to come on, without a frontispiece; as bald as one of you young beaux, without your periwig. I left our young poet, snivelling and sobbing behind the scenes, and cursing somebody that has deceived him.
Hold your prating to the audience: here's honest Mr. Williams, just come in, half mellow, from the Rose Tavern. He swears he is inspired with claret, and will come on, and that extempore too, either with a prologue of his own or something 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. Bowen.
ENTER MR. WILLIAMS.
Save ye, sirs, save ye! I am in a hopeful way, I should speak something, in rhyme, now, for the
But the deuce take me, if I know what to say. I'll stick to my friend the author, that I can tell ye, To the last drop of claret in my belly.
So far I'm sure 'tis rhyme-that needs no grant
And, if my verses' feet stumble
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
But, for this play — (which till I have done, we show not)
may be its fortune by the Lord-I know
This I dare swear, no malice here is writ:
'Tis innocent of all things; e'en of wit.
He's no high-flyer; he makes no skyrockets, 15
His squibs are only levell'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 something recover'd of my fluster'd madness:
And now a word or two in sober sadness.
Ours is a common play; and you pay down
A common harlot's price; just half a crown.
You'll say, I play the pimp on my friend's score;
But since '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 Jonson's learning often fail'd?
But Shakespeare's greater genius still prevail'd.
Have not some writing actors, in this age,
Deserv'd and found success 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 presence grace our homely cheer;
Peace and the butt is all our business here:
So much for that; and the devil take small beer.
SURE there's a dearth of wit in this dull town,
When silly plays so savourily go down;
As, when clipt money passes, 'tis a sign
A nation is not over-stock'd with coin.
Happy is he who, in his own defence,
Can write just level to your humble sense;
Who higher than your pitch can never go;
And, doubtless, he must creep, who writes below.
So have I seen, in hall of knight, or lord,
A weak arm throw on a long shovel-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, straining all he can, comes up to you
For, if you like yourselves, you like him too.
ape his own dear image will embrace;
An ugly beau adores a hatchet face:
So, some of you, on pure instinct of nature,
Are led, by kind, to admire your fellow creature.
In fear of which, our house has sent this day, 20
To insure our new-built vessel, call'd a play;
No sooner nam'd, than one cries out, These stagers
Come in good time, to make more work for wagers.
The town divides, if it will take or no;
The courtiers bet, the cits, the merchants too; 25
A sign they have but little else to do.
Bets, at the first, were fool-traps; where the wise,
Like spiders, lay in ambush for the flies:
But now they're grown a common trade for all,
And actions by the new-book rise and fall;
Wits, cheats, and fops, are free of wager-hall.
One policy as far as Lyons carries;
Another, nearer home, sets up for Paris.
Our bets, at last, would e'en to Rome extend,
But that the pope has prov'd our trusty friend. 35
Indeed, it were a bargain worth our money,
Could we insure another Ottoboni.
Among the rest there are a sharping set,
That pray for us, and yet against us bet.
Sure heaven itself is at a loss to know
If these would have their prayers be heard, or no : For, in great stakes, we piously suppose,
Men pray but very faintly they may lose.
Leave off these wagers; for, in conscience speaking,
The city needs not your new tricks for breaking:
And if you gallants lose, to all appearing,
You'll want an equipage for volunteering;
While thus, no spark of honour left within ye,
When you should draw the sword, you draw the
guinea.
BY MR. MOUNTFORT, 1693. SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE.
THUS you the sad catastrophe have seen,
Occasion'd by a mistress and a queen.
Queen Eleanor the proud was French, they say;
But English manufacture got the day.
Jane Clifford was her name, as books aver:
Fair Rosamond was but her Nom de guerre.
Now tell me, gallants, would you lead your life
With such a mistress, or with such 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 honest whoring Harry in the play?
I guess your minds: the mistress would be taken,
And nauseous matrimony sent a packing.
The devil's in you all; mankind's a rogue ;
You love the bride, but you detest the clog.
the mistress would be taken,
And nauseous matrimony sent a packing]
The incident of Lady Easy's throwing her handkerchief over Sir Charles's head, whilst he was sleeping, seems to have been taken from the Memoirs of Bassompiere, concern ing a Count d'Orgevillier and his mistress, tom. ii. p. 6. 1728. at Amsterdam. Dr. J. W.
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