PROLOGUE. Spoken at the Opening of the New House, By Mr. Betterton

The Husbandman in vain renews his Toil, To cultivate each Tear a hungry Soil; And fondly hopes for rich and generous Fruit, When what shou'd feed the Tree, devours the Root: Th' unlanden Boughs, he sees, bode certain Dearth, Unless transplanted to more kindly Earth. So the poor Husbands of the Stage, who found Their Labours lost upon th' ungrateful Ground, This last and only Remedy have prov'd; And hope new Fruit from ancient Stocks remov'd. Well may they hope, when you so kindly aid, And plant a Soil which you so rich have made. As Nature gave the World to Man's first Age, So from your Bounty we receive this Stage; The Freedom Man was born to you've restor'd, And to our World such Plenty you afford, It seems like Eden, fruitful of its own Accord. But since in Paradise frail Flesh gave way, And when but two were made, both went astray; Forbear your Wonder, and the Fault forgive, If in our larger Family we grieve One falling Adam, and one tempted Eve. We who remain, would gratefully repay What our Endeavours can, and bring this Day, The First-fruit Off'ring of a Virgin Play. We hope there's something that may please each Taste, And tho' of homely Fare we make the Feast, Yet you will find Variety at least. There's Humour, which for chearful Friends we got; And for the thinking Party there's a Plot. We've something too to gratifie ill Nature, (If there be any here) and that is Satire. Tho' Satire scarce dares grin, 'tis grown so mild; Or only shews its Teeth, as if it smil'd. As Asses Thistles, Poets mumble Wit; And dare not bite, for fear of being bit. They hold their Pens, as Swords are held by Fools, And are afraid to use their own Edge-Tools. Since the Plain-Dealer's Scenes of Manly Rage, Not one has dar'd to lash this Crying Age. This time, the Poet owns the bold Essay, Yet hopes there's no ill Manners in his Play: And he declares by me, he has design'd Affront to none, but frankly speaks his Mind. And shou'd th' ensuing Scenes not chance to hit, He offers but this one Excuse, 'Twas writ Before your late Encouragement of Wit.