Prologue
Gallants, we never yet produc’d a Play
With greater Fears than this we act to-day;
Barren of all the Graces of the Stage,
Barren of all that entertains this Age.
No Hero, no Romance, no Plot, no Shew,
No Rape, no Bawdy, no Intrigue, no Beau:
There’s nothing in’t with which we use to please ye;
With downright dull Instruction w’are to tease ye;
The Stage turns Pulpit, and the World’s so fickle,
The Play-House in a Whim turns Conventicle.
But Preaching here must prove a hungry Trade;
The Patentees will find so, I’m afraid:
For tho’ with heavenly Zeal you all abound,
As by your Lives and Morals may be found;
Tho’ every Female here o’erflows with Grace,
And chaste Diana’s written in her Face;
Tho’ Maids renounce the Sweets of Fornication,
And one lewd Wife’s not left in all the Nation;
Tho’ Men grow true, and the foul Fiend defy;
Tho’ Tradesmen cheat no more, nor Lawyers lye;
Tho’ not one Spot be found on Levi’s Tribe,
Nor one soft Courtier that will touch a Bribe;
Yet in the midst of such religious Days,
Sermons have never borne the Price of Plays.