A PROLOGUE by Mr. Settle to his New Play, called The Emperor of Morocco, with the Life of Gayland. Acted at the Theatre Royal, the 11 th'. of March, 1682.  
HOw finely would the Sparks be catched to Day,  
Should a Whig-Poet Write a Tory-Play?  
And you, possessed with Rage before, should send  
Your random Shot abroad, and maul a Friend:  
For you, we find, too often, hiss or clap  
Just as you live, speak, think, and fight, by hap.  
And Poets, we all know, can Change, like you,  
And are alone to their own Interest true:  
Can Write against all sense, nay even their own;  
The Vehicle, called Pension, makes it down.  
No fear of Cudgels, where there's hope of Bread:  
A well-filled Panch forgets a broken Head.  
But our dull Fop on every side is damned:  
He has his Play with Love and Honour crammed.  
Rot your Old-fashioned Hue in Romance,  
Who in a Lady's Quarrel breaks a Lance.  
Give us the Modish Feat of Honour done,  
With Eighteen well-chewed Bullets in one Gun.  
Charged but with Eighteen Bullets, did I say,  
Damn it, if that wont do, we'll bring one day,  
Queen Bess' Pocket Pistol into play.  
Give us Heroic Worthies of Renown,  
With a revenging Rival's Mortal Frown,  
Not by dividing Oceans kept asunder,  
Whilst angry Spark comes on, like Jove, with Thunder,  
Gives out in Harlem Gazet, Blood and Wounds  
In Foreign Fray, to sculk on English Ground,  
And scorning Duels, a poor Prize at L'Sharps  
He only fights for Fame in Counterscarps.  
Do not you follow his Revenge and Fury,  
Be you those tender hearted Things, his Jury.  
Give us Old-Baily Mercy for our Play:  
Ah no! no Prayers nor Bribes your Hearts can sway,  
Your cruel Talents lie the other way.  
Critics  
Are Polish Bullies, fire and lightning all,  
The Blunderbuss goes off, and where you hit you maul.   

The EPILOGUE, Spoken by Mrs. Coysh's Girl, as CUPID.  
LAdies, the Poet knew no better way,  
Than to send me to Prattle for his Play;  
I am your Cupid, and you cannot sure  
Drive such a small, young Beggar from your door:  
Do you be but as kind, as you are fair,  
And by my Quiver, Bow and Darts, I swear,  
The little Tiny God, whose help you want,  
Shall hear your Prayers, and all your Wishes grant;  
The Country Lady shall come up to Town,  
And shine, in her old Coach, and her new Gown;  
The City Wife shall leave her poor Tom Farthing,  
And take a harmless Walk to Covent Garden;  
Those very Eyes shall still look young and gay,  
That Conquered on the Coronation-day;  
And you, the brighter Beauties of the Court,  
You who the World undo, but Stage support,  
You shall subdue all hearts, while I sit still;  
I'll break my Bow, and leave your Eyes to kill;  
Nay the Court-Star, your Beauties to advance,  
Has left her Darling Sphere, to set in France.  
FINIS.   

LONDON: Printed for A. BANKS.