THE PROLOGUE and EPILOGUE to the History of BACON in Virginia.  Written by Mr. Dryden. 

PROLOGUE.  Spoken by a Woman, 
PLays you will have; and to supply your Store,  
Our Poet's trade to every Foreign Shore:  
This is the Product of Virginian Ground.  
And to the Port of Covent-Garden bound.  
Our Cargo is, or should at least, be Wit:  
Bless us from you damned Pirates of the Pit:  
And Vizard-Masks, those dreadful Apparitions;  
She-Privateers, of Venomous Conditions,  
That clap us oft aboard with French Commissions.  
You Sparks, we hope, will wish us happy Trading;  
For you have Ventures in our Vessel's Lading;  
And though you touch at this or t'other Nation;  
Yet sure Virginia is your dear Plantation.  
Expect no polished Scenes of Love should rise  
From the rude Growth of Indian Colonies.  
Instead of Courtship, and a tedious pother,  
They only tip the Wink at one another;  
You Civil Beaus, when you pursue the Game,  
With manners mince the meaning of— that same:  
But every part has there its proper Name.  
Good heavens defend me, who am yet unbroken  
From living there, where such Bug-words are spoken:  
Yet surely, Sirs, it does good Stomaches show,  
To talk so savour'ly of what they do.  
But were I Bound to that broad speaking land,  
What e'er they said, I would not understand,  
But innocently, with a Lady's Grace,  
Would learn to whisk my Fan about my Face.  
However, to secure you, let me swear,  
That no such base Mundungus Stuff is here.  
We bring you of the best the Soil affords:  
Buy it for once, and take it on our Words.  
You would not think a Countrey-Girl the worse,  
If clean and wholesome, though her linen's course.  
Such are our Scenes; and I dare boldly say,  
You may laugh less at a far better Play.  
The Story's true; the Fact not long a-go;  
The Hero of our Stage was English too:  
And bate him one small frailty of Rebelling,  
As brave as e'er was born at Iniskelling.   

EPILOGUE.  Spoken by a Woman. 
BY this time you have liked, or damned our Plot;  
Which though I know, my Epilogue knows not:  
For if it could foretell, I should not fail,  
In decent wise, to thank you, or to rail.  
But he who sent me here, is positive,  
This Farce of Government is sure to thrive;  
Farce is a Food as proper sore your lips,  
As for Green-Sickness, crumped Tobacco-pipes.  
Besides, the Author's dead, and here you sit,  
Like the Infernal Judges of the Pit:  
Be merciful; for 'tis in you this day,  
To save or damn her Soul; and that's her Play.  
She who so well could Love's kind Passion paint,  
We piously believe, must be a Saint:  
Men are but Bunglers, when they would express  
The sweets of Love, the dying tenderness;  
But Women, by their own abundance, measure,  
And when they write, have deeper sense of Pleasure.  
Yet though her Pen did to the Mark arrive,  
'Twas common Praise, to please you, when alive;  
But of no other Woman, you have read,  
Except this one, to please you, now she's dead.  
'Tis like the Fate of Bees, whose golden pains,  
Themselves extinguished, in their Hive remains.  
Or in plain terms to speak, before we go,  
What you young Gallants, by experience, know,  
This is an Orphan Child; a bouncing Boy,  
'Tis late to lay him out, or to destroy.  
Leave your Dog-tricks, to lie and to forswear,  
Pay you for Nursing, and we'll keep him here.   

Licenced,  
Nou. 20. 1689. J. F.   
FINIS.  

LONDON: Printed for Jacob Tonson, at the Judge's Head in Chancery-Lane, near Fleetstreet, 1689.