lly aspersion, Woman
could invent to cast on Woman; and which only my being a Woman has
procured me; _That it was Baudy_, the least and most Excusable fault in
the Men writers, to whose Plays they all crowd, as if they came to no
other end than to hear what they condemn in this: _but from a Woman it
was unnaturall_: but how so Cruell an unkindness came into their
imaginations I can by no means guess; unless by those whose Lovers by
long absence, or those whom Age or Ugliness have rendered a little
distant from those things they would fain imagin here--But if such as
these durst profane their Chast ears with hearing it over again, or
taking it into their serious Consideration in their Cabinets; they would
find nothing that the most innocent Virgins can have cause to blush at:
but confess with me that no Play either Ancient or Modern has less of
that Bug-bear Bawdry in it. Others to show their breeding (as _Bays_
sayes) cryed it was made out of at least four _French_ Plays, when I had
but a very bare hint from one, the _Malad Imagenere_, which was given me
translated by a Gentleman infinitely to advantage; but how much of the
_French_ is in this, I leave to those who do indeed understand it and
have seen it at the Court. The play had no other Misfortune but that of
coming out for a Womans: had it been owned by a Man, though the most
Dull Unthinking Rascally Scribler in Town, it had been a most admirable
Play. Nor does it's loss of Fame with the Ladies do it much hurt, though
they ought to have had good Nature and justice enough to have attributed
all its faults to the Authours unhappiness, who is forced to write for
Bread and not ashamed to owne it, and consequently ought to write to
please (if she can) an Age which has given severall proofs it was by
this way of writing to be obliged, though it is a way too cheap for men
of wit to pursue who write for Glory, and a way which even I despise as
much below me.

SIR PATIENT FANCY.

PROLOGUE,

Spoken by Mr. _Betterton_.

We write not now, as th' antient Poets writ,
For your Applause of Nature, Sense and Wit;
But, like good Tradesmen, what's in fashion vent,
And cozen you, to give ye all content.
True Comedy, writ even in _Dryden's_ Style,
Will hardly raise your Humours to a Smile.
Long did his Sovereign Muse the Scepter sway,
And long with Joy you did true Homage pay:
But now, like happy States, luxurious grown,
The Monarch Wit unjustl