The Works of John Dryden, Vol. II | Page 6

be endangered by a Spanish plot. Prolo. Our poet yet protection hopes from you, But bribes you not with any thing that's new; Nature is old, which poets imitate, And, for wit, those, that boast their own estate, Forget Fletcher and Ben before them went, Their elder brothers, and that vastly spent; So much, 'twill hardly be repair'd again, Not, though supplied with all the wealth of Spain, This play is English, and the growth your own; As such, it yields to English plays alone. He could have wish'd it better for your sakes, But that, in plays, he finds you love mistakes: Besides, he thought it was in vain to mend, What you are bound in honour to defend; That English wit, howe'er despised by some, Like English valour, still may overcome.

PROLOGUE,
WHEN REVIVED.
As some raw squire, by tender mother bred, 'Till one-and-twenty keeps his maidenhead; (Pleased with some sport, which he alone does find; And thinks a secret to all humankind;) 'Till mightily in love, yet half afraid, He first attempts the gentle dairy maid: Succeeding there, and, led by the renown Of Whetston's park, he comes at length to town; Where entered, by some school-fellow or friend, He grows to break glass windows in the end: His valour too, which with the watch began, Proceeds to duel, and he kills his man. By such degrees, while knowledge he did want, Our unfledged author writ a Wild Gallant. He thought him monstrous lewd, (I lay my life) Because suspected with his landlord's wife; But, since his knowledge of the town began, He thinks him now a very civil man; And, much ashamed of what he was before, Has fairly play'd him at three wenches more. 'Tis some amends his frailties to confess; Pray pardon him his want of wickedness: He's towardly, and will come on apace; His frank confession shows he has some grace. You baulked him when he was a young beginner, And almost spoiled a very hopeful sinner; But if once more you slight his weak endeavour, For aught I know, he may turn tail forever;

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.
Lord NONSUCH, an old rich humorous lord. Justice TRICE, his neighbour. Mr LOVEBY, the Wild Gallant. Sir TIMOROUS, a bashful knight. FAILER, } _hangers-on of_ Sir TIMOROUS. BURR, } BIBBER, a tailor. SETSTONE, a jeweller.
Lady CONSTANCE, Lord NONSUCH'S _daughter_, Madam ISABELLA, her cousin. Mrs BIBBER, the tailors wife.
_Serjeants, Boy to LOVEBY, Servants, a Bawd and Whores, Watch and Constable_.

SCENE.--London.

THE WILD GALLANT.
ACT I.
SCENE I.--_FAILER entering to BURR, who is putting on his buff-coat_.
Fail. What! not ready yet, man?
Burr. You do not consider my voyage from Holland last night.
Fail. Pish, a mere ferry; get up, get up: My cousin's maids will come and blanket thee anon; art thou not ashamed to lie a-bed so long?
Burr. I may be more ashamed to rise; and so you'll say, dear heart, if you look upon my clothes: the best is, my buff-coat will cover all.
Fail. Egad, there goes more cunning than one would think to the putting thy clothes together. Thy doublet and breeches are Guelphs and Ghibellins to one another; and the stitches of thy doublet are so far asunder, that it seems to hang together by the teeth. No man could ever guess to what part of the body these fragments did belong, unless he had been acquainted with 'em as long as thou hast been. If they once lose their hold, they can never get together again, except by chance the rags hit the tallies of one another. He, that gets into thy doublet, must not think to do it by storm; no, he must win it inch by inch, as the Turk did Rhodes.
Burr. You are very merry with my wardrobe; but, till I am provided of a better, I am resolved to receive all visits in this truckle-bed.
Fail. Then will I first scotch the wheels of it, that it may not run: Thou hast cattle enough in it to carry it down stairs, and break thy neck; 'tis got a yard nearer the door already.
Enter Boy.
Boy. Sir, Mr Bibber your tailor's below, and desires to speak with you.
Fail. He's an honest fellow, and a fashionable; he shall set thee forth, I warrant thee.
Burr. Ay; but where's the money for this, dear heart?
Fail. Well, but what think you of being put into a suit of clothes without money? [Aside.
Burr. You speak of miracles.
Fail. Do you not know Will Bibber's humour?
Burr. Pr'ythee, what have I to do with his humour?
Fail. Break but a jest, and he'll beg to trust thee for a suit; nay, he will contribute to his own destruction, and give thee occasions to make one. He has been my artificer these three years; and, all the while, I have lived upon his favourable apprehension. Boy, conduct him up. [_Exit Boy._
Burr.