he public: but this design will be best understood by inserting
the prologue.

PROLOGUE.

This play took birth from principles of truth,
To make amends for errors past, of youth.
A bard that's now no more, in riper days,
Conscious review'd the licence of his plays:
And tho' applause his wanton muse had fir'd,
Himself condemn'd what sensual minds admir'd.
At length he own'd that plays should let you see
Not only what you are, but ought to be:
Though vice was natural, 'twas never meant,
The stage should shew it, but for punishment!
Warm with that thought his muse once more took flame,
Resolv'd to bring licentious life to shame.
Such was the piece, his latest pen design'd',
But left no traces of his plan behind.
Luxurious scenes, unprun'd, or half contriv'd;
Yet, through the mass, his native fire surviv'd:
Rough as rich oar, in mines the treasure lay,
Yet still 'twas rich, and forms at length a play.
In which the bold compiler boasts no merit,
But that his pains have sav'd you scenes of spirit.
Not scenes that would a noisy joy impart,
But such as hush the mind, and warm the heart.
From praise of hands, no sure account he draws,
But fix'd attention is, sincere applause.
If then (for hard you'll own the task) his art
Can to those Embrion scenes new life impart;
The living proudly would exclude his lays,
And to the buried bard resign the praise.

Sir John indeed appears to have been often sensible of the immorality
of his scenes; for in the year 1725 when the company of comedians was
called upon, in a manner that could not be resisted, to revive the
Provok'd Wife, the author, who was conscious how justly it was exposed
to censure, thought proper to substitute a new scene in the fourth
act, in place of another, in which, in the wantonness of his wit
and humour, he had made a Rake talk like a Rake, in the habit of a
Clergyman. To avoid which offence, he put the same Debauchee into the
Undress of a Woman of Quality; for the character of a fine lady, it
seems, is not reckoned so indelibly sacred, as that of a Churchman.
Whatever follies he exposed in the petticoat kept him at least clear
of his former imputed prophaneness, and appeared now to the audience
innocently ridiculous.

This ingenious dramatist died of a quinsey at his house in Whitehall,
on the 26th of March 1726. He was a man of a lively imagination, of
a facetious, and engaging humour, and as he