[Footnote 52: This attitude and employment, however inconsistent with our modern ideas of good breeding, seems to have been an air frequently assumed by the beaus of the seventeenth century. In a play by Killigrew, called the "Parson's Wedding," we have this direction: "Enter Jack Constant, Will Sad, Jolly, and a footman: they comb their heads, and talk." Our author alludes to the same fashion, in the Prologue to the "Conquest of Grenada," Part II. Straight every man who thinks himself a wit, Perks up, and, managing his comb with grace, With his white wig sets off his nut-brown face. The same custom is alluded to by Congreve, and is supposed to have remained fashionable during Queen Anne's time.] [Footnote 53: Mr Malone conjectures, with great probability, that this virtue, which would not bear the light, must have been lord Salisbury's secret attachment to the exiled monarch.] PROLOGUE, SPOKEN BY MR BETTERTON. As when some treasurer lays down the stick, Warrants are signed for ready money thick, And many desperate debentures paid, Which never had been, had his lordship staid: So now, this poet, who forsakes the stage, Intends to gratify the present age. One warrant shall be signed for every man; All shall be wits that will, and beaux that can: Provided still, this warrant be not shown, And you be wits but to yourselves alone;[54] Provided too, you rail at one another, For there's no one wit, will allow a brother; Provided also, that you spare this story, Damn all the plays that e'er shall come before ye. If one by chance prove good in half a score, Let that one pay for all, and damn it more. For if a good one 'scape among the crew, } And you continue judging as you do, } Every bad play will hope for damning too. } You might damn this, if it were worth your pains; } Here's nothing you will like; no fustian scenes, } And nothing too of--you know what he means. } No double _entendres_, which you sparks allow, To make the ladies look they know not how; Simply as 'twere, and knowing both together, Seeming to fan their faces in cold weather. But here's a story, which no books relate, Coin'd from our own old poet's addle-pate. The fable has a moral too, if sought; } But let that go; for, upon second thought, } He fears but few come hither to be taught. } Yet if you will be profited, you may; And he would bribe you too, to like his play. He dies, at least to us, and to the stage, And what he has, he leaves this noble age. He leaves you, first, all plays of his inditing, The whole estate, which he has got by writing. The beaux may think this nothing but vain praise; } They'll find it something, the testator says; } For half their love is made from scraps of plays. }