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None of them stick at mark; they all deceive.
my poor ears, but separation follow’d.
EPILOGUE to the fame.
Qualm of conscience brings me back again,
To make amends to you bespatter'd men. We women love like cats, that hide their joys, By growling, squalling, and a hideous noise. I rail'd at wild young sparks ; but, without lying, Never was man worse thought on for high-flying. The prodigal of love gives each her part, And squandring shows, at least, a noble heart. I've heard of men, who, in some lewd lampoon, Have hir'd a friend, to make their valor known. That accusation straight this question brings; What is the man that does such naughty things? The spaniel lover, like a sneaking fop, Lies at our feet : he's scarce worth taking up. 'Tis true, such heroes in a play go far; But chamber-practice is not like the bar. When men such vile, such faint, petitions make, We fear to give, because they fear to take; Since modesty's the virtue of our kind, Pray let it be to our own sex confin’d. When men usurp it from the femałe nation, Tis but a work of supererogation
We shew'd a princess in the play, 'tis true, Who gave her Cæfar more than all his due ; Told her own faults : but I should much abhor To choose a husband for
Our play a merry comedy had prov'd,
ITH fickly actors and an old house too,
new, And with our alehouse scenes, and cloaths bare worn, Can neither raise old plays, nor new adorn.
If all these ills could not undo us quite,
PROLOGUE to the PROPHETESS,
By BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.
by Mr. DR Y DE N.
Spoken by Mr. BETTER TON.
HAT Nostradame, with all his art can guess
The fate of our approaching Prophetess? A play, which, like a perspective set right, Presents our vast expences close to fight ; But turn the tube, and there we fadly view Our distant gains; and those uncertain too: A sweeping tax, which on ourselves we raise, And all, like you, in hopes of better days. When will our losses warn us to be wise ? Our wealth decreases, and our charges rise. Money, the sweet allurer of our hopes, Ebbs out in oceans, and comes in by drops. We raise new objects to provoke delight; But you grow fated, ere the second sight. False men, e'en so you