The Ladies too in Blushes do confess.

Equal Desires; which yet they’ll not confess.

Theirs, tho less fierce, more constant will abide;

But ours less current grow the more they’re try’d.

HISS ’em, and cry ’em down, ’tis all in vain,

Incorrigible Scriblers can’t abstain:

But impudently i’th’ old Sin engage;

Tho doom’d before, nay banish’d from the Stage.

Whilst sad Experience our Eyes convinces,

That damn’d their Plays which hang’d the German Princess;

And we with Ornament set off a Play,

Like her drest fine for Execution-day.

And faith, I think, with as small hopes to live;

Unless kind Gallants the same Grace you’d give

Our Comedy as Her; beg a Reprieve.

Well, what the other mist, let our Scribe get,

A Pardon, for she swears she’s the less Cheat.

She never gull’d you Gallants of the Town

Of Sum above four Shillings, or half a Crown.

Nor does she, as some late great Authors do,

Bubble the Audience, and the Players too.

Her humble Muse soars not in the High-rode

Of Wit transverst, or Baudy A-la-mode;

Yet hopes her plain and easy Style is such,

As your high Censures will disdain to touch.

Let her low Sense creep safe from your Bravadoes,

Whilst Rotas and Cabals aim at Granadoes.