PROLOGUE To the Revived Comedy of EPICAENE, or the SILENT WOMAN. January, 1776

Happy the soaring Bard, who boldly wooes, And wins the favour of the Tragick Muse! He from the grave may call the mighty dead, In Buskins and Blank Verse the Stage to tread; On Pompeys and old Caesars rise to fame, And join the Poet's to th' Historian's name. The Comick wit, alas! whose eagle eyes Pierce nature thro' and mock the time's disguise, Whose pencil living follies brings to view, Survives those follies, and his portraits too; Like star-gazers deplores his luckless fate, For last year's Almanacks are out of date. " The Fox, the Alchymist, the Silent Woman, " Done by Ben Jonson, are out done by no Man." Thus say, in rough, but panegyrick rhymes, The Wits and Criticks of our author's times. But now we bring him forth with dread and doubt, And fear his learned socks are quite worn out. The subtle Alchemist grows obsolete, And Drugger's humour scarcely keeps him sweet.

To-night if you would feast your eyes and ears, Go back in fancy near two hundred years; A play of Ruffs and Farthingales review, Old English fashions, such as then were new! Drive not Tom Otter's Bulls and Bears away; Worse Bulls and Bears disgrace the present day. On fair Collegiates let no Critick frown! A Ladies' Club still holds its rank in town. If modern cooks, who nightly treat the Pit, Do not quite cloy and surfeit you with wit, From the old kitchen please to pick a bit! If once, with hearty stomachs to regale On old Ben Johnson's fare, tho' somewhat stale, A meal on Bobadil you deign'd to make, Take EPICAENE for his and Kitely's sake!