Prologue To "King Arthur." Spoken By Mr Betterton.

Sure there's a dearth of wit in this dull town,         When silly plays so savourily go down;         As, when clipt money passes, 'tis a sign         A nation is not over-stock'd with coin.         Happy is he who, in his own defence,         Can write just level to your humble sense;         Who higher than your pitch can never go;         And, doubtless, he must creep, who writes below.         So have I seen, in hall of knight, or lord,         A weak arm throw on a long shovel-board;         He barely lays his piece, bar rubs and knocks,         Secured by weakness not to reach the box.         A feeble poet will his business do,         Who, straining all he can, comes up to you:         For, if you like yourselves, you like him too.         An ape his own dear image will embrace;         An ugly beau adores a hatchet face:         So, some of you, on pure instinct of nature,         Are led, by kind, to admire your fellow-creature.         In fear of which, our house has sent this day,         To insure our new-built vessel, call'd a play;         No sooner named, than one cries out, These stagers         Come in good time, to make more work for wagers.         The town divides, if it will take or no:         The courtiers bet, the cits, the merchants too;         A sign they have but little else to do.         Bets, at the first, were fool-traps; where the wise,         Like spiders, lay in ambush for the flies:         But now they're grown a common trade for all,         And actions by the new book rise and fall;         Wits, cheats, and fops, are free of wager-hall.         One policy as far as Lyons carries;         Another, nearer home, sets up for Paris.         Our bets, at last, would e'en to Rome extend,         But that the pope has proved our trusty friend.         Indeed, it were a bargain worth our money,         Could we insure another Ottoboni.         Among the rest there are a sharping set,         That pray for us, and yet against us bet.         Sure Heaven itself is at a loss to know         If these would have their prayers be heard, or no:         For, in great stakes, we piously suppose,         Men pray but very faintly they may lose.         Leave off these wagers; for, in conscience speaking,         The city needs not your new tricks for breaking:         And if you gallants lose, to all appearing,         You'll want an equipage for volunteering;         While thus, no spark of honour left within ye,         When you should draw the sword, you draw the guinea.