Whatever future Fate our House may find,
At present we expect you shou'd be kind:
Inconstancy itself can claim no Right,
Before Enjoyment and the Wedding Night.
You must be fix'd a little ere you range,
You must be true 'till you have Time to change.
A Week at least; one Night is sure too soon:
But we pretend not to a Honey Moon.
To Novelty we know you can be true,
But what, alas! or who, is always new?
This Day, without Presumption, we pretend
With Novelty entire you're entertain'd;
For not alone our House and Scenes are new,
Our Song and Dance, but ev'n our Actors too.
Our Play itself has something in't uncommon,
Two faithful Lovers, and one constant Woman.
In sweet Italian Strains our Shepherds sing,
Of harmless Loves our painted Forests ring
In Notes, perhaps less Foreign than the Thing .
To Sound and Show at first we make Pretence,
In Time we may regale you with some Sense.
But that, at present, were too great Expence.
We only fear the Beaux may think it hard,
To be to Night from smutty Jests debarr'd:
But in good Breeding, sure, they'll once excuse
Ev'n Modesty, when in a Stranger Muse.
The Day's at hand, when we shall shift the Scene,
And to yourselves shew your dear selves again:
Paint the Reverse of what you've seen To-day,
And in bold Strokes the vicious Town display.