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. 2. In allusion to his being deprived of the office of poet laureat.