Prologue

I AM a devil, so please you—and must hoof Up to the poet yonder with this proof: I'd read it to you, but, in faith, 'tis odds For one poor Devil to face so many Gods. A ready imp I am, who kindly greets Young authors with their first exploits in sheets; While the Press groans, in place of dry-nurse stands, And takes the bantling from the midwife's hands.

If any author of prolific brains, In this good company, feels labour-pains; If any gentle poet, big with rhime, Has run his reck'ning out and gone his time; If any critic, pregnant with ill-nature, Cries out to be deliver'd of his satire; Know such that at our Hospital of Muses He may lye in, in private, if he chuses; We've single lodgings there for secret sinners, With good encouragement for young beginners.

Here's one now that is free enough in reason; This bard breeds regularly once a season; Three of a sort, of homely form and feature, The plain coarse progeny of humble nature; Home-bred and born; no strangers he displays, Nor tortures free-born limbs in stiff French stays: Two you have rear'd; but between you and me, This youngest is the fav'rite of the three. Nine tedious months he bore this babe about, Let it in charity live nine nights out; Stay but his month up; give some little law; 'Tis cowardly to attack him in the straw.

Dear Gentlemen Correctors, be more civil; Kind courteous Sirs, take counsel of the Devil; Stop your abuse, for while your readers see Such malice, they impute your works to me; Thus, while you gather no one sprig of fame, Your poor unhappy friend is put to shame: Faith, Sirs, you shou'd have some consideration, When ev'n the Devil pleads against Damnation.