PROLOGUE to ROMULUS, Spoken by M RS. BUTLER.  Written by Mrs. Behn. 
HOw we shall please ye now I cannot say;  
But Sirs, I'faith here is News from Rome to day;  
Yet know withal, we've no such PACKETS here,  
As you read once a Week from Monkey CARE.  
But 'stead of that Lewd Stuff (that clogs the Nation)  
Plain Love and Honour; (though quite out of Fashion;)  
Ours is a Virgin ROME, long, long, before  
Pious GENEVA Rhetoric called her Whore;  
For be it known to their Eternal Shames,  
Those Saints were always good at calling Names:  
Of Scarlet Whores let'em their Wills devise,  
But lete'm raise no other Scarlet Lies;  
LIES that advance the Good Old Cause, and bring  
Into Contempt the PRELATES with the KING.  
Why should the Rebel Party be afraid?  
They're Rats and Weazles gnaw the Lion's Beard,  
And then in IGNORAMUS Holes they think,  
Like other Vermin, to lie close, and stink.  
What have ye got ye Conscientious Knaves,  
With all your Fancied Power, and Bully Braves?  
With all your standing to't; your Zealous Furies;  
Your Lawless Tongues, and Arbitrary juries?  
Your Burlesque Oaths, when one Green-Ribbon-Brother  
In Conscience will be Perjured for another?  
Your PLOTS, Cabals; Your Treats, Association,  
Ye shame, Ye very Nuisance of the Nation,  
What have ye got but one poor Word? Such Tools  
Were Knaves before; to which you've added Fools.  
Now I dare swear, some of you Whigsters say,  
Come on, now for a swinging TORY PLAY.  
But, Noble Whigs, pray let not those Fears start ye,  
Nor fright hence any of the Shame Sheriff's Party;  
For, if you'll take my censure of the story,  
It is as harmless as e'er came before ye,  
And writ before the times of Whig and Tory.   

EPILOGUE to the Same, Spoken by the Lady SLINGSBY.  
FAir Ladies, pity an unhappy Maid,  
By Fortune, and by faithless Love betrayed.  
Innocent once.— I scarce knew how to sin,  
Till that unlucky Devil entering in,  
Did all my Honour, all my Faith undo:  
LOVE! like Ambition, makes us Rebels too:  
And of all Treasons, mine was most accursed;  
Rebelling against a KING and FATHER first.  
A Sin, which Heaven nor Man can e ' e forgive;  
Nor could I Act it with the face to live.  
My Dagger did my Honour's cause redress;  
But Oh! my blushing Ghost must needs confess,  
Had my young Charming Lover faithful been,  
I fear I'd died with unrepented Sin.  
There's nothing can my Reputation save  
With all the True, the Loyal and the Brave;  
Not my Remorse, or Death, can expiate  
With them a Treason against the KING and State.  
Some Lovesick Maid perhaps, now I am gone,  
(Raging with Love, and by that Love undone,)  
May form some little Argument for me,  
T' excuse my Ingratitude and Treachery.  
Some of the Sparks too, that infect the Pit,  
(Whose Honesty is equal to their Wit,  
And think Rebellion but a petty Crime,  
Can turn to all sides Interest does incline,)  
May cry ' I gad I think the Wench is wise;  
‛ Had it proved Lucky, 'twas the way to rise.  
‛ She had a Roman Spirit, that disdains  
‛ Dull Loyalty, and the Yoke of Sovereigns.  
HE Pox of Fathers, and Reproach to come;  
‛ She was the first and Noblest Whig of Rome.  
But may that Ghost in quiet never rest,  
Who thinks itself with Traitor's Praises blest.   

LONDON: Printed by Nath. Thompson, 1682.