For bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense,
But good men starve for want of impudence.
Befides all these, there were a fort of wights,
I think my author calls them Tekelites,
Such hearty rogues against the king and laws,
They favor'd e'en a foreign rebel's cause.
When their own damn'd defign was quafh'd and
aw'd,
At least, they gave it their good word abroad.
As many a man, who, for a quiet life,
Breeds out his baftard, not to noife his wife;
Thus o'er their darling plot these Trimmers cry;
And tho they cannot keep it in their eye,
They bind it prentice to Count Tekely.
They believe not the last plot; may I be curst,
If I believe they e'er believ'd the first.
No wonder their own plot no plot they think;
The man, that makes it, never fmells the ftink.
And now it comes into my head, I'll tell
Why thefe damn'd Trimmers lov'd the Turks fo
well.
The original Trimmer, tho a friend to no man,
Yet in his heart ador'd a pretty woman;
He knew that Mahomet laid up for ever
And, which was more than mortal man e'er tafted, One pleasure that for threescore twelvemonths lafted:
To turn for this, may furely be forgiven:
Who'd not be circumcis'd for fuch a heaven?
PROLOGUE to the DISSAPPOINTMENT:
[By Mr. SOUTHERNE, 1684.]
OW comes it, gentlemen, that now a-days, When all of you fo fhrewdly judge of plays, Our poets tax you ftill with want of sense? All prologues treat you at your own expence. Sharp citizens a wiser way can go; They make you fools, but never call you fo. They, in good manners, feldom make a flip, But treat a common whore with ladyship: But here each faucy wit at random writes, And ufes ladies as he ufes knights.
Our author, young and grateful in his nature,
Vows, that from him no nymph deserves a satire:
Nor will he ever draw-I mean his rhime,
Against the sweet partaker of his crime.
Nor is he yet fo bold an undertaker,
To call men fools; 'tis railing at their Maker.
Befides, he fears to fplit upon that shelf;
He's young enough to be a fop himself :
And, if his praife can bring you all a-bed,
He fwears fuch hopeful youth no nation ever bred.
Your nurses, we prefume, in fuch a case,
Your father chose, because he lik'd the face
And, often, they supply'd your mother's place.
The dry nurse was your mother's ancient maid,
Who knew fome former flip she ne'er betray'd.
Betwixt them both, for milk and fugar-candy,
You fucking bottles were well ftor'd with brandy.
Your father, to initiate your difcourfe,
Meant to have taught you first to swear and curse,
But was prevented by each careful nurse.
For, leaving dad and mam, as names too common,
They taught you certain parts of man and woman.
I pass your schools; for there when first you came,
You would be fure to learn the Latin name.
In colleges you scorn'd the art of thinking,
But learn'd all moods and figures of good drinking:
Thence come to town, you practise play, to know
The virtues of the high dice, and the low.
Each thinks himself a sharper most profound:
He cheats by pence; is cheated by the pound.
With these perfections, and what else he gleans,
The spark fets up for love behind our scenes;
Hot in pursuit of princeffes and queens.
There, if they know their man, with cunning
carriage,
Twenty to one but it concludes in marriage.
He hires fome homely room, love's fruits to gather,
And garret-high rebels against his father':
But he once dead
Brings her in triumph, with her portion, down,
A toilet, dreffing-box, and half a crown.
Some marry first, and then they fall to fcow'ring,
Which is, refining marriage into whoring.
Our women batten well on their good-nature;
All they can rap and rend for the dear creature.
But while abroad fo liberal the dolt is,
Poor spouse at home as ragged as a colt is.
Laft, fome there are, who take their first degrees
Of lewdnefs in our middle galleries.
The doughty bullies enter bloody drunk,
Invade and grubble one another's punk:
They caterwaul, and make a dismal rout,
Call fons of whores, and strike, but ne'er lug out:
Thus while for paltry punk they roar and stickle,
They make it bawdier than a conventicle.
INCE faction ebbs, and rogues grow out of fashion,
Their penny-fcribes take care t'inform the nation, How well men thrive in this or that plantation:
How Penfylvania's air agrees with Quakers,
And Carolina's with Affociators:
Both e'en too good for madmen and for traitors.
Truth is, our land with faints is fo run o'er,
And every age produces such a store,
That now there's need of two New-Englands more.
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