PROLOGUE. By a GENTLEMAN. Spoken by Mr. WILKS

Our Female Author trembling stands within, Her Fear arises from another's Sin; One of her Sex has so abus'd the Town, That on her Score she dreads your angry Frown: Tho' I dare say, poor Soul, she never writ Lampoon, or Satyr on the Box or Pit; A harmless hum'rous Play is her Extent of Wit. Tho' Bickerstaff's vast Genius may engage, And lash the Vice and Follies of the Age; Why shou'd tender Delia tax the Nation? Stickle, and make a Noise for Reformation, Who always gave a Loose, her self, to Inclination. Scandal and Satyr's thrown aside to Day, And Humour the sole Business of our Play. Beaux may dress on to catch the Ladies Hearts, And good Assurance pass for mighty Parts: The Citts may bring their Spouses without Fear, We shew no Wife that's poaching for an Heir, Nor teach the Use of fine Gause Handkercheir. Cowards may huff, and talk of mighty Wonders, And Jilts set up—for Twenty thousand Pounders. Our Author, even tho' she knows full well, Is so Good-natur'd, she forbears to tell What Collonels, lately, have found out the Knack To Muster Madam, still, by Ned, or Jack, To keep their Pleasures up; a Frugal way, They give her—Subaltern's Subsistance for her Pay. In short, what e'er your Darling Vices are, They pass untouch'd in this Night's Bill of Fare. But if all this can't your good Nature wake, Tho' here and there, a Scene shou'd fail to take, Yet spare her for the Busie-Body's sake.