Prologue

Why to this Farce this Title given, Of Seventeen Hundred Fifty Seven? Is it a Register of Fashions, Of Follies, Frailties, fav'rite Passions? Or is't design'd to make appear, How happy, good, and wise you were, In this same memorable Year? Sure with our Author Wit was scarce, To croud so many Virtues in a Farce. Perhaps 'tis meant to make you stare, Like Cloths hung out at Country Fair; On which strange Monsters glare and grin, To draw the gaping Bumpkins in.— Tho' 'tis the Genius of the Age, To catch the Eye with Title-Page; Yet here we dare not so abuse ye— We have some Monsters to amuse ye.

Ye Slaves to Fashion, Dupes of Chance; Whom Fortune leads her fickle Dance: Who, as the Dice shall smile or frown, Are rich and poor, and up and down; Whose Minds eternal Vigils keep; Who—like Macbeth, have murder'd Sleep!— Each modish Vice this Night shall rise, Like Banquo's Ghost, before your Eyes; While, conscious you, shall start and roar— Hence, horrid Farce!—we'll see no more!— —Ye Ladies, too—Maids, Widows, Wives— Now tremble for your naughty Lives! How will your Hearts go pit-a-pat?— Bless me!—Lord!—what's the Fellow at?— Was Poet e'er so rude before? Why sure the Brute will say no more— Again!—O Gad!—I cannot bear— Here—you Boxkeeper,—call my Chair: Peace, Ladies—'tis a false Alarm— To YOU our Author means no Harm. His Female Failings all are Fictions: To which your Lives are Contradictions. Th' unnatural Fool has drawn a Plan, Where Women like a worthless Man, A Fault ne'er heard of since the World began. This Year he lets you steal away— But if the next you trip or stray; His Muse, he vows, on you shall wait, In Seventeen Hundred Fifty-eight.