PROLOGUE Designed for the last new FARCE, CALLED, The Fool's Expectation: Or, The Wheel of Fortune.  
Acted at the Theatre Royal in Dorset Gardens.  

YOU're welcome, Gentlemen, I'm glad to see,  
That Knaves, and Fools, so lovingly agree.  
Here our Adventurers, and Projectors, met,  
In Crowds together undistinguished sweat.  
See how each hugs his Cully like a Brother.  
They match like Tickets cut from one another.  
For Knave and Fool's so like, in all but heart,  
You'd swear, that one was ' tother's Counterpart.   

This thronged Appearance rids me of my Fear  
Of a lean Harvest this untoward Year.  
By Neal, and Speed, you've been so often bit,  
I was afraid our Project would not hit.  
But, Heaven be praised! Ours is a Fertile Soil,  
The forward Crop outshoots our busiest toil.  
Henceforth we'll fear no Dearth, or Reformation  
Of Fools, the Glory of the English Nation,  
Pure Sterling-Fools, that Wit and Caution hate,  
Whose pride 'tis to be dull, and obstinate.   

As Flanders was your Nursery for Bullies,  
So Projects are Hot-beds that force up Cullies;  
And Lott'ries are a Spot, that managed right,  
Raises vast Crops, like Mushrooms, in a Night.  
By often paring, and reducing low,  
Like Vines, by pruning, they more fruitful grow,   

I laugh to see so many Thousands round,  
Gaping for pennyworths of a Thousand Pound;  
Not one, that has a single Ticket got,  
Would be contented with a meaner Lot.  
Each hugs himself on his imagined Luck,  
And Grins to think how the bilked Fools will look.  
So Pops, that laugh at Matrimony, wed,  
That hissed their Neighbour, when he shared his Bed,  
They own the Sex all naught, but one, and Fate,  
Each thinks, reserves that one to be his Mate.  
Faith, let the Frolic here for once go round,  
Let each Man think he has the Thousand Pound.  
For this Conceit will be, when all is o'er,  
As justly grounded, as his hopes before.   

But, comfort Friends, let no One here relent,  
You've no great reason to be penitent.  
For if your Stars ordained you Fools, the Fates  
Have made you so at very easy Rates.  
All those, that heretofore with Neal have traded,  
In Bank, East-India Stock, and Projects waded,  
Have paid excessive Fines, to raise their Gains,  
And Sums advanced to show a want of Brains.  
The Quality, and Rich, might use those Tools,  
None could afford, but they to be their Fools.  
But our Projector, that consults your ease,  
Contrived to show you here for Pence apiece.  
Tho' Fortune's favours be to most denied,  
He hopes you will be all well satisfied;  
Nor grudge his Gains, whatever they appear,  
Which are but Five and Twenty Hundred clear.  
For in all Sights this Maxim still Obtains,  
That be, that shows the Monster, sweeps the Gains.    

EPILOGUE  BY FORTUNE. 

FRom Immemorial Time the Fierce, and Bold,  
Rash, Giddy, thoughtless Fools my Favour hold.  
They plead Prescription, and should I withdraw,  
Would prosecute their claim at Common-Law.  
And Chanc'ry in their Favour would decree,  
Their Title's questionless in Equity.  
For Fortune must provide for want of Sense;  
Fools are a Rent-charge upon Providence.  
For Wit, and Parts a Portion are from Heaven,  
And unto Mortals for Subsistance given;  
And those, in whom those luckless gists One meets,  
Are left to shift, and live upon their Wits.   

Know therefore all, it has been long decreed,  
That Wit should never, where I rule, succeed.  
If any such among this crowed appear,  
Let 'em withdraw, they have no business here.   

Thousands I see, that all expect my Graces,  
Blanks in their Hands, and Benefits in their Faces.  
But if I'm forced to bilk their Expectation,  
'Tis, I protest, sore against Inclination.  
The First Rate Fools this time my Coffers drain,  
But soon I hope, my Wheel will fill again.  
Let the unlucky bring next time this Face,  
And it shall be his Warrant for success.  
For of this Crowd, not One's within my Sight.  
But by his Phiz should be my Favourite.   

Here's Justice blinking with her Trinkets too,  
To give a Colour to what I shall do.  
But comfort Friends! I say it to her Face,  
She has no right to meddle in this Place.  
She would give Wealth, and power to Worth, and Merit,  
As if One Man should all heavens Gifts inherit.  
But she shall ne'er prevail to injure Fools,  
Or Fetter me with her damned formal Rules.  
Fortune, like Women, is to Merit coy;  
Coxcombs are privileged, and may enjoy.  
Should we caress ill mannered, surly Brutes,  
That rail, and call us Whores, and Prostitutes?  
That challenge all our Bounties as their due,  
And loath old Favours, only charmed with new?  
No! We must Fools our trusty Slaves advance;  
None thrive, like Altars raised by Ignorance.   

But the irrevocable Prize is gone,  
Which so devoutly all attend upon.  
Which could I but recall, I would bestow it,  
Upon the City Laureate, our Poet;  
Who has so much, and so divinely Writ,  
Yet never was suspected for a Wit.  
Of Slavish sense he still disdains the Yoke,  
And Apes the Nonsense, Thou, and Woden spoke;  
Stiff haughty Bombast rumbles in each line,  
Like that which does in London's Triumphs shine;  
For which next venture, he shall be so trim,  
Scarce shall his Pageants dare to rival him.    

London: Printed in the Year, 1698.