PROLOGUE

TO THE SECOND PART

They who write ill, and they who ne'er durst write,
Turn critics, out of mere revenge and spite:
A playhouse gives 'em fame; and up there starts,
From a mean fifth-rate wit, a man of parts.
(So common faces on the stage appear;
We take 'em in, and they turn beauties here.)
Our author fears those critics as his fate;
And those he fears, by consequence, must hate,
For they the traffic of all wit invade,
As scriv'ners draw away the bankers' trade.
Howe'er, the poet 's safe enough to-day,
They cannot censure an unfinish'd play.
But, as when vizard-mask appears in pit,
Straight every man who thinks himself a wit
Perks up, and, managing his comb with grace,
With his white wig sets off his nut-brown face;
That done, bears up to th' prize, and views each limb,
To know her by her rigging and her trim;
Then, the whole noise of fops to wagers go:
" Pox on her, 't must be she; " and: " Damme, no! " —
Just so, I prophesy, these wits to-day
Will blindly guess at our imperfect play;
With what new plots our Second Part is fill'd,
Who must be kept alive, and who be kill'd.
And as those vizard-masks maintain that fashion,
To soothe and tickle sweet imagination;
So our dull poet keeps you on with masking,
To make you think there 's something worth your asking.
But, when 'tis shown, that which does now delight you
Will prove a dowdy, with a face to fright you.