Prologue

Our Author fears the Criticks of the Stage, Who like Barbarians, spare nor Sex, nor Age; She trembles at those Censors in the Pit, Who think good Nature shows a want of Wit: Such Malice, Oh, what Muse can undergo it? To save themselves, they always Damn the Poet. Our Author flies from such a Partial Jury, As wary Lovers from the Nymphs of Drury: To the few Candid Judges for a Smile, She humbly sues to Recompence her Toil. To the bright Circle of the Fair, she next, Commits her Cause, with Anxious Doubts perplext. Where can she with such hopes of Favour kneel, As to those Judges, who her Frailties feel? A few Mistakes, her Sex may well excuse, And such a Plea, No Woman shou'd refuse: If she succeeds, a Woman gains Applause, What Female but must favour such a Cause. Her Faults,—If such there be:—Then,—pass 'em by, And only on her Beauties fix your Eye. In Plays, like Vessels floating on the Sea, There's none so Wise to know their Destiny. In this, howe'er the Pilot's Skill appears, While by the Stars his constant Course he steers; In this our Author does her Judgment shew, That for her Safety she relies on You. Your Approbation Fair ones, can't but move, Those stubborn Hearts, which first you taught to Love: The Men must all Applaud this Play of ours, For who dares See with other Eyes, than Yours?