Prologue

Tho' distant far, from fam'd Britania's isle, Where comic-scenes, call cynics forth to smile; Our artless muse, hath made her first essay T' instrust and please you with a modern play. Theatric-bus'ness was, and still shou'd be, To point out vice in its deformity; Make virtue fair! shine eminently bright, Rapture the breast and captivate the fight. No matter which, the pulpit or the stage, Condemn the vice and folly of the age; These are our boast, and on sure ground we stand, Plead virtues cause throughout this infant land; We mount the stage, and lend an helping hand. Wits, fools, a knave and conjurer to night, The objects make both of your ears and sight. A band of dupes are humm'd with idle schemes, Quit solid sense for airy golden dreams. Our flatt'ring muse thinks she's some merit gain'd, Pursuing truth, and things (like truth) well feign'd. The subject's suited to our present times, No person's touch'd, altho' she lash their crimes; Nor gall or copp'ras tincture her design, But gay good humour breathe in ev'ry line. If you condemn her—she for censure stands; But if applaud— then thund'ring clap your hands.