Prologue to "Cleomenes, the Spartan Hero"

I think, or hope at least, the coast is clear;
That none but men of wit and sense are here;
That our Bear Garden friends are all away,
Who bounce with hands and feet, and cry: "Play, play!"
Who, to save coach hire, trudge along the street,
Then print our matted seats with dirty feet;
Who, while we speak, make love to orange-wenches,
And, between acts, stand strutting on the benches;
Where got a-cock-horse, making vile grimaces,
They to the boxes show their booby faces.
A merry-andrew such a mob will serve,
And treat 'em with such wit as they deserve.
Let 'em go people Ireland, where there 's need
Of such new planters to repair the breed;
Or to Virginia or Jamaica steer,
But have a care of some French privateer;
For, if they should become the prize of battle,
They 'll take 'em, black and white, for Irish cattle.
Arise, true judges, in your own defense,
Control those foplings, and declare for sense:
For, should the fools prevail, they stop not there,
But make their next descent upon the fair.
Then rise, ye fair; for it concerns you most,
That fools no longer should your favors boast;
'Tis time you should renounce 'em, for we find
They plead a senseless claim to womankind:
Such squires are only fit for country towns,
To stink of ale, and dust a stand with clowns;
Who, to be chosen for the land's protectors,
Tope and get drunk before their wise electors.
Let not farce-lovers your weak choice upbraid,
But turn 'em over to the chambermaid;
Or, if they come to see our tragic scenes,
Instruct them what a Spartan hero means:
Teach 'em how manly passions ought to move,
For such as cannot think, can never love;
And, since they needs will judge the poet's art,
Point 'em with fescues to each shining part.
Our author hopes in you, but still in pain;
He fears your charms will be employ'd in vain.
You can make fools of wits, we find each hour;
But to make wits of fools, is past your power.