PROLOGUE. TO THE King and Queen, AT THE OPENING OF Their THEATRE. Spoken by Mr. Batterton: Written by Mr. Dryden. SInce Faction ebbs, and Rogues grow out of Fashion, Their penny-Scribes take care t'inform the Nation, How well men thrive in this or that Plantation. How Pensilvania's Air agrees with Quakers, And Carolina's with Associators: Both even too good for Madmen and for Traitors. Truth is, our Land with Saints is so run over, And every Age produces such a store, That now there's need of two New-englands' more. What's this, you'll say, to Us and our Vocation? Only thus much, that we have left our Station, And made this Theatre our new Plantation. The Factious Natives never could agree; But aiming, as they called it, to be Free, Those Playhouse whigs set up for Property. Some say they no Obedience paid of late; But would new Fears and Jealousies create; Till topsy-turvy they had turned the State. Plain Sense, without the Talon of Foretelling, Might guests 'twould end in downright knocks and quelling: For seldom comes there better of Rebelling. When Men will, needlessly, their Freedom barter For Lawless Power, sometimes they catch a Tartar: (There's a damned word that rhimes to this called Charter.) But, since the Victory with Us remains, You shall be called to Twelve in all our Gains: (If you'll not think us saucy for our pains.) Old Men shall have good old Plays to delight 'em: And you, fair Ladies and Gallants that slight 'em, We'll treat with good new Plays; if our new Wits can write write. We'll take no blundring Verse, no fustian Tumour, No dribbling Love, from this or that Presumer: No dull fat Fool shamm'd on the Stage for humour. For, faith, some of 'em such vile stuff have made, As none but Fools or Fairies ever Played; But 'twas, as Shopmen say, to force a Trade. We've given you Tragedies, all Sense defying: And singing men, in woeful Metre dying; This 'tis when heavy Lubbers will be flying. All these disasters we well hope to weather; We bring you none of our old Lumber hither: Whigg Poets and Whig Sheriffs may hang together. EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mr Smithâ–ª Written by the same Author. NEW Ministers, when first they get in place Must have a care to Please; and that's our Case: Some Laws for public Welfare we design, If You, the Power supreme, will please to join: There are a sort of Pratlers in the Pit, Who either have, or who pretend to Wit: These noisy Sirs so loud their Parts rehearse, That oft the Play is silenced by the Farce: Let such be dumb, this Penalty to shun, Each to be thought my Lady's Eldest Son. But stay: methinks some Vizard Masque I see, Cast out her Lure from the mid Gallery: About her all the f lutt'ring Sparks are ranged; The Noise continues though the Scene is changed: Now growling, sputtring, wauling, such a clutter, 'Tis just like Puss defendant in a Gutter: Fine Love no doubt, but e'er two days are o'er ye, The Surgeon will be told a woeful story. Let Vizard Masque her naked Face expose, On pein of being thought to want a Nose: Then for your Lackeys, and your Train beside, (By what e'er Name or Title dignifyed) They roar so loud, you'd think behind the Stairs Tom Dove, and all the Brotherhood of Bears: They re grown a Nuisance, beyond all Disasters, We've none so great but their unpaying Masters. We beg you, Sirs, to beg your Men, that they Would please to give you leave to hear the Play. Next, in the Playhouse spare your precious Lives; Think, like good Christians, on your Bearns and Wives: Think on your Souls; but by your lugging forth, It seems you know how little they are Worth: If none of these will move the Warlike Mind, Think on the helpless Whore you leave behind! We beg you last, our Seene-room to forbear, And leave our Goods and Chattels to our Care: Alas, our Women are but washy Toys, And wholly taken up in Stage employs: Poor willing Tits they are: but yet I doubt This double Duty soon will wear 'em out. Then you are watched besides, with jealous care; What if my Lady's Page should find you there? My Lady knows t'a tittle what there's in ye; No passing your guilt Shilling for a Guiney. Thus, Gentlemen, we have summed up in short, Our Grievances, from Country, Town and Court: Which humbly we submit to your good pleasure; But first vote Money, then Redress at leisure. FINIS. LONDON, Printed for Jacob Tonson, at the Judge's Head in Chancery-lane. 1683.