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. 10
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 highflier—­he makes no sky-rockets,
His squibs are only levell’d 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 recover’d of my fluster’d madness: 
And now, a word or two in sober sadness. 20
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 Shakspeare was an actor, and a poet. 
Has not great Jonson’s learning often fail’d? 
But Shakspeare’s greater genius still prevail’d. 
Have not some writing actors, in this age, 30
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 is all our business here: 
So much for that;—­and the devil take small beer.

* * * * *

XLV.

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; 10
  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, 20
  To insure our new-built vessel, call’d a play;
  No sooner named, than one cries out, These