Rrologue

TO-Night we come upon a bold Design, To try to please without one borrow'd Line: Our Plot is new, and regularly clear, And not one single Tittle from Moliere: O'er bury'd Poets we with Caution tread, And Parish Sextons leave to rob the Dead. For you, bright British Fair, in hopes to charm ye, We bring To-night a Lover from the Army: You know the Soldiers have the strangest Arts, Such a Proportion of prevailing Parts, You'd think that they rid Post to Womens Hearts. I wonder whence they draw their bold Pretence; We do not chuse them sure for our Defence: That Plea is both impolitick and wrong, And only suits such Dames as want a Tongue. Is it their Eloquence and fine Address? The Softness of their Language?—Nothing less. Is it their Courage, that they bravely dare To storm the Sex at once?—Egad, 'tis there: They act by us as in the rough Campaign, Unmindful of Repulses, charge again; They Mine and Countermine, resolv'd to win, And, if a Breach is made—they will come in. You'll think, by what we have of Soldiers said, Our Female Wit was in the Service bred; But she is to the hardy Toil a Stranger, She loves the Cloth indeed, but hates the Danger; Yet to this Circle of the Brave and Gay, She bid me for her good Intentions say, She hopes you'll not reduce her to Half-Pay. As for our Play, 'tis English Humour all; Then will you let our Manufacture fall? Would you the Honour of our Nation raise, Keep English Credit up, and English Plays.