To Mr. Bentley
I have often (during this play’s being in the press) been importuned for a preface; which you, I suppose, would have speak something in vindication of the comedy: now, to please you, Mr. Bentley, I will, as briefly as I can, speak my mind upon that occasion, which you may be pleased to accept of, both as a dedication to yourself, and next as a preface to the book.
And I am not a little proud that it has happened into my thoughts to be the first who in these latter years has made an epistle dedicatory to his stationer: it is a compliment as reasonable as it is just. For, Mr. Bentley, you pay honestly for the copy; and an epistle to you is a sort of an acquittance, and may be probably welcome; when to a person of higher rank and order, it looks like an obligation for praises, which he knows he does not deserve, and therefore is very unwilling to part with ready money for.
As to the vindication of this comedy, between friends and acquaintance, I believe it is possible that as much may be said in its behalf as heretofore has been for a great many others. But of all the apish qualities about me, I have not that of being fond of my own issue; nay, I must confess myself a very unnatural parent, for when it is once brought into the world, e’en let the brat shift for itself, I say.
The objections made against the merit of this poor play, I must confess, are very grievous—
First, says a lady, that shall be nameless because the world may think civilly of her: “Faugh! Oh, sherreu! ’tis so filthy, so bawdy, no modest woman ought to be seen at it: let me die, it has made me sick!” When the world lies, Mr. Bentley, if that very lady has not easily digested a much ranker morsel in a little ale-house towards Paddington, and never made a face at it. But your true jilt is a creature that can extract bawdy out of the chastest sense, as easily as a spider can poison out of a rose; they know true bawdy, let it be never so much concealed, as perfectly as Falstaff did the true prince by instinct; they will separate the true metal from the alloy, let us temper it as well as we can. Some women are the touchstones of filthiness: though I have heard a lady (that has more modesty than any of those she-critics, and I am sure more wit) say, she wondered at the impudence of any of her sex, that would pretend to understand the thing called bawdy. So, Mr. Bentley, for aught I perceive, my play may be innocent yet, and the lady mistaken in pretending to the knowledge of a mystery above her; though to speak honestly, she has had, besides her wit, a liberal education; and if we may credit the world, has not buried her talent neither.
This is, Mr. Bentley, all I can say in behalf of my play: wherefore I throw it into your arms; make the best of it you can; praise it to your customers; sell ten thousand of them, if possible, and then you will complete the wishes of
Your Friend and Servant,
THO. OTWAY.
Footnotes
24 “The lines you read were writ by me alone,
But your bad reading makes them half your own.”
—H. S.
Forsaken dames with less concern reflect
On their inconstant hero’s cold neglect
Than we (provoked by this ungrateful age)
Bear the hard fate of our abandoned stage.
With grief we see you ravished from our arms,
And curse the feeble virtue of our charms:
Curse your false hearts, for none so false as they,
And curse the eyes that stole those hearts away.
Remember, faithless friends, there was a time,
(But oh the sad remembrance of our prime!)
When to our arms with eager joys ye flew,
And we believed your treach’rous hearts as true
As e’er was nymph of ours to one of you.
But a more powerful Saint25 enjoys ye now;
Fraught with sweet sins, and absolutions too:
To her are all your pious vows addressed;
She’s both your love’s and your religion’s test,
The fairest prelate of her time, and best.
We own her more deserving far than we,
A just excuse for your inconstancy.
Yet ’twas unkindly done to leave us so;
First to betray with love, and then undo,
A horrid crime you’re all addicted to.
Too soon, alas! your appetites are cloyed,
And Phillis rules no more when once enjoyed.
But all rash oaths of love and constancy
With the too short, forgotten pleasures die;
Whilst she, poor soul, robbed of her dearest ease,
Still drudges on with vain desire to please;
And restless follows you from place to place,
For tributes due to her autumnal face.
Deserted thus by such ungrateful men,
How can we hope you’ll e’er return again?
Here’s no new charm to tempt ye as before,
Wit now’s our only treasure left in store,
And that’s a coin will pass with you no more.
You who such dreadful bullies would appear,—
True bullies! quiet when there’s danger near,—
Show your great souls in damning poets here.
Footnotes
25 This was the Female Prelate, a tragedy by Settle, founded upon the well-known story of a female Pope.
Captain Beaugard.
Courtine.
Sir Davy Dunce.
Sir Jolly Jumble.
Frisk.
Fourbin, a Servant To Beaugard.
Bloody-Bones.
Vermin, a Servant To Sir Davy.
Will, Sylvia’s Footman.
A Constable, Watchmen, Whores, Bullies, Drawer, &c.
Lady Dunce.
Sylvia.
Maid.
SCENE—London.
THE SOLDIER’S FORTUNE.