Prologue
[Spoken by Harlequin.]
Long, and at vast Expence, th'industrious Stage
Has strove to please a dull ungrateful Age:
With Heroes and with Gods we first began,
And thunder'd to you in heroick Strain:
Some dying Love-sick Queen each Night you enjoy'd,
And with Magnificence at last were cloy'd:
Our Drums and Trumpets frighted all the Women;
Our Fighting scar'd the Beaux and Billet-Doux Men.
So Spark in an Intrigue of Quality,
Grows weary of his splendid Drudgery;
Hates the Fatigue, and cries a Pox upon her,
What a damn'd Bustle's here with Love and Honour?
In humbler Comedy we next appear,
No Fop or Cuckold, but slap-dash we had him here;
We showed you all, but you malicious grown,
Friends Vices to expose, and hide your own;
Cry, damn it—This is such, or such a one.
Yet nettled, Plague, what does the Scribler mean?
With his damn'd Characters, and Plot obscene.
No Woman without Vizard in the Nation
Can see it twice, and keep her reputation—
That's certain, Forgetting—
That he himself, in every gross Lampoon,
Her leuder Secrets spread about the Town;
Whilst their feign'd Niceness is but cautious Fear,
Their own Intrigues should be unravel'd here.
Our next Recourse was dwindling down to Farce,
Then—Zounds, what Stuff's here? 'tis all o'er my—
Well, Gentlemen, since none of these has sped,
Gad, we have bought a Share i'th' speaking Head.
So there you'll save a Sice,
You love good Husbandry in all but Vice;
Whoring and drinking only bears a Price.
[The Head rises upon a twisted Post, on a Bench from
under the Stage. After Harlequin speaks to its Mouth.]
Oh!—Oh!—Oh!
Stentor. Oh!—Oh!—Oh!
[After this it sings Sawny, laughs, crys God bless the King in order.
Stentor answers.
Speak louder, sir, if you'd have me repeat;
Plague of this Rogue, he will betray the Cheat.
[He speaks louder, it answers indirectly.
—Hum—There 'tis again,
Pox of your Eccho with a Northern Strain.
Well—This will be but a nine days Wonder too;
There's nothing lasting but the Puppets Show.
What Ladies Heart's so hard, but it would move,
To hear Philander and Irene's Love?
Those Sisters too the scandalous Wits do say,
Two nameless keeping Beaux have made so gay;
But those Amours are perfect Sympathy,
Their Gallants being as mere Machines as they.
Oh! how the City Wife, with her nown Ninny,
Is charm'd with, Come into my Coach,—Miss Jenny, Miss Jenny.
But overturning—Frible crys—Adznigs,
The jogling Rogue has murder'd all his Kids.
The Men of War cry, Pox on't, this is dull,
We are for rough Sports,—Dog Hector, and the Bull.
Thus each in his degree, Diversion finds,
Your Sports are suited to your mighty Minds;
Whilst so much Judgment in your Choice you show,
The Puppets have more Sense than some of you.