Prologue

Ladies, the ends for which we meet to-night, Are social good, and innocent delight, Past scenes of mirth, by present, we restore, And thanks return for honours dealt before. These too aloud for gratitude shall call, Whene'er your presence cheers a future ball. The voids of life are often unsupplied From aukward shame, or ill-consider'd pride: Still of our talents diffident or vain, We dread as vassals, or as kings disdain; Diseas'd with spleen, or impotence of mind, Skulking, sad fugitives, from human-kind. Converse, no doubt, an institute divine, Corrects our manners, bids our virtues shine; For still imperfect was the Maker's plan, Till this improv'd the savage into man. Yet ill by friendship man with man, we strive To keep the soul of social bliss alive: Friendship among ourselves is seldom true, But always proves more faithful made by you. Fir'd by your sex it vies with joys above, It mounts, it glows exalted into love. Say, then, ye tender, and ye truly fair, Since heaven has form'd you with distinguish'd care, And made a parent lavish of his store, In Nature's blessings rich, in Virtue's more; Say, could such gifts be ever meant the lot Of the pert coxcomb, or the stupid sot? Oh, if impartially you dart your frowns On well-bred Fribbles, and on ill-bred Clowns; If men from honour, as from shame exempt, The false and venal share your just contempt; When the smit youth of spirit, and of sense, Attacks your hearts, forbear a long defence; Dire fruits of Smithfield-sales let truth avert, And bless with beauty, where you find desert.