Chapter LII: Prologue: TO

THE MISTAKES.

_This play was brought forward by Joseph Harris, a comedian, as his
own, although it is said to have been chiefly written by another
person. It was acted in_ 1690.

_Enter_ MR BRIGHT.

Gentlemen, we must beg your pardon; here's no prologue to be had to-day. Our new play is like to come on, without a frontispiece; as bald as one of you young beaux without your periwig. I left our young poet, snivelling and sobbing behind the scenes, and cursing somebody that has deceived him.

_Enter_ MR BOWEN.

Hold your prating to the audience; here's honest Mr Williams just come in, half mellow, from the Rose-Tavern.[402] He swears he is inspired with claret, and will come on, and that extempore too, either with a prologue of his own, or something like one. O here he comes to his trial, at all adventures; for my part, I wish him a good deliverance.

[_Exeunt Mr_ BRIGHT _and Mr_ BOWEN.

_Enter Mr_ WILLIAMS.

Save ye, sirs, save ye! I am in a hopeful way. }
I should speak something, in rhyme, now, for the play }
But the deuce take me, if I know what to say. }
I'll stick to my friend the author, that I can tell ye,
To the last drop of claret in my belly.
So far I'm sure 'tis rhyme--that needs no granting;
And, if my verses' feet stumble--you see my own are wanting.
Our young poet has brought a piece of work, }
In which though much of art there does not lurk, }
It may hold out three days--and that's as long as Cork.[403] }
But, for this play--(which till I have done, we show not)
What may be its fortune--by the Lord--I know not.
This I dare swear, no malice here is writ;
'Tis innocent of all things----even of wit.
He's no high-flyer----he makes no sky-rockets,
His squibs are only levelled at your pockets;
And if his crackers light among your pelf,
You are blown up; if not, then he's blown up himself.
By this time, I'm something recovered of my flustered madness;
And now, a word or two in sober sadness.
Ours is a common play; and you pay down
A common harlot's price--just half a crown.
You'll say, I play the pimp, on my friend's score; }
But since 'tis for a friend your gibes give o'er, }
For many a mother has done that before. }
How's this? you cry: an actor write?--we know it;
But Shakespeare was an actor, and a poet.
Has not great Jonson's learning often failed?
But Shakespeare's greater genius still prevailed.
Have not some writing actors, in this age,
Deserved and found success upon the stage?
To tell the truth, when our old wits are tired,
Not one of us but means to be inspired.
Let your kind presence grace our homely cheer; }
Peace and the butt[404] is all our business here; }
So much for that--and the devil take small beer. }

FOOTNOTES:

[Footnote 402: This was quite in character. Cibber says of Williams, that his industry was not equal to his capacity, for he loved his bottle better than his business. _Apology_, p. 115.]

[Footnote 403: The taking of Cork was one of the first exploits of the renowned Marlborough. The besieging army was disembarked on the 23d September, 1690, and the garrison, amounting to four thousand men, surrendered on the 28th of the same month.]

[Footnote 404: A phrase in the "Tempest" as altered by Dryden, which seems to have become proverbial.]