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    Prologue. Spoken, at the opening of the new house, by Mr Betterton
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    Prologue. Spoken, at the opening of the new house, by Mr Betterton

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    Chapter 1
    The husbandman in vain renews his toil
    To cultivate each year a hungry soil;
    And fondly hopes for rich and generous fruit,
    When what should feed the tree devours the root;
    Th' unladen boughs, he sees, bode certain dearth,
    Unless transplanted to more kindly earth.
    So the poor husbands of the stage, who found
    Their labours lost upon ungrateful ground,
    This last and only remedy have proved,
    And hope new fruit from ancient stocks removed.
    Well may they hope, when you so kindly aid,
    Well plant a soil which you so rich have made.
    As Nature gave the world to man's first age,
    So from your bounty, we receive this stage;
    The freedom man was born to, you've restored,
    And to our world such plenty you afford,
    It seems like Eden, fruitful of its own accord.
    But since in Paradise frail flesh gave way,
    And when but two were made, both went astray;
    Forbear your wonder, and the fault forgive,
    If in our larger family we grieve
    One falling Adam and one tempted Eve.
    We who remain would gratefully repay
    What our endeavours can, and bring this day
    The first-fruit offering of a virgin play.
    We hope there's something that may please each taste,
    And though of homely fare we make the feast,
    Yet you will find variety at least.
    There's humour, which for cheerful friends we got,
    And for the thinking party there's a plot.
    We've something, too, to gratify ill-nature,
    (If there be any here), and that is satire.
    Though satire scarce dares grin, 'tis grown so mild
    Or only shows its teeth, as if it smiled.
    As asses thistles, poets mumble wit,
    And dare not bite for fear of being bit:
    They hold their pens, as swords are held by fools,
    And are afraid to use their own edge-tools.
    Since the Plain-Dealer's scenes of manly rage,
    Not one has dared to lash this crying age.
    This time, the poet owns the bold essay,
    Yet hopes there's no ill-manners in his play;
    And he declares, by me, he has designed
    Affront to none, but frankly speaks his mind.
    And should th' ensuing scenes not chance to hit,
    He offers but this one excuse, 'twas writ
    Before your late encouragement of wit.
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    Chapter 1
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