Prologue To "King Arthur." Spoken By Mr Betterton.

    Sure there's a dearth of wit in this dull town,
    When silly plays so savourily go down;
    As, when clipt money passes, 'tis a sign
    A nation is not over-stock'd with coin.
    Happy is he who, in his own defence,
    Can write just level to your humble sense;
    Who higher than your pitch can never go;
    And, doubtless, he must creep, who writes below.
    So have I seen, in hall of knight, or lord,
    A weak arm throw on a long shovel-board;
    He barely lays his piece, bar rubs and knocks,
    Secured by weakness not to reach the box.
    A feeble poet will his business do,
    Who, straining all he can, comes up to you:
    For, if you like yourselves, you like him too.
    An ape his own dear image will embrace;
    An ugly beau adores a hatchet face:
    So, some of you, on pure instinct of nature,
    Are led, by kind, to admire your fellow-creature.
    In fear of which, our house has sent this day,
    To insure our new-built vessel, call'd a play;
    No sooner named, than one cries out, These stagers
    Come in good time, to make more work for wagers.
    The town divides, if it will take or no:
    The courtiers bet, the cits, the merchants too;
    A sign they have but little else to do.
    Bets, at the first, were fool-traps; where the wise,
    Like spiders, lay in ambush for the flies:
    But now they're grown a common trade for all,
    And actions by the new book rise and fall;
    Wits, cheats, and fops, are free of wager-hall.
    One policy as far as Lyons carries;
    Another, nearer home, sets up for Paris.
    Our bets, at last, would e'en to Rome extend,
    But that the pope has proved our trusty friend.
    Indeed, it were a bargain worth our money,
    Could we insure another Ottoboni.
    Among the rest there are a sharping set,
    That pray for us, and yet against us bet.
    Sure Heaven itself is at a loss to know
    If these would have their prayers be heard, or no:
    For, in great stakes, we piously suppose,
    Men pray but very faintly they may lose.
    Leave off these wagers; for, in conscience speaking,
    The city needs not your new tricks for breaking:
    And if you gallants lose, to all appearing,
    You'll want an equipage for volunteering;
    While thus, no spark of honour left within ye,
    When you should draw the sword, you draw the guinea.