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Oh Happiness! too great for Verse to shew,
And only in the joyful Parents breast;
Whose innate Comforts do from Nature flow,
And from no artful Pen can be exprest.

Live then 'till Time grow old, as well as you,
Whilst choice of Happiness each Year renews;
And whilst I Sing in tuneful Verse your due,
Accept my Duty, and forgive my Muse.

j

A PROLOGUE,

For the first Part of DON QUIXOTE: Spoken by Mr. BETTERTON.

I

N hopes the Coming Scenes your Mirth will raise,

Το you, the Just Pretenders to the Bays,

The Poet humbly thus a Reverence pays.

And you, the Contraries, that hate the Pains,
Of Labour'd Sence, or of Improving Brains:
That feel the Lashes in a well-writ Play,

He bids perk up and smile, the Satyr sleeps to Day.
Our Sancho bears no Rods to make ye smart,
Proverbs, and merry Jokes, are all his Part.
The Modish Spark may Paint, and lie in Paste,
Wear a huge Steinkirk twisted to his Waste,
And not see here, how Foppish he is Dress'd.
The Country Captain, that to Town does come,
From his Militia Troop, and Spouse at home,
To beat a London Doxy's Kettle-Drum :
One, who not only th' whole Pit can prove,
That she for Brass Half-crown has barter'd Love,
But the Eighteen-penny Whore-masters above :
With his Broad Gold may treat his Pliant Dear,
Without being shown a Bubbled Coxcomb here.

Grave

Grave Dons of Bus'ness may be Bulker's Cullies,
And Crop-ear'd Prentices set up for Bullies,
And not one Horse-whip Lash here, flog their Follies;
Nay, our hot Blades, whose Honour was so small,
They'd not bear Arms, because not Col'nels all:
That wish the French may have a mighty Slaughter,
But wish it safely- -On this side o'th' Water.
Yet when the King returns, are all prepar'd,
To beg Commissions in the Standing-Guard;
Even these, the Sons of Shame and Cowardice,
Will 'scape us now, tho' 'tis a cursed Vice.
Our Author has a famous Story chose,

Whose Comick Theme no Person does expose,
But the Knights-Errant; and pray where are those?
There was an Age, when Knights with Launce and
Shield,

Would Right a Lady's Honour in the Field:

To punish Ravishers, to Death would run,
But those Romantick Days-Alas, are gone,
Some of our Knights now, rather would make one,
Who finding a young Virgin, by Disaster,
Ty'd to a Tree, would rather tie her faster.
Yet these must 'scape too, so indeed must all,
Court-Cuckold-makers now no Jest does maul,
Nor the horn'd Herd within yon City Wall.
The Orange-Miss, that here Cajoles the Duke,
May sell her Rotten Ware without rebuke.

The young Coquet, whose Cheats few Fools can dive at,

May Trade, and th' Old Tope Kniperkin in private;
The Atheist too, on Laws Divine may Trample,
And the Plump Jolly Priest get Drunk, for Church-
Example.

An

An EPILOGUE

To the first Part of DON QUIXOTE. By SANCHO, Riding upon his Ass.

'M

ONGST our Fore-fathers, that pure Wit profest, There's an old Proverb, That two Heads are best. Dapple and I have therefore jogg'd this way, Through sheer good Nature, to defend this Play: Tho' I've no Friends, yet he (as proof may shew) May have Relations here for ought I know. For in a Crowd, where various Heads are addle, May many an Ass be, that ne'er wore a Saddle. "Tis then for him that I this Speech intend, Because I know he is the Poet's Friend; And, as 'tis said, a parlous Ass once spoke, When Crab-tree Cudgel did his Rage provoke; So if ye are not civil, 'dsbud, I fear,..

He'll speak again

And tell the Ladies every Dapple here.

