purchase share,
Robbing's not worth the danger nor the care;
The men of business must, in policy,
Cherish a little harmless poetry,
All wit would else grow up to knavery.
Wit is a bird of music, or of prey;
Mounting, she strikes at all things in her way.
But if this birdlime once but touch her wings,
On the next bush she sits her down and sings.
I have but one word more; tell me, I pray,
What you will get by damning of our play?
A whipt fanatic, who does not recant,
Is, by his brethren, called a suffering saint;
And by your hands should this poor poet die,
Before he does renounce his poetry,
His death must needs confirm the party more,
Than all his scribbling life could do before;
Where so much zeal does in a sect appear,
'Tis to no purpose, 'faith, to be severe.
But t'other day, I heard this rhyming fop
Say,--Critics were the whips, and he the top;
For, as a top spins more, the more you baste her,
So, every lash you give, he writes the faster.

[Footnote A: The epilogue appears to have been spoken by Nell Gwynn.]

PROLOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MRS BOUTELL TO THE MAIDEN QUEEN, IN MAN'S CLOTHES.

_The following prologue and epilogue occur in the "Covent-Garden
Drollery" a publication which contains original copies of several
of Dryden's fugitive pieces. They appear to have been spoken
upon occasion of the male characters in "The Maiden Queen" being
represented by female performers. From our author's connection both
with the play and with Mrs Reeves, who spoke the epilogue, it is
probable he wrote both that and the prologue; and therefore (although
not much worth preserving) we have here added them. From the reference
to Ravenscroft's play of "The Citizen turned Gentleman," in the last
line of the epilogue, it would seem the prologue and epilogue were
written and spoken in 1672_.

Women, like us, (passing for men,) you'll cry,
Presume too much upon your secrecy.
There's not a fop in town, but will pretend
To know the cheat himself, or by his friend;
Then make no words on't, gallants, 'tis e'en true,
We are condemn'd to look and strut, like you.
Since we thus freely our hard fate confess,
Accept us, these bad times, in any dress.
You'll find the sweet on't: now old pantaloons
Will go as far as, formerly, new gowns;
And from your own cast wigs, expect no frowns.
The ladies we shall not so easily please;
They'll say,--What impudent bold things are these,
That dare provoke, yet cannot do us right,
Like men, wi