Who have we here again? what nymph's i' th' stocks? Your most obedient slave, sweet madam Cox. You'd best be coy, and blush for a pretence; For shame! say something in your own defence!
_Mrs Cox._ What shall I say? I have been hence so long, I've e'en almost forgot my mother-tongue; If I can act, I wish I were ten fathom Beneath----
_Goodman._ O Lord! pray, no swearing, madam!
_Mrs Cox._ If I had sworn, yet sure, to serve the nation, I could find out some mental reservation. Well, in plain terms, gallants, without a sham, Will you be pleased to take me as I am? Quite out of countenance, with a downcast look, Just like a truant that returns to book: Yet I'm not old; but, if I were, this place Ne'er wanted art to piece a ruined face. When greybeards governed, I forsook the stage; You know 'tis piteous work to act with age. Though there's no sense among these beardless boys, There's what we women love, that's mirth and noise. These young beginners may grow up in time, And the devil's in't, if I am past my prime.
[Footnote 360: Alluding to St André, the famous dancing master, and Jacob Hall, the performer on the slack rope.]
_This play was highly applauded at its first representation. Langbaine, following perhaps this epilogue, tells us, that the genius of the author budded as early as that of the incomparable Cowley; and adds, in evidence of farther sympathy, that Saunders was, like him, a king's scholar. The play is said to be taken from a novel called "Tamerlane and Asteria," and was complimented with a copy of commendatory verses by Mr Banks. It does not appear that Saunders wrote any thing else._
Ladies, the beardless author of this day Commends to you the fortune of his play. A woman-wit has often graced the stage, But he's the first boy-poet of our age. Early as is the year his fancies blow, Like young Narcissus peeping through the snow. Thus Cowley[361] blossomed soon, yet flourished long; This is as forward, and may prove as strong. Youth with the fair should always favour find, Or we are damned dissemblers of our kind. What's all this love they put into our parts? 'Tis but the pit-a-pat of two young hearts. Should hag and grey-beard make such tender moan, } Faith, you'd even trust them to themselves alone, } And cry, "Let's go, here's nothing to be done." } Since love's our business, as 'tis your delight, The young, who best can practise, best can write. What though he be not come to his full power? He's mending and improving every hour. You sly she-jockies of the box and pit, Are pleased to find a hot unbroken wit; By management he may in time be made, But there's no hopes of an old battered jade; Faint and unnerved, he runs into a sweat, And always fails you at the second heat.