Another, who the name of danger loaths,
  Vow’d he would go, and swore me forty oaths,
  But that his horses were in body-clothes.

  A third cried,—­Damn my blood, I’ll be content
  To push my fortune, if the parliament
  Would but recal claret from banishment.

  A fourth (and I have done) made this excuse—­
  I’d draw my sword in Ireland, sir, to chuse;
  Had not their women gouty legs, and wore no shoes.

  Well, I may march, thought I, and fight, and trudge,
  But, of these blades, the devil a man will budge;
  They there would fight, e’en just as here they judge.

  Here they will pay for leave to find a fault;
  But, when their honour calls, they can’t be bought;
  Honour in danger, blood, and wounds is sought.

  Lost virtue, whither fled? or where’s thy dwelling
  Who can reveal? at least, ’tis past my telling,
  Unless thou art embarked for Inniskilling.

  On carrion-tits those sparks denounce their rage,
  In boot of wisp and Leinster frise engage;
  What would you do in such an equipage[3]?

  The siege of Derry does you gallants threaten;
  Not out of errant shame of being beaten,
  As fear of wanting meat, or being eaten.

  Were wit like honour, to be won by fighting,
  How few just judges would there be of writing! 
  Then you would leave this villainous back-biting.

  Your talents lie how to express your spite;
  But, where is he who knows to praise aright? 
  You praise like cowards, but like critics fight.

  Ladies, be wise, and wean these yearling calves,
  Who, in your service too, are meer faux braves;
  They judge, and write, and fight, and love—­by halves.

Footnotes: 
1.  The humour of this intended prologue turns upon the unwillingness
   displayed to attend King William into Ireland by many of the
   nobility and gentry, who had taken arms at the Revolution.  The
   truth is, that, though invited to go as volunteers, they could not
   but consider themselves as hostages, of whom William did not chuse
   to lose sight, lest, while he was conquering Ireland, he might,
   perchance, lose England, by means of the very men by whom he had
   won it.  The disbanding of the royal regiment had furnished a
   subject for the satirical wit of Buckingham, at least, such a piece
   is printed in his Miscellanies; and for that of Shadwell, in his
   epilogue to Bury-fair.  But Shadwell was now poet-laureat, and his
   satire was privileged, like the wit of the ancient royal jester. 
   Our author was suspected of disaffection, and liable to
   misconstruction:  For which reason, probably, he declined this
   sarcastic prologue, and substituted that which follows, the tone of
   which is submissive, and conciliatory towards the government. 
   Contrary to custom, it was spoken by a woman.