THE PROLOGUE TO PASTOR FIDO.  
Spoken by Mr. Edward Lambert.  
PReface and Prologue, are such modish Toys,  
Books ar'nt without this, nor without that Plays.  
Welcome, Gallants! and Ladies of the May,  
You shall be courted modishly to day,  
Because without you, there had been no Play.  
As to our Play 's Original; we'll first  
Do right to famed Guarini's sacred Dust,  
It's learned Author. Nor let it be decried,  
'Cause All's Italian, Nothing's Frenchified.  
For, Plays (you know) like clothes submit to Mode,  
And that●s but dull, that keeps the common Road.  
We care n●t for that— for here, Sirs! nought you'll have,  
But what is Noble, Sage, Wise, Solid, Grave.  
Stern CATO a Spectator might be here,  
And modest V●rgins may Unmasked appear.  
You've Come●● in its most ancient dress,  
As when of old▪ Carted through Villages.  
Here's then no place, for th' Sparks and th' Blades o'th' Times,  
(Vallueing themselves upon their Garb, their Crimes)  
Who scoff at us poor Bumkins: whose defence  
Is our Simplicity, our Innocence.  
To please such Fops (for mortally we hate 'em)  
we'll ne'er attempt.—  
In short, you've here, the Passions rudely dressed  
To act their parts, if F●ar balks not the rest.  
Here's coy Love, flattering Hope, cold Desperation,  
enlivening Joys, fawning Dissimulation,  
Pleasing Revenge, easy Credulity,  
Fondness, Moroseness, Rage, and Cruelty  
Charmed into Pity.— Here ●re Love's Fatigues  
Its Toils: and Lover's Wi● Counsels, Intrigues.  
And if All this won't take, stop here— for not  
(As I'm a Sinner) one word of the Plot.  
For, since 'tis at your choice, to clap or hiss,  
Expect the rest: if well, we do in This  
Your patience crave; pardon in what's amiss.  
The End.   

THE EPILOGUE TO PASTOR FIDO.  
Spoken by Sir W●lter Ernle Baronet.  
GAllants! the Stage is cl●r'd, and I am come,  
To hear the Actor's ●●nd or fatal doom.  
Poor Wretches! The amused with anxious fears  
And fled; jealous they've forfeited their Ears▪  
Tho' to be tried by YOU more than their Peers.  
Yet why should They a pa●●ial Trial fear,  
Where YOU, fair Lady's! influence the Bar?  
Where full of Pity, as of ●ate, YOU sit,  
There needs no IGNO●AMVS to acquit.  
Do like yourselves! Ste●m the moroser guise!  
Cramp snarling Critics! and control the wise!  
These All strike Sail to YOU— and are All blest  
Who in such Harbour, can securely rest.  
You'll say the Play's unmodish because old,  
Alas! you'll all be so— good Tales are oft ill told.  
This seems to be our ●ase. Put (Ladies!) then  
Most of you know, s●ch Striplings are not Men  
And tho' your kindness call't or Farce or Play.  
In Truth 'tis neither but a rude Essay.  
Faith! then be kind!— I do protest you'd need  
Accept this first time, the good will for th' deed.  
This Boon I only beg; grant This and then  
We hope to temp● you hither once again  
Mean time, win parting thanks Clownlike we treat ye  
And in our Hone-bred Phrase can only say t'ye  
After an ill Meam (Friends!) much good may't do t'ye.  
The End.