With sickly actors, and an old house too,
We're match'd with glorious theatres and new;
And with our ale-house scenes, and clothes bare worn,
Can neither raise old plays, nor new adorn.
If all these ills could not undo us quite,
A brisk French troop is grown your dear delight;
Who with broad bloody bills call you each day,
To laugh, and break your buttons at their play;
Or see some serious piece, which we presume
Is fall'n from some incomparable plume;
And therefore, Messieurs , if you'll do us grace,
Send lackeys early, to preserve your place
We dare not on your privilege intrench,
Or ask you why you like 'em; they are French.
Therefore some go with courtesy exceeding,
Neither to hear nor see, but show their breeding;
Each lady striving to out-laugh the rest,
To make it seem they understood the jest.
Their countrymen come in, and nothing pay;
To teach us English were to clap the play:
Civil, i'gad! our hospitable land
Bears all the charge, for them to understand;
Mean time we languish and neglected lie,
Like wives, while you keep better company;
And wish for your own sakes, without a satire,
You'd less good breeding, or had more good nature.