Thus far the poet; but his brains grow addle, And all the rest is purely from his noddle. You have seen young ladies at the senate door Prefer petitions, and your grace implore; However grave the legislators were, Their cause went ne'er the worse for being fair. Reasons as weak as theirs, perhaps, I bring; 30 But I could bribe you with as good a thing. I heard him make advances of good nature; That he, for once, would sheath his cutting satire. Sign but his peace, he vows he'll ne'er again The sacred names of fops and beaux profane. Strike up the bargain quickly; for I swear, As times go now, he offers very fair. Be not too hard on him with statutes neither; Be kind; and do not set your teeth together, To stretch the laws, as cobblers do their leather. 40 Horses by Papists are not to be ridden, But sure the Muses' horse was ne'er forbidden; For in no rate-book it was ever found That Pegasus was valued at five pound; Fine him to daily drudging and inditing: And let him pay his taxes out in writing. * * * * * XLIII. PROLOGUE TO "THE PROPHETESS."[65] BY BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER. SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON. 1690. What Nostradame, with all his art, can guess The fate of our approaching Prophetess? A play which, like a pérspective set right, Presents our vast expenses close to sight; But turn the tube, and there we sadly view Our distant gains; and those uncertain too: A sweeping tax, which on ourselves we raise, And all, like you, in hopes of better days; When will our losses warn us to be wise? Our wealth decreases, and our charges rise. 10 Money, the sweet allurer of our hopes, Ebbs out in oceans, and comes in by drops; We raise new objects to provoke delight, But you grow sated ere the second sight. False men, e'en so you serve your mistresses: They rise three storeys in their towering dress; And, after all, you love not long enough To pay the rigging, ere you leave them off. Never content with what you had before, But true to change, and Englishmen all o'er. 20 Now honour calls you hence; and all your care Is to provide the horrid pomp of war. In plume and scarf, jack-boots, and Bilbo blade, Your silver goes, that should support our trade. Go, unkind heroes![66] leave our stage to mourn, Till rich from vanquished rebels you return; And the fat spoils of Teague in triumph draw, His firkin-butter, and his usquebaugh. Go, conquerors of your male and female foes! Men without hearts, and women without hose: 30 Each bring his love a Bogland captive home; Such proper pages will long trains become; With copper collars, and with brawny backs, Quite to put down the fashion of our blacks. Then shall the pious Muses pay their vows, And furnish all their laurels for your brows;