THE PREFACE. HAVING recommended this play to the town, and delivered the copy of it to the bookfeller, I think myself obliged to givę some account of it. It had been fome years in the hands of the author, and falling under my perufal, I thought fo well of it, that I perfuaded him to make fome additions and alterations to it, and let it appear upon the ftage. I own I was very highly pleased with it, and liked it the better, for the want of those ftudied fimiles and repartees, which we, who have writ before him, have thrown into our plays, to indulge and gain upon a false tafte that has prevailed for many years in the British VOL. II. M theatre. theatre. I believe the author would have condefcended to fall into this way a little more than he has, had he before the writing of it been often present at theatrical representations. I was confirmed in my thoughts of the play, by the opinion of better judges to whom it was communicated, who obferved that the fcenes were drawn after Moliere's manner, and that an easy and natural vein of humour ran through the whole. I do not queftion but the reader will discover this, and fee many beauties that escaped the audience; the touches being too delicate for every taste in a popular affembly. My brother-sharers were of opinion, at the firft reading of it, that it was like a picture in which the strokes were not ftrong enough to appear at a distance. As it is not in the common way of writing, the approbation was at first doubtful, but has rifen every time it has been acted, and has given an oppor opportunity in feveral of its parts for as juft and good action as ever I faw on the stage. The reader will confider that I fpeak here, not as the author, but as the patentee. Which is, perhaps, the reason why I am not diffufe in the praise of the play, left I fhould feem like a man who cries up his own wares only to draw in customers. PROLOG U E. I' N this grave age, when comedies are few, We crave your patronage for one that's new; Though 'twere poor ftuff, yet bid the author fair, And let the scarcenefs recommend the ware. Long have your ears been fill'd with tragic parts, Blood and blank-verse have harden'd all your hearts If e'er you fmile, 'tis at fome party strokes, Round-heads and Wooden-fhoes are standing jokes; The fame conceit gives claps and hisses birth, You're grown fuch politicians in your mirth! For once we try (though 'tis I own unfafe,) To please you all, and make both parties laugh. Our author, anxious for his fame to-night, And bafhful in his first attempt to write, Lies cautiously obfcure and unreveal'd, Like ancient actors in a mask conceal'd. Cenfure, when no man knows who writes the play, Were much good malice merely thrown away. The mighty critics will not blaft, for shame, A raw young thing, who dares not tell his name: Good-natur'd judges will th' unknown defend, And fear to blame, left they shou'd hurt a friend: Each wit may praise it, for his own dear fake, And hint he writ it, if the thing fhou'd take. But if you're rough, and ufe him like a dog, Depend upon it He'll remain incog. If you fhou'd hiss, he fwears he'll hifs as high, And, like a Culprit, join the hue-and-cry. If cruel men are still averse to spare These scenes, they fly for refuge to the fair. |