Prologue to a New Play, called Anna Bullen, Acted at the Duke's House.  

TO all Impartial Judges in the Pit,  
And to each beauteous Patroness of Wit,  
I'm se●● to plead the Poet's Cause▪ and say,  
There's not one slander in his Modest Play.  
He brings before your eyes a modern Story,  
Yet meddles not with either Whig or Tory.  
Was't not enough (vain men, of either side)  
Two Roses once the Nation did divide?  
But must it be in danger now again,  
Betwixt the Scarlet, and Green-Ribbon-men?  
Who made this difference were not England's Friends;  
Be not their Tools, to serve their Plotting Ends.  
Damn the State-Fop, who here his Zeal discovers,  
And o'er the Stage (like our Ill Genius hovers:  
Give me a Pit of Drinkers, and of Lovers:  
Good Sanguine men, who mind no State-Affair,  
But bid a base World of itself take care.  
We hope their Life's not so abhorred a thing,  
But loves his Country, and would serve his King.  
But, in your Parties why should we engage,  
Or meddle with the Plots of this mad Age?  
We lose enough by those upon the Stage.  
Again bring your ill Nature, your false Wi●,  
Your noisy Mirth, your fight in the Pit.  
Welcome mask Teazer, peevish Gamester, Huffer,  
All Fools; but Politicians we can suffer  
In God's Name let each man keep to's own Vocation,  
Our Trade is to mend you, and not the Nation.  
Besides, our Author has this further end,  
Fears he's not safe, if but one side's his Friend.  
He needs to all, his weakness to defend.  
And, to oblige you to't, hopes he has shown,  
No Country has men braver than your own.  
His Heroes all to England are confined:  
To your own Fathers sure you will be kind.  
He brings no Foreigners to move your pity,  
But sends them to a Jury of the City:    

EPILOGUE to the same.  

WEll, Sirs▪ your kind Opinions now, I pray  
Of this our neither Whig nor Tory Play:  
To blow such Coals his conscious Muse denies;  
Wit (Sacred Wit) such Subjects should despise:  
To abuse one Party with a Cursed Play,  
And bribe the other for a vast Third Day.  
Like Gladiators than you straight resort,  
And crowd to make your Nero-Faction sport.  
But, what is worse, that men of sense should do it,  
For worrying one another, pay the Poet:  
So Butchers at a baiting take delight  
For him who keeps the Bears to roar and fight;  
Both friends and foes such Authors make their Game,  
And get your Money, which was all their aim:  
No matter for the Play, nor for the Wit,  
The better Farce is acted in the Pit.  
Both Parties to be cheated well agree,  
And swallow any Nonsense, so it be  
With Faction guilt, or faced with Loyalty.  
Here's such a Rout with Whigging and with Torying,  
That you forget your dear loved Sin of Whoring.  
The Vizard Masque, who ventures her half Crown,  
Finding no hopes but here to be undone:  
Like a cast Mistress, past her dear Delight,  
Turns Godly straight, and goes to Church for spite;  
And does not doubt, since you are grown so fickle,  
to find more Cullies in a Conventicle.  
We on the Stage stand still, and are content  
To see you act what we should represent.  
You use us like the Women that you woo,  
You give us Sport, and pay us for it too.  
Well, we're resolved in our next Play-Bill  
To print at large a Trial of your Skill;  
Then more we hope will run to such a Sight,  
Than would to see 500 Monsters fight,  
Or hear our stubborn Captains last Good Night.    

London: Printed for Allen Banks. 1682.