PROLOGUE.
Spoken by Mr. Betterton.
The Time has been when Plays were not so plenty,And a less Number New, would well content ye.New Plays did then like Almanacks appear;And One was thought sufficient for a Year:Tho' they are more like Almanacks of late;For in One Year, I think they're out of Date.Nor were they without Reason join'd together;For just as One prognosticates the Weather,How plentiful the Crop, or scarce the Grain,What Peals of Thunder, and what Show'rs of Rain;So t'other can foretel by certain RulesWhat Crops of Coxcombs, or what Flouds of Fools.In such like Prophecies were Poets skill'd,Which now they find in their own Tribe fulfill'd:The Dearth of Wit they did so long presage,Is fall'n on us, and almost starves, the Stage.Were you not griev'd, as often as you sawPoor Actors thresh such empty Sheafs of Straw?Toiling and lab'ring at their Lungs Expence,To start a Jest, or force a little Sence.
