Chapter VIII: Prologue

We might well call this short mock-play of ours,
A posy made of weeds instead of flowers;
Yet such have been presented to your noses,
And there are such, I fear, who thought 'em roses.
Would some of 'em were here, to see, this night,
What stuff it is in which they took delight.
Here brisk insipid rogues, for wit, let fall
Sometimes dull sense; but oft'ner none at all.
There, strutting heroes, with a grim-fac'd train,
Shall brave the gods, in King Cambyses' vein.
For (changing rules, of late, as if man writ
In spite of reason, nature, art and wit)
Our poets make us laugh at tragedy,
And with their comedies they make us cry.
Now critics, do your worst, that here are met;
For, like a rook, I have hedg'd in my bet.
If you approve, I shall assume the state
Of those high-flyers whom I imitate:
And justly too, for I will teach you more
Than ever they would let you know before.
I will not only show the feats they do,
But give you all their reasons for 'em too.
Some honour may to me from hence arise;
But if, by my endeavours you grow wise,
And what you once so prais'd, shall now despise;
Then I'll cry out, swell'd with poetic rage,
'Tis I, John Lacy, have reform'd your stage.

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