'd.
Have not fome writing actors, in this age
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:
So much for that;-and the devil take small beer.

}

}

XXXIV. EPI

XXXIV.

LOGGUE to HENRY II.

[By Mr. MOUNT FORT, 1693.]
Spoken by Mrs. BRACEGIRDLE.

THUS you the fad catastrophe have seen,
Occafion'd by a mistress and a queen.

Queen Eleanor the proud was French, they fay;
But English manufacture got the day.

Jane Clifford was her name, as books aver:
Fair Rofamond was but her Nom de guerre.
Now tell me, gallants, would you lead
your life
With fuch a mistress, or with fuch a wife?
If one must be your choice, which d'ye approve,
The curtain lecture, or the curtain love?
Would ye be godly with perpetual strife,
Still drudging on with homely Joan your wife :
Or take your pleasure in a wicked way,
Like honeft whoring Harry in the play?

I guess your minds: the miftrefs would be taken,
And naufeous matrimony fent a packing.
The devil's in you all; mankind's a rogue;
You love the bride, but you deteft the clog.
After a year, poor fpoufe is left i' th' lurch,

And you, like Haynes, return to mother-church.
Or, if the name of Church comes cross your mind,
Chapels of eate behind our fcenes you find.

The playhoufe is a kind of market-place;
One chaffers for a voice, another for a face: