Prologue intended for the old bachelor. 
Written by the lord Falkland-

Most authors on the stage at first appear
Like widows’ bridegrooms, full of doubt and fear: 
They judge, from the experience of the dame,
How hard a task it is to quench her flame;
And who falls short of furnishing a course
Up to his brawny predecessor’s force,
With utmost rage from her embraces thrown,
Remains convicted as an empty drone. 
Thus often, to his shame, a pert beginner
Proves in the end a miserable sinner. 
   As for our youngster, I am apt to doubt him,
With all the vigour of his youth about him;
But he, more sanguine, trusts in one and twenty,
And impudently hopes he shall content you: 
For though his bachelor be worn and cold,
He thinks the young may club to help the old,
And what alone can be achieved by neither,
Is often brought about by both together. 
The briskest of you all have felt alarms,
Finding the fair one prostitute her charms
With broken sighs, in her old fumbler’s arms: 
But for our spark, he swears he’ll ne’er be jealous
Of any rivals, but young lusty fellows. 
Faith, let him try his chance, and if the slave,
After his bragging, prove a washy knave,
May he be banished to some lonely den
And never more have leave to dip his pen. 
But if he be the champion he pretends,
Both sexes sure will join to be his friends,
For all agree, where all can have their ends. 
And you must own him for a man of might,
If he holds out to please you the third night.

Prologue. 
Spoken by Mrs. Bracegirdle-

How this vile world is changed!  In former days
Prologues were serious speeches before plays,
Grave, solemn things, as graces are to feasts,
Where poets begged a blessing from their guests. 
But now no more like suppliants we come;
A play makes war, and prologue is the drum. 
Armed with keen satire and with pointed wit,
We threaten you who do for judges sit,
To save our plays, or else we’ll damn your pit. 
But for your comfort, it falls out to-day,
We’ve a young author and his first-born play;
So, standing only on his good behaviour,
He’s very civil, and entreats your favour. 
Not but the man has malice, would he show it,
But on my conscience he’s a bashful poet;
You think that strange ­no matter, he’ll outgrow it. 
Well, I’m his advocate:  by me he prays you
(I don’t know whether I shall speak to please you),
He prays ­O bless me! what shall I do now? 
Hang me if I know what he prays, or how! 
And ’twas the prettiest prologue as he wrote it! 
Well, the deuce take me, if I han’t forgot it. 
O Lord, for heav’n’s sake excuse the play,
Because, you know, if it be damned to-day,
I shall be hanged for wanting what to say. 
For my sake then ­but I’m in such confusion,
I cannot stay to hear your resolution.

[Runs off.]