Prologue

I WISH your Prologues, all, were in the Sea, You're sure to saddle ev'ry one on me.— Each trembling Author, shews a frighten'd mind, And cries to me—Pray will you be so kind As say a word or two, to paliate The apprehensions that around me wait.— A pretty task!—and, nothing more, in brief, Then feeling guilty, hollows out—"Stop Thief!" Should the thing please—pray, what do I get by't? I'll tell you what—I prologuise each night.— Wit, like a Diamond, is bright and scarce, Our Author's Wit (poor soul) is all a Farce; You'll see it clearer ere the matter's ended, But, saying little, is the soonest mended.— I've got a part to play—'tis time to budge, Hoping, that while you listen, you will judge With Mercy—nor make absolute the Case, Lest the poor Author fall into disgrace.