_The author bade we come_--Lud, I protest!--
_He bade me come_--and I forget the rest.
But 'tis no matter; he's an arrant fool
That ever bade a woman speak by rule.
Besides, his Prologue was, at best, dull stuff,
And of dull writing we have, sure, enough.
A book will do when you've a vacant minute,
But, la! who cares what is, and isn't, in it?
And since I'm but the Prologue of a book,
What I've omitted all will overlook,
And owe me for it, too, some gratitude,
Seeing in reason it cannot be good
Whose author has as much but now confessed,--
For, _Who'd excel when few can make a test
Betwixt indifferent writing and the best?_
He said but now.
And I:--_La, why excel,
When mediocrity does quite as well?
'Tis women buy the books,--and read 'em, say,
What time a person nods, en négligée,
And in default of gossip, cards, or dance,
Resolves t' incite a nap with some romance._
The fool replied in verse,--I think he said
'Twas verses the ingenious Dryden made,
And trust 'twill save me from entire disgrace
To cite 'em in his foolish Prologue's place.
_Yet, scattered here and there, I some behold,
Who can discern the tinsel from the gold;
To these he writes; and if by them allowed,
'Tis their prerogative to rule the crowd,
For he more fears, like, a presuming man,
Their votes who cannot judge, than theirs can._
I