Prologue

O The sweet prospect! what a fine Parterre! Soft buds, sweet flowers, bright tints, and scented air! A Vale, where critic wit spontaneous grows! A Hill, which noise and folly never knows! Let Cits point out green paddocks to their spouses; To me, no prospect like your crouded houses— If, as just now, you wear those smiles enchanting; But, when you frown, my heart you set a panting. Pray then, for pity, do not frown to-night; I'll bribe—but how—Oh, now I've hit it—right. Secrets are pleasant to each child of Eve; I've one in store, which for your smiles I'll give.

O list! a tale it is, not very common; Our Poet of to-night, in faith's a—Woman, A woman, too, untutor'd in the School, Nor Aristotle knows, nor scarce a rule By which fine writers fabricate their plays, From sage Menander's, to these modern days: How she could venture here I am astonish'd; But 'twas in vain the Mad-cap I admonish'd; Told her of squeaking cat-calls, hisses, groans, Off, offs, and ruthless Critics' damning moans. I'm undismay'd, she cry'd, critics are Men, And smile on folly from a Woman's pen: Then 'tis the Ladies' cause, there I'm secure; Let him who hisses, no soft Nymph endure; May he who frowns, be frown'd on by his Goddess, From Pearls, and Brussels Point, to Maids in Boddice.

Now for a hint of her intended feast: 'Tis rural, playful,—harmless 'tis at least; Not over-stock'd with repartee or wit, Tho' here and there perchance there is a hit; For she ne'er play'd with bright Apollo's fire, No Muse invok'd, or heard th' Aönian lyre; Her Comic Muse—a little blue-ey'd maid, With cheeks where innocence and health's display'd; Her 'Pol—in petticoats—a romping Boy, Whose taste is trap-ball, and a kite his joy: Her Nursery the study, where she thought, Fram'd fable, incident, surprise and plot. From the surrounding hints she caught her plan, Length'ning the chain from infancy to man: Tom plagues poor Fan; she sobs, but loves him still; Kate aims her wit at both, with roguish skill: Our Painter mark'd those lines—which Nature drew, Her fancy glow'd, and colour'd them—for you; A Mother's pencil gave the light and shades, A Mother's eye thro' each soft scene pervades; Her Children rose before her flatter'd view, Hope stretch'd the canvas, whilst her wishes drew.

We'll now present you drapery and features, And warmly hope, you'll like the pretty creatures; Then Tom shall have his kite, and Fan new dollies, Till time matures them for important follies."