Oh Happiness! too great for Verse to shew,
And only in the joyful Parents breast;
Whose innate Comforts do from Nature flow,
And from no artful Pen can be exprest.
Live then 'till Time grow old, as well as you,
Whilst choice of Happiness each Year renews;
And whilst I Sing in tuneful Verse your due,
Accept my Duty, and forgive my Muse.
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A PROLOGUE,
For the first Part of Don Quixote: Spoken by Mr. Betterton.
IN hopes the Coming Scenes your Mirth will raise, }
To you, the Just Pretenders to the Bays, }
The Poet humbly thus a Reverence pays. }
And you, the Contraries, that hate the Pains,
Of Labour'd Sence, or of Improving Brains:
That feel the Lashes in a well-writ Play,
He bids perk up and smile, the Satyr sleeps to Day.
Our Sancho bears no Rods to make ye smart,
Proverbs, and merry Jokes, are all his Part.
The Modish Spark may Paint, and lie in Paste, }
Wear a huge Steinkirk twisted to his Waste, }
And not see here, how Foppish he is Dress'd. }
The Country Captain, that to Town does come, }
From his Militia Troop, and Spouse at home, }
To beat a London Doxy's Kettle-Drum: }
One, who not only th' whole Pit can prove, }
That she for Brass Half-crown has bartered Love, }
But the Eighteen-penny Whore-masters above: }
With his Broad Gold may treat his Pliant Dear,
Without being shown a Bubbled Coxcomb here.
