Prologue

Bold is the man, and compos mentis, scarce— Who, in these nicer times, dares write a Farce; A vulgar long—forgotten taste renew; All now are Comedies, five acts, or two. Authors have ever in a canting strain, Begg'd mercy for the bantling of their brain: That you, kind nurse, wou'd fondle 't on your lap, And rear it with applause, that best of pap— Thus babes have in their cradles scap'd a blow, Tho' lame and ricketty from top to toe: Our bard, with prologue-outworks has not fenc'd him, For all that I shall say, will make against him. Imprimis, this his piece—a Farce we call it— Ergo, 'tis low—and ten to one you maul it! Wou'd you, because 'tis low, no quarter give? Black-guards, as well as Gentlemen, shou'd live. 'Tis downright English too—Nothing from France; Except some beasts, which treat you with a dance. With a Burletta too we shall present you— And, not Italian—that will discontent you. Nay, what is worse—you'll see it, and must know it— I Thomas King, of King-street, am the poet: The murder's out—the murderer detected; May in one night, be try'd, condemn'd, dissected. 'Tis said, for Scandal's tongue will never cease; That mischief's meant against our little piece: Let me look round, I'll tell you how the case is— There's not one frown a single brow disgraces; I never saw a sweeter set of faces! Suppose Old Nick, before you righteous folk, Produce a farce, brimfull of mirth and joke; Tho' he, at other times, wou'd fire your blood; You'd clap his piece, and swear, 'twas devilish good! Malice prepense! 'tis false!—it cannot be— Light is my heart, from apprehensions free— If you wou'd save Old Nick, you'll never damn poor me.