Prologue

Among the various ways by wit devis'd, To paint our faults and follies, undisguis'd, Through every age is found of most avail The well drawn character, and well told tale. Hence has the Stage become the last resort Of injured Innocence: her proper court. "The guilty wretch," whom power and gold can screen, "Struck to the soul," will sicken at the scene. Vice that, with front erect and brazen eye, In broad day pomp will pass unblushing by, Should he be seen but "sitting at a play," How will his secret sins that conscious eye betray!

Pert Folly too, caprice in every freak, Displays her feather'd head, and painted cheek; While, "louder far than Wisdom in the street," She cries—"Lo! Here am I! Come, worship at my feet!" The thoughtless crowd, thus summon'd to adore her, Hear, stare, obey, and prostrate fall before her. Yet let her be in all her frippery caught, Just as she shews herself, and hither brought, The moment here she's seen the witless elves Laugh at their goddess, and despise—themselves. Fantastic changeling! Catch her? Ay! But how? Th' attempt is bending great Ulysses' bow! And yet again we come, with random darts; Now aiming at your heads, now at your hearts: But all in mirth, and with no ill intent; At Vice and Folly our few shafts are sent: We shoot but o'er the house, or in the dark; Hoping that you'll be pleas'd, whene'er we hit the mark.