e Honour to know You,
wou'd pretend to dispute it's Merit; but tho' I'm satisfy'd in Your good
Nature, I must be aw'd with Your Judgment; and am sensible there are
Errors in it infinitely more obvious to Your Eye, than a greater Part of
the Polite World; however, as it had the Fortune to be well receiv'd, and
by some of the best Judges esteem'd much preferable to any of my former,
and as it was highly favour'd the Third Night with as beautiful an
Appearance of Nobility, and other fine Ladies, as ever yet Grac'd a
Theatre. I hope, you'll in some measure Protect it, at least that you'll
pardon this Presumption, since I have long pleas'd my self with the Hopes,
and impatiently waited an Opportunity of publickly declaring how much I
am,

_SIR_,

_Your most Devoted,
and Obedient humble Servant_,

PROLOGUE.

Written by Mr. MOTTEUX.

_So long the solitary Stage has mourn'd,
Sure now you're pleas'd to find our Sports return'd.
When Warriors come triumphant, all will smile,
And Love wirh Conquest crown the Toyls of_ Lille.
_Tho from the Field of Glory you're no Starters,
Few love all Fighting, and no Winter-Quarters.
Chagrin French Generals cry_, Gens temerare
_Dare to take_ Lille! _We only take the Air.
No, bravely, with the Pow'rs of_ Spain _and_ France,
_We will--Entrench; and stand--at a distance:
We'll starve 'em--if they please not to advance.
Long thus, in vain, were the Allies defy'd,
But 'twas ver cold by that damn'd River Side.
So as they came too late, and we were stronger,
Scorn the Poltrons, we cry'd--
March off;_ morbleu, _we'll stay for 'em no longer;
The little Monsieurs their Disgrace may own,
Now ev'n the Grand ones makes their Scandal known.

Mean while, without you half our Season's wasted.
Before 'tis_ Lent _sufficiently we've fasted.
No matter how our Op'ra Folks did fare,
Too full a Stomach do's the Voice impair._
Nay, you your selves lost by't; for saunt'ring hither
You're safe from all but Love, four Hours together.
Some idle Sparks with dear damnd Stuff, call'd Wine,
Got drunk by Eight, and perhaps sows'd by Nine,
O'er Politicks and Smoke some rail'd some writ,
The Wiser yawn'd, or nodded o'er their Wit.
O'er Scandal, Tea, Cards, or dull am'rous Papers,
The Ladies had the Spleen, the Beaux the Vapors.
Some went among the Saints without Devotion;
Nay more, 'tis fear'd went thro' a wicked Motion.
But the kind Female Traders well may boast,
When we're shut up, their Doors are ope