HAYNES His Reformation PROLOGUE, Spoke in Black.  
THUS Clothed with shame, which is one step to Grace,  
Excuse the modest blush now spoils my Face;  
For after Two Years Excommunnication,  
For Heinous Sins against this Congregation  
I'm now to plead my thorough Reformation.  
Know then, that weary grown, of the thin fare  
Of living by my Wits, that's by the Air;  
Although kind Patrons  
" Into your Bumpers I have oft been plunging,  
" And Top't, as I a Patent had for Spunging;  
" But to proceed in't still, my Conscience stains,  
" (Conscience, the Darling Mistress of Jo. Haynes)  
" Wherefore, tho' late, now finding like a Novice,  
" Players (like Wits) are Fools, when out of Office:  
And seeing Nocturnal Friends drop off so fast,  
Like Limerick I'm compelled to yield at last.  
But oh! the Terms of my Capitulation  
Would make the hardest heart feel soft Compassion:  
I must not Drink, not taste Life's common Joys,  
For fear of spoiling my melodious Voice;  
No more at Midnight visit dear James Long,  
Who has the best Navarre e'er tipped o'er Tongue;  
T'has all good Qualities,  
A Concealed Body, Fresh, Mellow, and Fine,  
'Tis all Sincerity, a Silken Wine;  
It Charms the Taste, and Gratifies the Nose,  

Weeping.  Adieu my Dear, Dear Paradise, the Rose  
Where I the Music now must hear no more,  

Spoke like a Drawer.  Of a Bottle O' Sebastian in the Sun, score.  
Nor whilst God Bacchus is our Cheeks Adorning,  

Like a Watchman's tone.  Past Three a Clock, and a Dark Cloudy Morning.  
Nor make the last excuse for longer stay,  

As Drunk  More Wine ye Dog, it is not break o' Day.  
Now now your new Regenerated Player  
Morning and Evening will trudge to Prayer;  
And fly all Playhouse Plots that are o'brewing,  
That National Sin (Sedition) was my ruin.  
Adieu Wills Coffeehouse too, Beaus, Captains, Wits,  
Who have been so very kind to me by sits.  
Farewell, I now must herd with sober Cits.  
Where I may speak my Mind, and fear no snub,  
With Friends will lend, as well as pay a Club.  
What though they ne'er broke Jest, or Pate at Lockets,  
They've Sense enough for all that, in their Pockets;  
I do but think leading this Virtuous Life,  
What a Comfort I shall be to my poor Wife;  
At Home by Ten a Clock, in Bed by Eleven,  
Where I will make my former Scores all even.  
" This being decreed, I've nothing more to do  
" But fix myself a rent-charge now on you,  
Humbly beseeching  
" That I, like Parish Brat; Forlorn, and Poor,  
" That's laid for want, at the next Rich Man's door;  
" Swathed in ill luck, the Charity may get  
" Of you the Great Churchwardens of the Pit.  
Then tho'my Voice should fail, as that will happen,  
I'm sure you'll guests my meaning, by my gaping.  
FINIS.   

LONDON, Printed for R. Bentley in Russel-Street in Covent-Garden. 1692.