The Busie Body | Page 3

Horat. Epist. Lib. II. Ep. 1.
LONDON,
Printed for BERNARD LINTOTT, at the _Cross-Keys_ between the
Two _Temple-Gates_ in _Fleet-street_.
* * * * *
To The RIGHT HONOURABLE
JOHN Lord SOMMERS,
Lord-President of Her HAJESTY's most Honourable Privy-Council.
_May it please Your 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