Prologue

To Night our comic MUSE the Buskin wears, And gives her self no small Romantic Airs; Struts in Heroics, and in pompous Verse, Does the minutest Incidents rehearse; In Ridicule's strict Retrospect displays, The Poetasters of these modern Days: When the big bellowing Bombast rends our Ears, Which stript of Sound, quite void of Sense appears: Or when the Fiddle Faddle Numbers flow, Serenely dull, Elaborately low: Either Extreme, when vain Pretenders take, The Actor suffers for the Author's sake. The quite tir'd Audience lose whole Hours, yet pay To go un-pleas'd and un-improv'd away: This being our Scheme, we hope you will excuse The wild Excursion of the wanton Muse; Who out of Frolic wears a mimic Mask, And sets herself so whimsical a Task: 'Tis meant to please, but if it should offend, It's very short, and soon will have an End.