So many characters, so minutely described, lead us to suppose, that some personal satire lay concealed under them; and, accordingly, the Prologue seems to have been written with a view of deprecating the resentment which this idea might have excited in the audience. We learn, however, by the Preface, that the piece was unfavourably received, "either through the calamity of the time (during the Popish plot), which made people not care for diversions, or through the anger of a great many who thought themselves concerned in the satire." The piece is far from being devoid of merit; and the characters, though drawn in Shadwell's coarse, harsh manner, are truly comic. That of the jockey, since so popular, seems to have been brought upon the stage for the first time in the "True Widow." It is remarkable, that, though Dryden writes the Prologue, the piece contains a sly hit at him. Maggot, finding himself married to a portionless jilt, says, "I must e'en write hard for the play-house; I may get the reversion of the poet-laureat's place." This, however, might be only meant as a good-humoured pleasantry among friends.
After the deadly quarrel with Shadwell, our author seems to have resumed his property in the Prologue, as it is prefixed to "The Widow Ranter, or The History of Bacon in Virginia," a tragi-comedy by Mrs Behn, acted in 1690.
Heaven save ye, gallants, and this hopeful age! Y'are welcome to the downfall of the stage. The fools have laboured long in their vocation, And vice, the manufacture of the nation, O'erstocks the town so much, and thrives so well, That fops and knaves grow drugs, and will not sell. In vain our wares on theatres are shown, When each has a plantation of his own. His cause ne'er fails; for whatsoe'er he spends, There's still God's plenty for himself and friends. Should men be rated by poetic rules, Lord, what a poll would there be raised from fools! Meantime poor wit prohibited must lie, As if 'twere made some French commodity. Fools you will have, and raised at vast expence; And yet, as soon as seen, they give offence. Time was, when none would cry,--That oaf was me; But now you strive about your pedigree. Bauble and cap[349] no sooner are thrown down, But there's a muss[350] of more than half the town. Each one will challenge a child's part at least; A sign the family is well encreased. Of foreign cattle there's no longer need, When we're supplied so fast with English breed. Well! flourish, countrymen; drink, swear, and roar; Let every free-born subject keep his whore, And wandering in the wilderness about, At end of forty years not wear her out. But when you see these pictures, let none dare To own beyond a limb, or single share; For where the punk is common, he's a sot, Who needs will father what the parish got.