The Prologue enters.
After him, Gossip Mirth, Gossip Tattle, Gossip Expectation, and Gossip Censure.
Four Gentlewomen, Lady-like attired.
Prologue. For your own sake, not ours --
Mirth. Come Gossip, be not asham'd.
The Play is the Staple of News, and you are the Mistris and
Lady of Tattle; let's ha' your Opinion of it. Do you hear,
Gentlemen? what are you? Gentlemen-Usher to the Play?
Pray you help us to some Stools here.
Prologue. Where? o' the Stage, Ladies?
Mirth. Yes, o' the Stage; we are Persons of Quality,
I a**ure you, and Women of Fashion; and come to see, and
to be seen. My Gossip Tattle here, and Gossip Expectation,
and my Gossip Censure, and I am Mirth, the Daughter of
Christmas, and Spirit of Shrovetide. They say, it's merry
when Gossips meet; I hope your Play will be a merry one.
Prologue. Or you will make it such, Ladies. Bring a
Form here. But what will the Noblemen think, or the
grave Wits here, to see you seated on the Bench thus?
Mirth. Why, what should they think? but that they had
Mothers, as we had; and those Mothers had Gossips (if their
Children were christned) as we are; and such as had a longing
to see Plays, and sit upon them, as we do, and arraign both them and their Poets.
Prologue. O! Is that your purpose? Why, Mrs. Mirth,
and Madam Tattle, enjoy your Delights freely.
Tattle. Look your News be new and fresh,
Mr. Prologue, and untainted; I shall find them else, if they be stale,
or fly-blown, quickly.
Prologue. That your Ladiship would expect no more than you understand.
Expectation. Sir, I can expect enough!
Prologue. Cry you mercy, you never did wrong, but
with just cause. What's this, Lady?
Mirth. Curiosity, my Lady Censure.
Prologue. O, Curiosity! You come to see who wears the
new Sute to day; whose Clothes are best penn'd, whatever
the part be; which Actor has the best Leg and Foot; what
King plays without Cuffs, and his Queen without Gloves;
who rides Post in Stockings, and dances in Boots.
Censure. Yes, and which amorous Prince makes love in
drink, or does over-act prodigiously in beaten Sattin, and,
having got the trick on't, will be monstruous still, in despite of Counsel.
Book-holder. Mend you Lights, Gentlemen.
Master Prologue, begin.
[The Tire-men enter to mend the Lights.
Tattle. Ay me!
Expectation. Who's that?
Prologue Nay, start not, Ladies; these carry no
Fireworks to fright you, but a Torch i' their Hands, to give
Light to the Business. The truth is, there are a Set of
Gamesters within, in travel of a thing call'd a Play, and
would fain be deliver'd of it: and they have entreated me
to be their Man-Midwife, the Prologue, for they are like
to have a hard Labour on't.
Tattle. Then the Poet has abus'd himself, like an Ass as he is.
Mirth. No, his Actors will abuse him enough, or I am
deceiv'd. Yonder he is within (I was i' the Tiring-house a
while to see the Actors drest) rolling himself up and down
like a Tun, i' the midst of 'em, and spurges, never did Vessel
of Wort or Wine work so! His Sweating put me in mind of
a good Shroving Dish (and I believe would be taken up for
a Service of State somewhere, an't were known) a stew'd
Poet! He doth sit like an unbrac'd Drum, with one of his
Heads beaten out; for that you must note, a Poet hath two
Heads as a Drum has; one for making, the other repeating;
and his repeating Head is all to pieces; they may gather it
up i' the Tiring-house; for he hath torn the Book in a Poetical
Fury, and put himself to silence in dead Sack, which, were
there no other Vexation, were sufficient to make him the most
miserable Emblem of Patience.
Censure. The Prologue, peace.
The Prologue enters.
After him, Gossip Mirth, Gossip Tattle, Gossip Expectation, and Gossip Censure.
Four Gentlewomen, Lady-like attired.
Prologue. For your own sake, not ours --
Mirth. Come Gossip, be not asham'd.
The Play is the Staple of News, and you are the Mistris and
Lady of Tattle; let's ha' your Opinion of it. Do you hear,
Gentlemen? what are you? Gentlemen-Usher to the Play?
Pray you help us to some Stools here.
Prologue. Where? o' the Stage, Ladies?
Mirth. Yes, o' the Stage; we are Persons of Quality,
I a**ure you, and Women of Fashion; and come to see, and
to be seen. My Gossip Tattle here, and Gossip Expectation,
and my Gossip Censure, and I am Mirth, the Daughter of
Christmas, and Spirit of Shrovetide. They say, it's merry
when Gossips meet; I hope your Play will be a merry one.
