PROLOGUE to Dame Dobson the Cunning Woman.  Spoken by Mrs. CURRER. 
GAllants, I vow I am quite out of heart,  
I've not one smutty Jest in all my part.  
Here's not one Scene of tickling Raillery;  
There we quite lose the Pit and Gallery.  
His London Cuckolds did afford you sport.  
That pleased the Town, and did divert the Court.  
But 'cause some squeamish Females of renown  
Made visits with design to cry it down,  
He swore in's Rage he would their humours fit,  
And write the next without one word of Wit.  
No Line in this will tempt your minds to Evil,  
It's true, 'tis dull, but then 'tis very civil.  
No double sense shall now your thoughts beguile,  
Make Lady Blush, nor Ogling Gallant Smile.  
But mark the Fate of this misjudging Fool!  
A Bawdy Play was never counted Dull,  
Nor modest Comedy e'er pleased you much,  
'Tis relished like good Manners amongst the Dutch.  
In you, chaste Ladies, than we hope to day,  
This is the Poet's Recantation Play  
Come often to't that he at length may see  
'Tis more than a pretended Modesty:  
Stick by him now, for if he finds you falter,  
He quickly will his way of writing alter;  
And every Play shall send you blushing home,  
For, though you rail, yet then we're sure you'll come.  
Thus Brides are Coy and Bashful the first night,  
But used to't once, are mad for their delight.  
Do not the Whiggish Nature than pursue,  
Lest like Whig-Writer, he desert you too.  
Whig-Poet when he can no longer Thrive,  
Turns Cat in Pan and writes his Narrative.  
No Irish Witness sooner shall recant,  
Nor oftener play the Devil or the Saint.   

EPILOGUE to the Same!  Spoken by Mr. JEVORN. 
Tho' I am no great Conjurer you see,  
Nor deal in Devil or Astrology,  
Yet from your Physnomies I shrewdly guess  
The Poet stole the French Divineress  
But let not that, pray, put you in a passion,  
Kidnapping has of late been much in fashion.  
If Alderman did Spirit men away,  
Why may not Poets than Kidnap a Play?  
Poets are Planters, Stage is their Plantation,  
But though they are for Trade and Propagation,  
Yet don't like Thievish whigs Rob their own Nation.  
But, Fellow Citizens, beware Entrapping,  
For, whilst y'are busy sending Folks to Wapping,  
‛ Ygad your Wives e'en go abroad Kidnapping.  
Tending to this, of late I heard such stories,  
That I for safety Married amongst the Tories.  
And see from City Prigg I am become  
A Beau Garcon, a man of th' Sword: rare Thumb!  
jerné I am all Tory now, par ma foy  
I hate a Whig: I them l'Officiere du Roy.  
And now I bid defiance to the City,  
Nor Whig, nor Critic shall from me have pity.  
And as in Valour, I in Wit am grown,  
Then to'em Gillet; let 'em know their own.  
You Whigs, but Critics are amongst the Cits  
And Critics are mere Whigs amongst the Wits.  
Thro your cross Nature you'll no mercy show,  
But would the Monarchy of Wit o'er throw;  
And Critics here with the same spirit stickle  
For Liberty, as Whigs in Conventicle  
Against Sheriffs and Poets equally you Bawl,  
You Riot in a Playhouse, they 't Guild-Hall.  
But Noise, you see, and Faction often fails,  
Law is our Shield against your Protestant Flails  
Law and large Fines may send you all to Jails.  
And if you Critics here are troublesome  
I'll Diametrically upon you come.  
And maul you with my Charm, Firm, Close, Standfast Thumb!  
Then there's your Wheadling Critic, seems a Friend,  
Commends by halves, and with a But i'th' end,  
Has sly reserves which still to Faction tend.  
They praise a Play, and on the Poet fleer,  
But, his back turned, loll out their tongue and Jeer.  
Thus amongst Wits, as whigs too, these are Trimmers,  
They're like a sort of Half Crowns we call Swimmers.  
Broad to the Eye, but though the Stamp seems fair  
Weigh 'em they're light, and damned mixed Metal are.  
These blame the City, but uphold their Charter,  
They Rail at Treason; but give Traitors Quarter,  
And when a Rebel's hanged, they style him Martyr.  
For Perjured Villains they would have Reprieve  
And to False Witnesses can Pensions give,  
Yet won't allow a Mayor may choose his Sheriff.  
They cry, to Magistrates we'll give all Honour:  
But let's have Law:— Then Holloo— take him Coroner.  
But, Friends, don't think that you shall longer Shame us,  
Or that we'll Bugbeared be by your Mandamus;  
You see Dame Dobsons' Devil long was famous,  
But failed at last: so will your Ignoramus.   

London: Printed for Io. Hindmarsh, Bookseller to his Royal Highness, at the Black Bull in Cornhill, 1683.