Amongst other Degrees of Knowledge, I have heard You express some value for Poetry; which, cou'd one imitate Your right Tast of those less profitable Sciences, who permit it but at some Seasons, as a familiar Companion to relieve more serious Thoughts, and prevent an Anxiety, which, the constant Application, You have always been inclin'd to give harder Studies, might probably draw on You, is an Amusement worthy the greatest Head-piece. But 'tis so deluding a Genius, Dramatick Poetry especially, that many are insensibly drawn into to it, 'till it becomes a Business. To avoid that Misfortune, I'm now almost fix'd to throw it intirely by, and wou'd fain aim at something which may prove more serviceable to the Publick, and beneficial to my self. Cou'd I have the Vanity to hope your Approbation of this _Comedy_, 'twou'd be so current a Stamp to it, that none, who have the Honour to know You, wou'd pretend to dispute it's Merit; but tho' I'm satisfy'd in Your good Nature, I must be aw'd with Your Judgment; and am sensible there are Errors in it infinitely more obvious to Your Eye, than a greater Part of the Polite World; however, as it had the Fortune to be well receiv'd, and by some of the best Judges esteem'd much preferable to any of my former, and as it was highly favour'd the Third Night with as beautiful an Appearance of Nobility, and other fine Ladies, as ever yet Grac'd a Theatre. I hope, you'll in some measure Protect it, at least that you'll pardon this Presumption, since I have long pleas'd my self with the Hopes, and impatiently waited an Opportunity of publickly declaring how much I am, _SIR_, _Your most Devoted, and Obedient humble Servant_, PROLOGUE. Written by Mr. MOTTEUX. _So long the solitary Stage has mourn'd, Sure now you're pleas'd to find our Sports return'd. When Warriors come triumphant, all will smile, And Love wirh Conquest crown the Toyls of_ Lille. _Tho from the Field of Glory you're no Starters, Few love all Fighting, and no Winter-Quarters. Chagrin French Generals cry_, Gens temerare _Dare to take_ Lille! _We only take the Air. No, bravely, with the Pow'rs of_ Spain _and_ France, _We will--Entrench; and stand--at a distance: We'll starve 'em--if they please not to advance. Long thus, in vain, were the Allies defy'd, But 'twas ver cold by that damn'd River Side. So as they came too late, and we were stronger, Scorn the Poltrons, we cry'd-- March off;_ morbleu, _we'll stay for 'em no longer; The little Monsieurs their Disgrace may own, Now ev'n the Grand ones makes their Scandal known.