THE PROLOGUE  Spoken by Mr. POWEL. at Oxford, July the Tenth. 1682. 3. Aug. 1682 

BY a dissenting Playhouse frantic rage,  
We the poor remnant of a ruin'd Stage,  
Must call the very Storm that wracked us kind,  
Since we this safe, and pleasant harbour find:  
So shipwrecked Passengers, if they espy  
Any kind remnant of the Ship that's nigh,  
Embrace with thanks the charitable Oar  
That Fate prepared, and make towards the Shore.   

Our tribe infected with the City fits,  
Was setting up a Commonwealth of wits,  
And still (to make the parallel more true)  
Was falling out, and without reason too:  
Moved by these broils, which rassed us still more high,  
We made at last a real Tragedy.  
Old Relique's of th' infection still we bear,  
For each man here is turned Petitioner.  
And to your kindness, for the double recruit  
Of Wit and Fortune, makes his humble Suit.   

Faith 'twas high time to leave the noisy Town,  
When what scarce made a show was pulling down.  
When Our gay Ribbons, and such useless things,  
Were all condemned to make new Bible Strings.  
Our short-Jump Canters stiffly have defied  
All Rhymes, since David's good Burlesquers died;  
Have all things else but State-lampoons decried.  
Good Poems they like Holywater fear,  
Because there seems some kind of concord there.   

Here Genuine peace does every breast inspire,  
And to a general calmness all conspire.  
Rebellion, which is there the only Prize  
By which the canting, hot-brained Zealots rise,  
In this fair Paradise dares not show her face,  
As if some flaming Cherub kept the place.  
So when the Plague Our Climate did infest,  
And with new-heats the late burnt Town possess't;  
The fearful Steams (that lodged i'th' circling Air)  
Kept out of sight, and durst not enter here.   
FINIS.