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THE RELAPSE: PROLOGUE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Ladies, this play in too much haste was writ
Last Line: The entertainment's—at their own expence.


PROLOGUE.

SPOKEN BY MISS CROSS.

LADIES, this play in too much haste was writ,
To be o'ercharg'd with either plot or wit;
'Twas got, conceiv'd, and born in six weeks space,
And wit, you know, 's as slow in growth—as grace.
Sure it can ne'er be ripen'd to your taste;
I doubt 'twill prove our author bred too fast:
For mark 'em well, who with the Muses marry,
They rarely do conceive, but they miscarry.
'Tis the hard fate of those who are big with rhyme,
Still to be brought-to-bed before their time.
Of our late poets, Nature few has made;
The greatest part—are only so by trade.
Still want of something brings the scribbling fit;
For want of money some of 'em have writ,
And others do't, you see—for want of wit.
Honour, they fancy, summons 'em to write,
So out they lug in resty Nature's spight,
As some of you spruce beaux do—when you fight
Yet let the ebb of wit be ne'er so low,
Some glimpse of it a man may hope to show,
Upon a theme so ample—as a beau.
So, howsoe'er true courage may decay,
Perhaps there's not one smock-face here to-day,
But's bold as Cæsar—to attack a play.
Nay, what's yet more, with an undaunted face,
To do the thing with more heroick grace,
'Tis six to four y'attack the strongest place.
You are such Hotspurs in this kind of venture,
Where there's no breach, just there you needs must enter.
But be advis'd—
E'en give the hero and the critique o'er,
For Nature sent you on another score;
She formed her beau, for nothing but her whore.

On the third day the following prologue was spoken by Mrs.
Verbruggen. It is in the editions of 1697, 1698, 1708, 1730, and 1735,
but not in that of 1776. It is also given in Mr. Ward's edition of
Vanbrugh's Complete Works, and in Leigh Hunt.

Apologies for plays, experience shews,
Are things almost as useless—as the beaux.
What e'er we say (like them) we neither move,
Your friendship, pity, anger, nor your love.
'Tis interest turns the globe: let us but find,
The way to please you, and you'll soon be kind:
But to expect, you'd for our sakes approve,
Is just as tho' you for their sakes shou'd love,
And that, we do confess, we think a task,
Which (tho' they may impose) we never ought to ask.
This is an age, where all things we improve,
But most of all, the art of making love.
In former days, women were only won,
By merit, truth, and constant service done,
But lovers now, are much more expert grown.
They seldom wait, t'approach, by tedious form,
They'r for dispatch, for taking you by storm,
Quick are their sieges, furious are their fires,
Fierce their attacks, and boundless their desires.
Before the play's half ended, I'll engage,
To shew you beaux, come crowding on the stage,
Who with so little pains, have always sped,
They'll undertake to look a lady dead.
How I have shook, and trembling stood with awe,
When here, behind the scenes, I've seen 'em draw
—A Comb: that dead-doing weapon to the heart,
And turn each powder'd hair into a dart.
When I have seen 'em sally on the stage,
Drest to the war, and ready to engage,
I've mourn'd your destiny—yet more their fate,
To think, that after victorys so great,
It shou'd so often prove, their hard mishap,
To sneak into a lane—and get a clap.
But hush; they'r here already, I'll retire,
And leave 'em to you ladys to admire.
They'll shew you twenty thousand airs and graces,
They'll entertain you with their soft grimaces,
Their snuff-box, awkward bows—and ugly faces.
In short, they'r after all, so much your friends
That lest the play shou'd fail, the authors ends,
They have resolv'd, to make you some amends.
Between each act (perform'd by nicest rules),
They'll treat you—with an Interlude of Fools.
Of which, that you may have the deeper sence,
The entertainment's—at their own expence.





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