Prologue to "Amphitryon; or, The Two Sosias"

The lab'ring bee, when his sharp sting is gone,
Forgets his golden work, and turns a drone:
Such is a satire, when you take away
That rage in which his noble vigor lay.
What gain you by not suffering him to tease ye?
He neither can offend you, now, nor please ye.
The honey-bag and venom lay so near,
That both together you resolv'd to tear;
And lost your pleasure, to secure your fear.
How can he show his manhood, if you bind him
To box, like boys, with one hand tied behind him?
This is plain leveling of wit, in which
The poor has all th' advantage, not the rich.
The blockhead stands excus'd for wanting sense,
And wits turn blockheads in their own defense.
Yet, tho' the stage's traffic is undone,
Still Julian's interloping trade goes on:
Tho' satire on the theater you smother,
Yet, in lampoons, you libel one another.
The first produces still a second jig;
You whip 'em out, like schoolboys, till they gig.
And with the same success, we readers guess,
For ev'ry one still dwindles to a less;
And much good malice is so meanly dress'd,
That we would laugh, but cannot find the jest.
If no advice your rhyming rage can stay,
Let not the ladies suffer in the fray:
Their tender sex is privileged from war;
'T is not like knights, to draw upon the fair.
What fame expect you from so mean a prize?
We wear no murd'ring weapons but our eyes.
Our sex, you know, was after yours design'd;
The last perfection of the Maker's mind:
Heav'n drew out all the gold for us, and left your dross behind.
Beauty for valor's best reward he chose;
Peace, after war; and after toil, repose.
Hence, ye profane, excluded from our sights;
And, charm'd by day with honor's vain delights,
Go, make your best of solitary nights.
Recant betimes, 't is prudence to submit;
Our sex is still your overmatch in wit:
We never fail with new, successful arts,
To make fine fools of you, and all your parts.