Take good Advice then, and with kindness win him,
Tho' he looks simply, you don't know what's in him :
He has shrewd Parts, and proper for his Place,
And yet no Plotter, you may see by's Face;
He tells no Lyes, nor does Sedition vent,
Nor ever Brays against the Government.
Then for his Garb he's like the Spanish Nation,
Still the old Mode, he never changes Fashion;
His sober Carriage too you've seen to Day,
But for's Religion, troth, I cannot say
Whether for Mason, Burgis, Muggleton,

The House with Steeple, or the House with none:
I rather think he's of your Pagan Crew,

For he ne'er goes to Church no more than you.
Some that would, by his Looks, guess his Opinion,
Say, he's a Papish; others, a Socinian,

But I believe him, if the Truth were known,
As th' rest of the Town-Asses are, of none;

But

But for some other Gifts: Mind what I say,
Never compare, each Dapple has his Day,
Nor anger him, but kindly use this Play:

For should you with him, conceal'd Parts disclose, Lord! how like Ninnies would look all the Beaus.

EEEEEEEEEEE

B

A PROLOGUE,

To the Massacre of PARIS: For Mr.
BETTERTON.

RAVE is that Poet that dares draw his Pen, To expose the nauseous Crimes of guilty Men, As once did our Immortal Patron, Ben.

And Wise are they that can with Patience bear,
And just Reflections moderately hear,
Unmoy'd by Passion, as unsway'd by Fear:
These we present a Tragick piece to Night,
That has some Years been banish'd from the Light;
Hush'd and imprison'd close, as in the Tower,
Half press'd to Death by a dispensing Power:
Rome's Friend, no doubt, suppos'd there might be
shown,

Just such an Entertainment of their own,

The Plot, the Protestants, the Stage, the Town:
But no such Fears our Hugenots alarm'd,

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True English Hearts are always better Arm❜d;
For if the Valiant in a little Town,

Batter'd and starving their brave Cause, durst own,
And now to take a Tryal for it's fact,

Is just come out by th' Habeas Corpus Act.

If Peasants scorning Death can guard their Walls,
And the mild Priesthood, turn to Generals;
·Britains look up, and this blest Country see,
In spite of byass'd Law serene and free,
Cleer'd from it's choaking Foggs of Popery.
No Massacres or Revolutions fear,
Affairs are strangely alter'd in one Year:

Lord

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Lord what a Hurry was there here one Night,
The Irish come, they Burn, they're now in sight;
A city Taylor swore, with Fear grown Wild,
He saw a huge Tall Teague devour a Child;
We have no Nuncio in our Councils now,
Nor pamper'd Fesuites with our Heifers Plough :
Infallibility himself does run,

The Garden's Weeded, and the Moles are gone;
The barbarous French too that Thuanus quotes,
Of old so diligent in cutting Throats:
Which as Example to Posterity,

To Night you'll here this dreadful Mirrour see,
Must be remember'd in their Progeny :

A spurious Race now on our Seas are steering,

And beat us by the way of Buccaneering;

Not Gold to Lawyers, to th' Ambitious Power,
Not lusty Switzer to a lustful Whore:

To Gamesters Luck, to Beauty length of Days,
Nor to a wrincled wither'd Widow Praise ;
Could give such Joy as to our Country-men,
To see great Orange seize his own again :
This glorious Chace, no doubt, you'll all pursue,
Mean while our Author begs a Favour too;
You that his Merit and Distress have known,
To guard him from the Criticks of the Town:
That this will be the Poet's Prophecy,
The Poets all were Voters formerly;

To incourage then give ours to Night his due,
His Tale is somewhat Bloody, but 'tis true,

A moral Truth shown to an honest End,

And can the Good or Wise of neither Sect offend:

Fancy and Stile far as the rest excel,

In our deliverance Year let no Tongue tell,

Poets the only Curst, on whom no Manna fell.
Plead therefore that they may by Casar's influence
breath,

And mix a Lawrel with his Oaken Wreath ;
So shall his Glory flourish to the height,

Then every Pen in leaves of Brass shall write :

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