Prologue

As in the airy Regions of Romance, Th' adventrous Knight sets out with Shield and Lance, Strait his disinterested Valour flies To helpless Damsels, and to Beauty's Cries; This only Motive rising in his Breast, The Godlike Plea—of Innocence distress'd. Thus dares our Author-Errant of To-Night, In Virtue's Aid romantically fight; Sacred to Her, the Champion Pen he draws, Enough rewarded—to support her Cause. To-Night his honest Labour means to prove, A low-born Virtue worth a great Man's Love; An honest Pride, where conscious Honour glows; An artless Innocence—whence Truth still flows; A Sense proceeding but from Nature's Light, (For little Knowledge serves us to be right) A Merit greatly poor, that far outshines The Glare of Titles, or the Wealth of Mines. Such stedfast Honesty should find Success O'er the abandon'd Authors of Distress, O'er those who glory to betray a Maid, Who welcome Guilt, and make Deceit a Trade. Yet some there are less liable to blame, Who only want Reflection to reclaim, Who bend unthinking to the Syren's Voice, The Reprobates of Custom, not of Choice; Who deaf to Precept, plead Example still, And think the Mode indemnifies the Ill. To such our Author offers this Address, Not certain, nor despairing of Success; Amongst this Cast of Men he hopes to find Some Converts—for the Honour of Mankind; On Minds like these his Morals may prevail, And who escap'd a Sermon, feel this Tale.