The Prologue to the Merry Midnight Mistake

With much reluctance they have brought me here, To try your patience, and to cure my fear; But if, in trying, I shou'd chance to fail, You soon will see me (Frenchman-like) turn tail.

Our Author's here behind, in such a taking, Scratching his head, shivering and shaking, For fear his comic bantling shou'd not please— He here presents you with his prologue fees; A little canting, and a thousand smiles— For complimenting, more than truth, beguiles: So he, poor man! since canting is the mode, Must needs go plodding in the common road; Begs you'd let his brat walk unmolested, Shou'd the poor thing chance to be divested Of Congreve's wit, or Dryden's nice connection: For sure, the poorest child claims some protection. And if, in walking, it shou'd chance to trip, Or falling, cut its little nose or lip, You'll please to save the poor declining thing, By kindly catching hold the leading-string.

Some, proudly pleas'd in finding out a fault, But mostly those, who can't digest a thought; Rude Nature gave 'em rancour to condemn, But bury'd all their candour in their phlegm. Or (like enough) some sage good dame may frown, Displeas'd with every notion but her own, And in her pride, from pious motives, say, "There's nothing good can come from out a play;" And kindly shewing 'tis not from her spleen, But judges wisely what she's never seen. For many Author's have unjustly bled; Their plays being damn'd before a line was read.

The Actor too, your candour must implore, If Actors those, who never play'd before; Unskill'd, unstudied, in these stage-affairs— They've other business to engross their cares— They only do it to oblige a friend; No other motive, secret pride, or end, Save this—to force a gentle smile from you— We'll do our best—'tis all the best can do.