Prologue

As dying Sinners hope to get to Heav'n, And beg and pray to have their Crimes forgiv'n, So I come here, with humble Supplication, In Hopes you'll kindly save us from Damnation. For you must know the whole of this Design, The Plot, the Manner, Sentiment is mine. 'Tis true, we must confess, our motley Piece Is not confin'd by Laws from Rome or Greece: For I disdain old Aristotle's Rules, That tie down Scriblers, limit none but Fools. I dare beyond the Goal of Critics run, What Order should confine the Works of FUN, Whose Self I am?—And for your Information, Hear my Birth, Parentage and Education: My Sire was, thirty Years ago, in Vogue; His Name was WIT, an arch, diverting Rogue; My Mother's Name was HUMOUR, low and poor, Reduc'd for Want sometimes to play the Whore. Who best repaid what she was pleas'd to grant, Was RIBALDRY, her favourite Gallant. Now, little Delicacy dwelt in either, For, as I'm told, they all Three lay together. Soon after I was born, their darling Son, A Bastard Compound he!—was christen'd FUN. Laughter, a merry Jade, was chose my Nurse; Whose Birth was mean, but Education worse; Betimes she taught me to distort the Face, And sneer at ev'ry Thing but want of Grace; At twelve Years old she sent me first to School; My Tutor, Ignorance, a Coxcomb and a Fool. Little I learn'd 'tis true, but ev'ry Day The Truant play'd, at length ran quite away. Proud of my Freedom, rambling up and down, Folly, a Jilt that ruins half the Town, Spreading those Arms which ev'ry Fool admires, Caught me to satisfy her loose Desires. The Task, tho' hard, I follow'd with Delight; Sometimes most wisely wrong, and sometimes blindly right; Above all Order, or the vain Pretence Of Learning, Genius, Taste or Common Sense. Who then will censure what may here be done? What WIT will criticise a PIECE OF FUN?