Prologue. Or you will make it such, Ladies. Bring a
Form here. But what will the Noblemen think, or the
grave Wits here, to see you seated on the Bench thus?
Mirth. Why, what should they think? but that they had
Mothers, as we had; and those Mothers had Gossips (if their
Children were christned) as we are; and such as had a longing
to see Plays, and sit upon them, as we do, and arraign both them and their Poets.
Prologue. O! Is that your purpose? Why, Mrs. Mirth,
and Madam Tattle, enjoy your Delights freely.
Tattle. Look your News be new and fresh,
Mr. Prologue, and untainted; I shall find them else, if they be stale,
or fly-blown, quickly.
Prologue. That your Ladiship would expect no more than you understand.
Expectation. Sir, I can expect enough!
Prologue. Cry you mercy, you never did wrong, but
with just cause. What's this, Lady?
Mirth. Curiosity, my Lady Censure.
Prologue. O, Curiosity! You come to see who wears the
new Sute to day; whose Clothes are best penn'd, whatever
the part be; which Actor has the best Leg and Foot; what
King plays without Cuffs, and his Queen without Gloves;
who rides Post in Stockings, and dances in Boots.
Censure. Yes, and which amorous Prince makes love in
drink, or does over-act prodigiously in beaten Sattin, and,
having got the trick on't, will be monstruous still, in despite of Counsel.
Book-holder. Mend you Lights, Gentlemen.
Master Prologue, begin.
[The Tire-men enter to mend the Lights.
Tattle. Ay me!
Expectation. Who's that?
Prologue Nay, start not, Ladies; these carry no
Fireworks to fright you, but a Torch i' their Hands, to give
Light to the Business. The truth is, there are a Set of
Gamesters within, in travel of a thing call'd a Play, and
would fain be deliver'd of it: and they have entreated me
to be their Man-Midwife, the Prologue, for they are like
to have a hard Labour on't.
Tattle. Then the Poet has abus'd himself, like an Ass as he is.
Mirth. No, his Actors will abuse him enough, or I am
deceiv'd. Yonder he is within (I was i' the Tiring-house a
while to see the Actors drest) rolling himself up and down
like a Tun, i' the midst of 'em, and spurges, never did Vessel
of Wort or Wine work so! His Sweating put me in mind of
a good Shroving Dish (and I believe would be taken up for
a Service of State somewhere, an't were known) a stew'd
Poet! He doth sit like an unbrac'd Drum, with one of his
Heads beaten out; for that you must note, a Poet hath two
Heads as a Drum has; one for making, the other repeating;
and his repeating Head is all to pieces; they may gather it
up i' the Tiring-house; for he hath torn the Book in a Poetical
Fury, and put himself to silence in dead Sack, which, were
there no other Vexation, were sufficient to make him the most
miserable Emblem of Patience.
Censure. The Prologue, peace.
The PROLOGUE for the STAGE.
For your own sakes, not his, he had me say,
Would you were come to hear, not see a Play.
Though we, his Actors, must provide for those
Who are our Guests here, in the way of Shows,
The Maker hath not so; he'ld have you wise,
Much rather by your Ears, than by your Eyes;
And prays, you'll not prejudge his Play for ill,
But have a Longing to salute, or talk
With such a Female, and from her to walk
With your Discourse, to what is done, and where,
How, and by whom, in all the town, but here.
Alas! what is to his Scene, to know
How many Coaches in Hide-park did show
Last Spring, What Fare to day at Medley's was,
If Dunstan or the Phaenix best Wine has?
They are things --- But yet the Stage might stand as well,
If it did neither hear these things, nor tell.
Great noble Wits, be good unto your selves,
And make a difference 'twixt Poetick Elves,
And Poets: all that dabble in the Ink,
And defile Quills, are not those few, can think,
Conceive, express, and steer the Souls of Men,
As with a Rudder, round thus, with their Pen.
He must be one that can instruct your Youth,
And keep your Acme in the state of Truth,
Must enterprise this Work; mark but his Ways,
What Flight he makes, how new: And then he says,
If that not like you, that he sends to night,
'Tis you have left to judge, not he to write.
The PROLOGUE for the COURT.
A Work not smelling of the Lamp, to night,
But fitted for your Majesty's Disport,
And writ to the Meridian of Your Court,
We bring; and hope it mayproduce Delight:
The rather, being offered as a Rite,
To Scholars, that can judge, and fair report
The Sense they hear, above the vulgar sort
Of Nut- crackers, that only come for sight.
Wherein, although our Title,Sir, be News;
We yet adventure here to tell You none;
But shew You Common Follies, and so known,
That though they are not Truths, th' innocent Muse
Hath made so like, as Phant'sie could them state,
Or Poetry, Without Scandal, imitate.