The Provok’d Wife. A Comedy
Prologue
Spoken by Mrs. Bracegirdle.
Since ’tis th’ Intent and Business of the Stage,
To copy out the Follies of the Age;
To hold to every Man a faithful Glass,
And shew him of what Species he’s an Ass:
I hope the next that teaches in the School,
Will shew our Author he’s a scribbling Fool.
And that the Satire may be sure to bite, }
Kind Heav’n! inspire some venom’d Priest to write, }
And grant some ugly Lady may indite. }
For I wou’d have him lash’d, by Heavens! I wou’d,
Till his Presumption swam away in Blood.
Three Plays at once proclaim a Face of Brass, }
No matter what they are; That’s not the Case— }
To write three Plays, e’en that’s to be an Ass. }
But what I least forgive, he knows it too,
For to his Cost he lately has known you—
Experience shews, to many a Writer’s Smart,
You hold a Court where Mercy ne’er had part;
So much of the old Serpent’s Sting you have,
You love to Damn, as Heaven delights to Save.
In foreign Parts, let a bold Volunteer, }
For Public Good, upon the Stage appear, }
He meets ten thousand Smiles to dissipate his Fear. }
All tickle on th’ adventuring young Beginner,
And only scourge th’ incorrigible Sinner;
They touch indeed his Faults, but with a Hand
So gentle, that his Merit still may stand;
Kindly they buoy the Follies of his Pen,
That he may shun ’em when he writes again.
But ’tis not so in this good-natur’d Town, }
All’s one, an Ox, a Poet, or a Crown; }
Old England’s Play was always knocking down. }