"But your grace understands humour too well not to know this, and much more than I can say of it. All I have now to do, is, humbly to dedicate this play to your grace, which has succeeded beyond my expectation; and the humours of which have been approved by men of the best sense and learning. Nor do I hear of any professed enemies to the play, but some women, and some men of feminine understandings, who like slight plays only that represent a little tattle-sort of conversation like their own: but true humour is not liked or understood by them; and therefore even my attempt towards it is condemned by them: but the same people, to my great comfort, damn all Mr Jonson's plays, who was incomparably the best dramatic poet that ever was, or, I believe, ever will be; and I had rather be author of one scene in his best comedies, than of any play this age has produced."]
[Footnote 394: This inhuman jest turns on the execution of Henry Cornish, who, with Slingsby Bethel, was sheriff in 1680, and distinguished himself in opposition to the court.--See Note on "Absalom and Achitophel," Part I. vol. ix. p. 280. He was condemned as accessary to the Rye-house plot, and executed accordingly on 23d October, 1685; probably a short time before this prologue was spoken, which might be in January 1686.]
New ministers, when first they get in place, Must have a care to please; and that's our case: Some laws for public welfare we design, If you, the power supreme, will please to join. There are a sort of prattlers in the pit, Who either have, or who pretend to wit; These noisy sirs so loud their parts rehearse, That oft the play is silenced by the farce. Let such be dumb, this penalty to shun, Each to be thought my lady's eldest son. But stay; methinks some vizard mask I see, Cast out her lure from the mid gallery: About her all the fluttering sparks are ranged; The noise continues, though the scene is changed: Now growling, sputtering, wauling, such a clutter! 'Tis just like puss defendant in a gutter: Fine love, no doubt; but ere two days are o'er ye, The surgeon will be told a woful story. Let vizard mask her naked face expose, On pain of being thought to want a nose: Then for your lacqueys, and your train beside, By whate'er name or title dignified, They roar so loud, you'd think behind the stairs Tom Dove,[395] and all the brotherhood of bears: They're grown a nuisance, beyond all disasters; We've none so great but--their unpaying masters. We beg you, Sirs, to beg your men, that they Would please to give you leave to hear the play. Next, in the play-house, spare your precious lives; Think, like good Christians, on your bearns and wives: Think on your souls; but, by your lugging forth,[396] It seems you know how little they are worth. If none of these will move the warlike mind, Think on the helpless whore you leave behind. We beg you, last, our scene-room to forbear, And leave our goods and chattels to our care. Alas! our women are but washy toys, And wholly taken up in stage employs: Poor willing tits they are; but yet, I doubt, This double duty soon will wear them out. Then you are watched besides with jealous care; What if my lady's page should find you there? My lady knows t' a tittle what there's in ye; No passing your gilt shilling for a guinea. Thus, gentlemen, we have summed up in short Our grievances, from country, town, and court: Which humbly we submit to your good pleasure; But first vote money, then redress at leisure.[397]