Sir John Vanbrugh therefore, tired of theatrical management, thought of disposing of his whole farm to some industrious tenant, that might put it into better condition. It was to Mr. Owen Swiny, that in the exigence of his affairs, he made an offer of his actors under such agreements of salary as might be made with them; and of his house, cloaths, and scenes, with the Queen's license to employ them, upon payment of the casual rent of five pounds every acting day, and not to exceed 700 l. per annum. With this proposal Mr. Swiny complied, and governed that stage till another great theatrical revolution. There are two plays of our author not yet mentioned, viz. The False Friend, a Comedy; acted in 1698, and A Journey to London, a Comedy; which he left unfinished. This last piece was finished by Mr. Cibber to a very great advantage, and now is one of the best comedies in our language. Mr. Cibber, in his prologue, takes particular notice of our author's virtuous intention in composing this piece, which, he says, was to make some amends for those loose scenes, which in the fire of his youth he had with more regard to applause, than virtue, exhibited to the public: but this design will be best understood by inserting the prologue. PROLOGUE. This play took birth from principles of truth, To make amends for errors past, of youth. A bard that's now no more, in riper days, Conscious review'd the licence of his plays: And tho' applause his wanton muse had fir'd, Himself condemn'd what sensual minds admir'd. At length he own'd that plays should let you see Not only what you are, but ought to be: Though vice was natural, 'twas never meant, The stage should shew it, but for punishment! Warm with that thought his muse once more took flame, Resolv'd to bring licentious life to shame. Such was the piece, his latest pen design'd', But left no traces of his plan behind. Luxurious scenes, unprun'd, or half contriv'd; Yet, through the mass, his native fire surviv'd: Rough as rich oar, in mines the treasure lay, Yet still 'twas rich, and forms at length a play. In which the bold compiler boasts no merit, But that his pains have sav'd you scenes of spirit. Not scenes that would a noisy joy impart, But such as hush the mind, and warm the heart. From praise of hands, no sure account he draws, But fix'd attention is, sincere applause. If then (for hard you'll own the task) his art Can to those Embrion scenes new life impart; The living proudly would exclude his lays, And to the buried bard resign the praise.