The Busie Body | Page 3

Lordship,_
As it's an Establish'd Custom in these latter Ages, for all Writers, particularly the Poetical, to shelter their Productions under the Protection of the most Distinguish'd, whose Approbation produces a kind of Inspiration, much superior to that which the Heathenish Poets pretended to derive from their Fictitious _Apollo_: So it was my Ambition to Address one of my weak Performances to Your Lordship, who, by Universal Consent, are justly allow'd to be the best Judge of all kinds of Writing.
I was indeed at first deterr'd from my Design, by a Thought that it might be accounted unpardonable Rudeness to obtrude a Trifle of this Nature to a Person, whose sublime Wisdom moderates that Council, which at this Critical Juncture, over-rules the Fate of all Europe. But then I was encourag'd by Reflecting, that Lelius and Scipio, the two greatest Men in their Time, among the Romans, both for Political and Military Virtues, in the height of their important Affairs, thought the Perusal and Improving of _Terence_'s Comedies the noblest way of Unbinding their Minds. I own I were guilty of the highest Vanity, should I presume to put my Composures in Parallel with those of that Celebrated Dramatist. But then again, I hope that Your Lordship's native Goodness and Generosity, in Condescension to the Taste of the Best and Fairest part of the Town, who have been pleas'd to be diverted by the following SCENES, will excuse and overlook such Faults as your nicer Judgment might discern.
And here, my Lord, the Occasion seems fair for me to engage in a Panegyrick upon those Natural and Acquired Abilities, which so brightly Adorn your Person: But I shall resist that Temptation, being conscious of the Inequality of a Female Pen to so Masculine an Attempt; and having no other Ambition, than to Subscribe my self,
My Lord, Your Lordship's Most Humble and Most Obedient Servant,
SUSANNA CENTLIVRE.

PROLOGUE.
By the Author of TUNBRIDGE-WALKS.
Tho' modern Prophets were expos'd of late, The Author cou'd not Prophesie his Fate; If with such Scenes an Audience had been Fir'd, The Poet must have really been Inspir'd. But these, alas! are Melancholy Days For Modern Prophets, and for Modern Plays. Yet since Prophetick Lyes please Fools o'Fashion, And Women are so fond of Agitation; To Men of Sense, I'll Prophesie anew, And tell you wond'rous things, that will prove true: _Undaunted Collonels will to Camps repair,_ _Assur'd, there'll be no Skirmishes this Year;_ On our own Terms will flow the wish'd-for Peace, All Wars, except 'twixt Man and Wife, will cease. The Grand Monarch may wish his Son a Throne, But hardly will advance to lose his own. This Season most things bear a smiling Face; But Play'rs in Summer have a dismal Case, Since your Appearance only is our Act of Grace. Court Ladies will to Country Seats be gone, My Lord can't all the Year live Great in Town, Where wanting _Opera's_, Basset, and a Play, They'll Sigh and stitch a Gown, to pass the time away. Gay City-Wives at Tunbridge will appear, Whose Husbands long have laboured for an Heir; Where many a Courtier may their Wants relieve, But by the Waters only they Conceive. The _Fleet-street_ Sempstress--Toast of Temple Sparks, That runs Spruce Neckcloths for Attorney's Clerks; At _Cupid_'s Gardens will her Hours regale, Sing fair Dorinda, and drink Bottl'd Ale. At all Assemblies, Rakes are up and down, And Gamesters, where they think they are not known. Shou'd I denounce our Author's fate to Day, To cry down Prophecies, you'd damn the Play: Yet Whims like these have sometimes made you Laugh; 'Tis Tattling all, like Isaac Bickerstaff. Since War, and Places claim the Bards that write, Be kind, and bear a Woman's Treat to-Night; Let your Indulgence all her Fears allay, And none but Woman-Haters damn this Play.

EPILOGUE.
In me you see one _Busie-Body_ more; Tho' you may have enough of one before. With Epilogues, the _Busie-Body_'s Way, We strive to help; but sometimes mar a Play. At this mad Sessions, half condemn'd e'er try'd, Some, in three Days, have been turn'd off, and dy'd, In spight of Parties, their Attempts are vain, For like false Prophets, they ne'er rise again. Too late, when cast, your Favour one beseeches, And Epilogues prove Execution Speeches. Yet sure I spy no _Busie-Bodies_ here; And one may pass, since they do ev'ry where. Sowr Criticks, Time and Breath, and Censures waste, And baulk your Pleasure to refine your Taste. One busie Don ill-tim'd high Tenets Preaches, Another yearly shows himself in Speeches. Some snivling Cits, wou'd have a Peace for spight, To starve those Warriours who so bravely fight. Still of a Foe upon his Knees affraid; Whose well-hang'd Troops want Money, Heart, and Bread. Old Beaux, who none not ev'n themselves can please, Are busie still; for nothing--but