Prologue, Spoken at the Opening of the Duke's New Play-house in Dorset-garden

'Tis not in this as in the former age, When Wit alone suffic'd t' adorn the stage; When things well-said an audience could invite, Without the hope of such a gaudy sight: What with your fathers took would take with you, If Wit had still the charm of being new: Had not enjoyment dull'd your appetite, She in her homely dress would yet delight; Such stately theatres we need not raise, Our Old House would put off our dullest plays. You, Gallants, know a fresh wench of sixteen May drive the trade in honest bombazine; And never want good custom, should she lie In a back room, two or three stories high: But such a beauty as has long been known, Though not decay'd, but to perfection grown, Must, if she think to thrive in this lewd town, Wear points, lac'd petticoats, and a rich gown: Her lodgings too must with her dress agree, Be hung with damask, or with tapestry; Have china, cabinets, and a great glass, To strike respect into an amorous ass. Without the help of stratagems and arts, An old acquaintance cannot touch your hearts, Methinks 'tis hard our authors should submit So tamely to their predecessors' wit; Since, I am sure, among you there are few Would grant your grand-fathers had more than you. But hold! I in this business may proceed too far, And raise a storm against our theatre; And then what would the wise adventurers say, Who are in a much greater fright to-day Than ever poet was about his play? Our apprehensions none can justly blame, Money is dearer much to us than fame: This thought on, let our poets justify The reputation of their poetry; We are resolv'd we will not have to do With what's between those gentlemen and you. Be kind, and let our house have but your praise, You're welcome every day to damn their plays.