your Lordship your due, without tacking a bill of my own privileges. It is true, if a man never committed a folly, he would never stand in need of a protection: but then power would have nothing to do, and good-nature no occasion to show itself; and where those qualities are, it is pity they should want for it, when done; yet it reconciles the uses of such authority and goodness to the necessities of our follies; and is a sort of poetical logic, which at this time I would make use of, to argue your Lordship into a protection of this play. It is the first offence I have committed in this kind, or indeed in any kind of poetry, though not the first made public; and therefore, I hope, will the more easily be pardoned: but had it been acted when it was first written, more might have been said in its behalf; ignorance of the town and stage would then have been excuses in a young writer, which now almost four years' experience will scarce allow of. Yet I must declare myself sensible of the goodnature of the town in receiving this play so kindly, with all its faults, which I must own were, for the most part, very industriously covered by the care of the players; for I think scarce a character but received all the advantage it would admit of from the justness of the action.

As for the critics, my Lord, I have nothing to say to or against any of them of any kind; from those who make just exceptions, to those who find fault in the wrong place. I will only make this general answer in behalf of my play (an answer which Epictetus advises every man to make for himself to his censurers), viz.-" That if they who find some faults in it were as intimate with it as I am, they would find a great many more." This is a confession which I needed not to have made; but however I can draw this use from it, to my own advantage, that I think there are no faults in it but what I do know; which, as I take it, is the first step to an amendment.

Thus I may live in hopes (some time or other) of making the town amends; but you, my Lord, I never can, though I am ever your Lordship's most obedient, and most humble servant,

WILL. CONGREVE.

PROLOGUE.

INTENDED FOR The Old Bachelor-WRITTEN BY THE

LORD FALKLAND.

MOST authors on the stage at first appear
Like widows' bridegrooms, full of doubt and fear:
They judge from the experience of the dame,
How hard a task it is to quench her flame:
And who falls short of furnishing a course,
Up to his brawny predecessor's force,
With utmost rage from her embraces thrown,
Remains convicted, as an empty drone.
Thus often, to his shame, a pert beginner
Proves, in the end, a miserable sinner.

As for our youngster, I am apt to doubt him,
With all the vigour of his youth about him,
But he, more sanguine, trusts in one-and-twenty,
And impudently hopes he shall content you;
For though his Bachelor be worn and cold,
He thinks the young may club to help the old ;
And what alone can be achieved by neither,
Is often brought about by both together.
The briskest of you all have felt alarms,
Finding the fair one prostitute her charms,
With broken sighs, in her old fumbler's arms.
But for our spark, he swears he'll ne'er be jealous
Of any rivals, but young lusty fellows.

Faith, let him try his chance, and if the slave,
After his bragging, prove a washy knave,
May he be banished to some lonely den,
And never more have leave to dip his pen ;
But if he be the champion he pretends,
Both sexes sure will join to be his friends;
For all agree, where all can have their ends.
And you must own him for a man of might,
If he holds out to please you the third night.

PROLOGUE.

SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE.1

How this vile world is changed! in former days
Prologues were serious speeches before plays;
Grave solemn things, as graces are to feasts,
Where poets begged a blessing from their guests.
But now, no more like suppliants we come ;
A Play makes war, and Prologue is the drum:
Armed with keen satire, and with pointed wit,
We threaten you who do for judges sit,
To save our plays, or else we'll damn your pit.
But for your comfort, it falls out to-day,
We've a young author, and his first-born play;
So, standing only on his good behaviour,
He's very civil, and entreats your favour.

Not but the man has malice, would he show it,
But, on my conscience, he's a bashful poet;
You think that strange-no matter, he'll outgrow it.
Well, I'm his advocate-by me he prays you,
(I don't know whether I shall speak to please you)
He prays--O bless me ! what shall I do now!
Hang me, if I know what he prays, or how!
And 'twas the prettiest Prologue as he wrote it !
Well, the deuce take me, if I ha'n't forgot it!
O Lord, for Heaven's sake excuse the Play,
Because, you know, if it be damned to-day,
I shall be hanged for wanting what to say.
For my sake then-but I'm in such confusion,
I cannot stay to hear your resolution.

[Runs off.

1 The favourite actress of the day (born 1674, died 1748). "Never," says Colley Cibber, “any woman was in such general favour of her spectators, which to the last scene of her dramatic life she maintained by not being unguarded in her private character." Mrs. Bracegirdle was the favourite actress of Congreve, and it is said that in the several lovers which he gave her in his plays, he expressed his own passion for her.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

HEARTWELL, a surly old Bachelor, pretending to slight Women, secretly in love with SILVIA.

BELLMOUR, in love with BELINDA.

VAINLOVE, capricious in his love; in love with ARA

MINTA.

SHARPER.

SIR JOSEPH WITTOL.

CAPTAIN BLUFFE.

FONDLEWIFE, a Banker.

SETTER, a Pimp.

GAVOT, a Music-master.

PACE, Footman to ARAMINTA.

BARNABY, Servant to FONDLEwife.

A Boy.

ARAMINTA, in love with VAINLOVE.

BELINDA, her Cousin, an affected Lady, in love with

BELLMOUR.

LÆTITIA, Wife to FONDLEWife.

SILVIA, VAINLOVE'S forsaken Mistress.

LUCY, her Maid.

BETTY, Maid to ARAMINTA.

Dancers, and Attendants.

SCENE-LONDON.

BELLMOUR and VAINLOVE meeting.

ELL. Vainlove, and abroad so early! good morrow. I thought a contemplative lover could no more have parted with his bed in a morning, than he could have slept in't.

Vain. Bellmour, good morrow.

Why, truth on't is, these early sallies are not usual to me; but business, as you see, sir-[Showing letters.] And business must be followed, or be lost.

Bell. Business!--and so must time, my friend, be close pursued, or lost. Business is the rub of life, perverts our aim, casts off the bias, and leaves us wide and short of the intended mark.

Vain. Pleasure, I guess, you mean.
Bell. Ay, what else has meaning?
Vain. Oh, the wise will tell you—

Bell. More than they believe-or understand.

Vain. How, how, Ned, a wise man say more than he understands?