Go, conquerors of your male and female foes,
Men without hearts, and women without hose.
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 shall the pious Muses pay their vows,
And furnish all their laurels for your brows,
Their tuneful voice shall raise for your delights;
We want not poets fit to sing your flights.
But you, bright Beauties, for whose only sake
Those doughty knights such dangers undertake,
When they with happy gales are gone away,
With your propitious presence grace our play,
And with a sigh their empty seats survey:
Then think, on that bare bench my servant sat;
I see him ogle still, and hear him chat;
Selling facetious bargains, and propounding
That witty recreation, call'd Dumb-founding.
Their loss with patience we will try to bear,
And would do more to see you often here,
That our dead stage, revived, by your
fair eyes,
Under a female regency may rise.

ΤΟ

THE MISTAKES.

BY JOSEPH HARRIS, COMEDIAN. 1690.

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 peri

wig. I left our young poet snivelling and sobbing behind the scenes, and cursing somebody that has deceived him.

Enter MR. BOWEN.

Hold your prating to the audience; here is 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 play:

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 granting;
And if
my verses' feet stumble-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.

[not) But for this-play (which till I have done we show What may be its fortune-by the Lord-I know not. This I dare swear, no malice here is writ; 'Tis innocent of all things-even of wit.

He's no high-flyer-he makes no sky-rockets ;
His squibbs are only levelled 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 Shakspeare was an actor, and a poet.
Has not great Jonson's learning often fail'd?
But Shakspeare's greater genius still prevail'd.
Have not some writing actors, in this age,
Deserved and found success upon the stage?
To tell the truth, when our old wits are tired,
Not one of us but means to be inspired.
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.

PROLOGUE.

GALLANTS, a bashful poet bids me say
He's come to lose his maidenhead to-day.
Be not too fierce, for he's but green of age,
And ne'er, till now, debauch'd
the stage.
He wants the suffering part of resolution,
And comes with blushes to his execution.

upon

Ere you deflower his Muse, he hopes the pit
Will make some settlement upon his wit.
Promise him well, before the play begin,
For he would fain be cozen'd into sin.
"Tis not but that he knows you mean to fail;
But, if you leave him after being frail,
He'll have, at least, a fair pretence to rail;
To call you base, and swear you used him ill,
And put you in the new Deserters' bill.
Lord, what a troop of perjured men we see,
Enow to fill another Mercury!

But this the ladies may with patience brook;
Theirs are not the first colours you forsook.
He would be loth the beauties to offend,
But, if he should, he's not too old to mend.
He's a young plant, in his first year of bearing.
But his friend swears he will be worth the rearing.
His gloss is still upon him; though 'tis true
He's yet unripe, yet take him for the blue.
You think an apricot half green is best;

There's sweet and sour, and one side good at least.
Mangos and limes, whose nourishment is little,
Though not for food, are yet preserved for pickle:
So this green writer may pretend, at least,
To whet your stomachs for a better feast.
He makes this difference in the sexes too;
He sells to men, he gives himself to you.
To both he would contribute some delight,
A mere poetical hermaphrodite.

Thus he 's equipp'd, both to be 'woo'd, and woo;

With arms offensive, and defensive too,

"Tis hard, he thinks, if neither part will do.

ΤΟ

ALBUMAZAR.

To say this comedy pleased long ago,
Is not enough to make it pass you now;
Yet, Gentlemen, your ancestors had wit,
When few men censured, and when fewer writ:
And Jonson, of those few the best, chose this,
As the best model of his master-piece.
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That alchymist by this astrologer ;

Here he was fashion'd, and we may suppose
He liked the fashion well who wore the clothes.
But Ben made nobly his what he did mould;
What was another's lead becomes his gold:
Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns,
Yet rules that well which he unjustly gains,
But this our age such authors does afford
As make whole plays, and yet scarce write one
Who, in this anarchy of wit, rob all, [word;
And what's their plunder, their possession call;
Who, like old padders, scorn by night to prey,
But rob by sunshine, in the face of day:
Nay scarce the common ceremony use
Of Stand, Sir, and deliver up your muse ;'
But knock the poet down, and, with a grace,
Mount Pegasus before the owner's face.
Faith, if you have such country Toms abroad,
"Tis time for all true men to leave that road:
Yet it were modest, could it but be said
They strip the living, but these rob the dead;