Prologue to "An Evening's Love; or, The Mock Astrologer"

When first our poet set himself to write,
Like a young bridegroom on his wedding-night
He laid about him, and did so bestir him,
His Muse could never lie in quiet for him:
But now his honeymoon is gone and past,
Yet the ungrateful drudgery must last,
And he is bound, as civil husbands do,
To strain himself, in complaisance to you;
To write in pain, and counterfeit a bliss
Like the faint smacking of an after-kiss.
But you, like wives ill-pleas'd, supply his want:
Each writing Monsieur is a fresh gallant;
And tho', perhaps, 't was done as well before.
Yet still there 's something in a new amour.
Your several poets work with several tools:
One gets you wits, another gets you fools;
This pleases you with some by-stroke of wit,
This finds some cranny that was never hit.
But should these jaunty lovers daily come
To do your work, like your good man at home,
Their fine small-timber'd wits would soon decay:
These are gallants but for a holiday.
Others you had who of t'ner have appear'd,
Whom for mere impotence you have cashier'd:
Such as at first came on with pomp and glory.
But, over-straining, soon fell flat before ye.
Their useless weight with patience long was borne,
But at the last you threw 'em off with scorn.
As for the poet of this present night,
Tho' now he claims in you an husband's right,
He will not hinder you of fresh delight.
He, like a seaman, seldom will appear;
And means to trouble home but thrice a year:
That only time from your gallants he 'll borrow;
Be kind to-day, and cuckold him to-morrow.