Wittypate. In what service have ye been, sir?

Ruinous. The first that fleshed me a soldier, sir, Was that great battle at Alcazar, in Barbary, Where the noble English Stukely fell, and where The royal Portugal Sebastian ended His untimely days.

     Wittypate. Are you sure Sebastian died there?

     Ruinous. Faith, sir, there was some other rumour hoped
     Amongst us, that he, wounded, escaped, and touched
     On his native shore again, where finding his country at home
     More distressed by the invasion of the Spaniard
     Than his loss abroad, forsook it, still supporting
     A miserable and unfortunate life,
     Which where he ended is yet uncertain.
                                   Wit at several Weapons.

   I have printed this quotation as I find it in the edition of 1778;
   though I am unable to discover what pretensions it claims to be
   arranged as blank verse.

3. Toxica zelotypo dedit uxor maecha marito,
       Nec satis ad mortem credidit esse datum. 
     Micuit argenti letalia pondera vivi;
       Cogeret ut celerem vis geminata necem. 
     Dividat haec si quis, faciunt discreta venenum: 
       Antidotum sumet, qui sociata bibet. 
     Ergo inter sese dum noxia pocula certant,
       Cessit letalis noxa salutiferae. 
     Protinus et vacuos alvi petiere recessus
       Lubrica dejectis qua via nota cibis. 
     Quam pia cura deum! prodest crudelior uxor,
       Et quum fata volunt, bina venena juvant.

PROLOGUE

SENT TO THE AUTHOR BY AN UNKNOWN HAND, AND PROPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY
MRS MOUNTFORD, DRESSED LIKE AN OFFICER[1].

Bright beauties, who in awful circle sit,
And you, grave synod of the dreadful pit,
And you the upper-tire of pop-gun wit,

Pray ease me of my wonder, if you may;
Is all this crowd barely to see the play;
Or is’t the poet’s execution-day?

His breath is in your hands I will presume,
But I advise you to defer his doom,
Till you have got a better in his room;

  And don’t maliciously combine together,
  As if in spite and spleen you were come hither;
  For he has kept the pen, tho’ lost the feather[2].

  And, on my honour, ladies, I avow,
  This play was writ in charity to you;
  For such a dearth of wit who ever knew?

  Sure ’tis a judgment on this sinful nation,
  For the abuse of so great dispensation;
  And, therefore, I resolve to change vocation.

  For want of petticoat, I’ve put on buff,
  To try what may be got by lying rough: 
  How think you, sirs? is it not well enough?

  Of bully-critics I a troop would lead;
  But, one replied,—­Thank you, there’s no such need,
  I at Groom-Porter’s, sir, can safer bleed.