Literature & Theatre > Prologue to a new play call'd The disappointment, or, The mother in fashion

Our Women batten well on their good Nature,
All they can rap and rend for the dear Creature.
But while abroad ſo liberal the DOLT is,
Poor SPOUSE at Home as Ragged as a Colt is.
Laſt, ſome there are, who take their firſt Degrees
Of Lewdneſs, in our Middle Galleries:
The Doughty BULLIES enter Bloody Drunk,
Invade and grabble one another's PUNK:
They Caterwaul, and make a diſmal Rout,
Call SONS of WHORES, and ſtrike,but ne're lugg-out:
Thus while for Paultry Punk they roar and ſtickle,
They make it Bawdier than a CONVENTICLE.

                 EPILOGUE
           By Another Hand.

YOU ſaw our Wiſe wasChaſte, yet throughly try'd,
And, without doubt, y'are hugely edify'd ;
For, like our Heroe, whom we ſhew'd to day,
You think no Woman true, but in a Play ;
Love once did make a pretty kind of Show,
Eſteem and Kindnels in one Breaſt wou'd grow,
But 'twas Heav'n knows how many years ago.}
Now ſome ſmall Chatt, and Guinney Expectation,
Gets all the pretty Creatures in the Nation:
In Comedy, your Little Selves you meet;
'Tis Covent-Garden, drawn in Bridges-ſtreet.
Smile on our Author then, if he has ſhown,
A jolly Nut-brown Baſtard of your own.
Ah ! Happy you, with Eaſe and with Delight,
Who act thoſe Follies, Poets toil to write !
The ſweating Muſe does almoſt leave the Chace,
She puffs, and hardly keeps your Protean Vices pace.
Pinch you but in one Vice, away you fly
To ſome new Frisk of Contrariety.
You rowle like Snow-Balls, gathering as you run,
And get ſeven Dev'ls, when dilpoſſeſs'd of one.
Your Venus once was a Platonique Queen,
Nothing of Love beſide the Face was ſeen;
But every Inch of Her you now Uncaſe,
And clap a Vizard-Maſque upon the Face.
For Sins like theſe, the Zealous of the Land,
With Little Flair, and Little or no Band,
Declare how circulating Peſtilences
Watch every Twenty Years, to ſnap Offences.
Saturn, even now, takes Doctoral Degrees,
Hee'l do your work this Summer, without Fees.
Let all the Boxes, Phoebus, find thy Grace,
And, ah, preſerve thy Eighteen-penny Place!
But for the Pit Conſounders, let 'em go,
And find as little Mercy as they ſhow :
The Actors thus and thus, thy Poets pray ;
For every Critick ſav'd, thou damn'ſt a Play.

                    LONDON,
Printed for E. Lucy. M. DC. LXXXlV.