The PROLOGƲE and EPILOGƲE to the New COMEDY, called, The English Fryer, Or, The Town Sparks.
LICENSED,
March 17. 1689.
J. F.
The PROLOGƲE.
HEaven to the Muses well may Coyn deny;
Pleasures attend on 'em, no Gold can buy.
Our Poet even in Poetry is poor,
Yet he so charming finds his little Store,
All
England seems to him, less rich than he;
For he's content, — which
England ne'er will be.
All Sects and Parties lend him Stuff for Plays,
And his Delight, though not his Fortune, raise.
Goods borrowed thus, he does not long retain,
But on the Stage, brings Fools and Knaves again
To those that lent 'em, that they may have Use,
Profit and Pleasure of their own produce.
To Day, he does make bold, a Farce to show,
Priests made, and acted here, some Months ago.
They turn'd to Farce, the Court, the Church, the Laws;
It met a while, some Fortune and Applause.
Now sure the Wits, that did assist it then,
And strive to have it acted o'er agen,
Will like it on the Stage; 'tis cheapest here.
Priests are good Actors, but they're cursed dear;
And will, if they return, have greater Pay;
With Reason! — Oh! They lost a hopeful Play.
Truth is, if ever Priests return, they come
With all the Hunger, Rage, Revenge of
Rome:
And therefore we had best no longer jar;
VVe shall agree too late, when in the Snare.
Nay, those who once serv'd Priests, and still promote
France, Teague, and
Jesuite, in their secret Vote:
And are so mad, they'd give up
Englands Glory,
Only to keep, the wretched Name of
Tory;
Had better quit their Plots, and cheaply sit,
To see us act the Product o' their VVit.
The EPILOGƲE.
PRiests have the Keys of Heaven and Hell they boast;
No doubt to both, they let in many a Ghost:
But we, to Day, have Ranting
Sparks display'd,
Can Damn themselves, without the Churches Aid;
VVho count it Glorious to Drink, VVhore and Swear,
And rather would be catch'd at Rapes, than Prayer.
But Hect'ring Heaven, they will not trust it far;
Therefore our Play-House is their Seat of War.
And they encounter without Wit, or Fear,
Dang'rous French Forces in Lewd Vizards here.
Our
Hero's once in
France great Fame did gain;
Our Masques give
France Revenge, and spoil the strain.
The Masques, no doubt, are Pensioners of
France;
'Tis Treason now, French Interest to advance;
And French Commodities are all by Law
Doom'd to be burnt: Then you, Bold Masques, withdraw,
Or else the
Custom-House will seize you all,
And make our House to the
Prize-Office fall.
To revive English Virtue, drive away
Folly and Vice, is aim'd at by this Play.
To Friends of
England this must well appear;
And such, no doubt, is every Creature here.