PROLOGUE TO A Commonwealth of Women, Spoke by Mr. HAYNES, Habited like a WHIG, Captain of the Scyth-men in the West, a Scythe in his Hand.  
FROM the West, as Champion in defence of Wit,  
I come, to mow the Critics of the Pit,  
Who think we've not improved what Fletcher Writ.  
This Godly Weapon first invented was  
By Whigs, to cut down Monarchy like Grass;  
But I know better how to use these Tools,  
And have reserved my Scythe to mow down Fools:  
Yet o' my Conscience they would sprout again,  
And the Herculean Labour were in vain.  
The Pit, like Hydra's, still would yield supplies,  
From one lopped Blockhead, twenty more would rise.  
A sort of paltry Critics yonder sit,  
For this destroying Engine not unfit,  
Cuckolds were always Enemies to Wit;  
For Wit oft draws the Wife to leave her Spouse,  
To take a small refreshing bit with us.  
Fantastic Tastes how hard it is to please!  
Critics, like Flies, have several Species.  
There's one that just has paid his grudged half-Crown,  
Cries, Rot the Play, Pox on't, let's cry it down.  
The censuring Spark would fain seem Great and Witty,  
Yet Whispers Politics with Orange Betty;  
She cracks his Philberds, whilst he, in her Ear,  
Is Fight o'er again the Western War,  
Bragging what numbers his sole Arm has killed,  
Tho' the vain Fop perhaps was ne'er i'th' Field.  
Thus Worm that snugs in Shell where it was bred,  
Is nothing to the Maggot in his head,  
For Harmless Insect that those Nuts create  
Is nothing to the Maggot of the Pate,  
Now such a Fop as this would I be at.  
Another to complete his daily Task,  
Flustered with Claret, seizes on a Mask,  
Hisses the Play, steals off with Punk i'th' dark,  
He Damns the Poet, but she Claps the Spark.  
I wonder if the Law could doom one dead,  
That now should lop off such a Fellow's Head!  
It cannot be found Murder.— And to share  
This dreadful Fate, You Critics all prepare.  
For besides all my Scythians yet unseen,  
We've yet a Female Commonwealth within,  
Who strongly Armed, like Furies venture on,  
And if y'approach their Trenches once, y'are gone.   

EPILOGUE.  
HOW silly 'tis for one, not yet Thirteen,  
To hope her first Essay should please you Men:  
You cannot taste what such a Creature speaks;  
Would she were three years older for your sakes;  
Two handfuls taller, a Plump pretty Lass,  
I doubt not then my Epilogue would pass.  
But, as I am, for your Applause I sue,  
Pray spare me for the Good that I may do.  
Gallants, I better shall perform e'er long,  
Despise not a poor thing because she's young.  
Twigs may be bend, Trees are too stubborn grown;  
And th' Roses Bud is sweet as Roses blown.  
In China (as I often have been told)  
The Women marry at eleven years old:  
Our Playhouse is a kind of China too,  
And nothing like the Stage to make me grow;  
For, tho' not Power, I have the Will to please,  
And Will's a mighty help in such a Case.  
We on this fruitful Soil have Women seen,  
That in few Months have grown as big again.  
Oh jemminy! what is the Cause of that?  
I wonder what they Eat to grow so Fat?  
We young ones know not how that business is;  
But for all that we may be allowed to guests;  
And I beginning now to chatter Sense,  
Encouraged, may divert a Twelvemonth hence:  
And therefore humbly thus I make Address,  
Excuse Faults, and accept my Will to please;  
But if you fail me, may you nevermore  
Kiss Woman under (at the least) fourscore.  
FINIS.   

This may be Printed.  
Aug. 20. 1685. R. L. S.   

LONDON, Printed for R. Bentley in Covent-Garden, and are to be sold by R. Baldwin in Old-Baily Corner. 1685.