A PROLOGUE  Written by Mr. Dryden, to a New Play, called, The Loyal Brother, etc. 
POets, like Lawful Monarches, ruled the Stage,  
Till Critics, like Damned whigs, debauched our Age.  
Mark how they jump: Critics would regulate  
Our Theatres, and whigs reform our State:  
Both pretend love, and both (Plague rot 'em) hate.  
The Critic humbly seems Advice to bring,  
The fawning Whig Petitions to the King:  
But ones advice into a satire slides;  
Tother's Petition a Remonstrance hides.  
These will no Taxes give, and those no Pence:  
Critics would starve the Poet, whigs the Prince.  
The Critic all our troops of friends discards;  
Just so the Whig would fain pull down the Guards.  
Guards are illegal, that drive foes away,  
As watchful Shepherds, that fright beasts of prey.  
Kings, who Disband such needless Aids as these,  
Are safe— as long as e'er their Subjects please.  
And that would be till next Queen Bess' night:  
Which thus, grave penny Chroniclers indite.  
Sir Edmond-berry, first, in woeful wise,  
Leads up the show, and Milks their Maudlin eyes.  
There's not a Butcher's Wife but Dribs her part,  
And pities the poor Pageant from her heart;  
Who, to provoke revenge, rides round the fire,  
And, with a civil congee, does retire.  
But guiltless blood to ground must never fall:  
There's Antichrist behind, to pay for all.  
The Punk of Babylon in Pomp appears,  
A lewd Old Gentleman of Seventy years.  
Whose Age in vain our Mercy would implore;  
For few take pity on an Old-cast Whore.  
The Devil, who brought him to the shame, takes part;  
Sits cheek by jowl, in black, to cheer his heart:  
Like Thief and Parson in a Tyburn-Cart.  
The word is given; and with a loud Huzzaw  
The Mitred Moppet from his Chair they draw:  
On the slain Corpse contending Nations fall;  
Alas, what's one poor Pope among 'em all!  
He burns; now all true hearts your Triumphs ring;  
And next (for fashion) cry, God save the King.  
A needful Cry in midst of such Alarms:  
When Forty thousand Men are up in Arms.  
But after he's once saved, to make amends,  
In each succeeding Health they Damn his Friends:  
So God begins, but still the Devil ends.  
What if some one inspired with Zeal, should call▪  
Come let's go cry, God save him at White Hall?  
His best friends would not like this over-care:  
Or think him ere the safer for that prayer.  
Five Praying Saints are by an Act allowed:  
But not the whole Church-Militant, in crowd.  
Yet, should heaven all the true Petitions drain  
Of Presbyterians, who would Kings maintain;  
Of Forty thousand, five would scarce remain.   

The EPILOGUE by the same Hand;  Spoken by Mrs. Sarah Cook. 
A Virgin Poet was served up to day;  
Who till this hour, ne'er cackled for a Play:  
He's neither yet a Whig nor Tory-Boy;  
But, like a Girl, whom several would enjoy,  
Begs leave to make the best of his own natural Toy.  
Were I to play my callow Author's game,  
The King's House would instruct me, by the Name:  
There's Loyalty to one: I wish no more:  
A Commonwealth sounds like a Common Whore.  
Let Husband or Gallant be what they will,  
One part of Woman is true Tory still.  
If any Factious spirit should rebel,  
Our Sex, with ease, can every rising quell.  
Then, as you hope we should your failings hide,  
An honest Jury for our play provide:  
whigs, at their Poets never take offence;  
They save dull Culpritts who have Murdered Sense:  
Tho Nonsense is a nauseous heavy Mass,  
The Vehicle called Faction makes it pass.  
Faction in Play's the Commonwealths man's bribe:  
The leaden farthing of the Canting Tribe:  
Though void in payment Laws and Statutes make it.  
The Neighbourhood, that knows the Man, will take it.  
'Tis Faction buys the Votes of half the Pit;  
Theirs is the Pention-Parliament of wit.  
In City-Clubs their venom let 'em vent;  
For there 'tis safe, in its own Element:  
Here, where their madness can have no pretence,  
Let 'em forget themselves an hour in sense.  
In one poor Isle, why should two Factions be?  
Small difference in your Vices I can see;  
In Drink and Drabs both sides too well agree.  
Would there were more Preferments in the Land;  
If Places fell, the party could not stand.  
Of this damned grievance every Whig complains;  
They grunt like Hogs, till they have got their Grains.  
Mean time you see what Trade our Plots advance,  
We send each year good Money into France:  
And they, that know what Merchandise we need,  
Send o'er true Protestants, to mend our breed.  
FINIS.   

London, Printed for J. Tonson.