Prologue Spoken by Mr. Woodward

ARE you all ready? here 's your musick, here.
Author! sneak off; we 'll tickle you my dear.
The fellow stopp'd me in a hellish fright—
"Pray Sir," says he, "must I be damn'd to-night?"
"Damn'd! surely friend. Do n't hope for our compliance;
"Zounds Sir! a second play 's downright defiance.
"Tho' once poor Rogue! we pity'd your condition,
"Here 's the true recipe for repetition."
"Well Sir," says he, "e'en as you please; so then
"I 'll never trouble you with plays again."
"But hark ye Poet!—Won't you tho,'" says I?
"'Pon honour"—Then we 'll damn you, let me die."
Sha' n't we my Bucks? let 's take him at his word;
Damn him, or by my soul he 'll write a third.
The man wants money I suppose—but mind ye—
Tell him you 'ave left your charity behind ye.
A pretty plea, his wants to our regard!
As if we Bloods had bowels for a bard!
Besides, what men of spirit now-a-days
Come to give sober judgments of new plays?
It argues some good nature to be quiet—
Good nature!—ay—but then we lose a riot.
The scribbling fool may beg and make a fuss;
'Tis death to him—what then?—'tis sport to us.
Do n't mind me tho'—for all my fun and jokes
The bard may find us Bloods good natur'd folks,
No crabbed criticks, foes to rising merit:
Write but with fire and we 'll applaud with spirit.
Our Author aims at no dishonest ends;
He knows no enemies and boasts some friends:
He takes no methods down your throats to cram it,
So if you like it save it, if not—damn it.