Prologue
WRITTEN BY RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN.
SPOKEN BY MR. KING.
| Chill’d by rude gales, while yet reluctant May |
| Withholds the beauties of the vernal day; |
| As some fond maid, whom matron frowns reprove, |
| Suspends the smile her heart devotes to love; |
| The season’s pleasures too delay their hour, |
| And Winter revels with protracted power: |
| Then blame not, critics, if, thus late, we bring |
| A Winter Drama—but reproach—the Spring. |
| What prudent cit dares yet the season trust, |
| Bask in his whisky, and enjoy the dust? |
| Horsed in Cheapside, scarce yet the gayer spark |
| Achieves the Sunday triumph of the Park; |
| Scarce yet you see him, dreading to be late, |
| Scour the New Road, and dash through Grosvenor Gate:— |
| Anxious—yet timorous too—his steed to show, |
| The hack Bucephalus of Rotten Row. |
| Careless he seems, yet vigilantly sly, |
| Woos the gay glance of ladies passing by, |
| While his off heel, insidiously aside, |
| Provokes the caper which he seems to chide. |
| Scarce rural Kensington due honour gains? |
| The vulgar verdure of her walk remains! |
| Where night-robed misses amble two by two, |
| Nodding to booted beaux—“How do, how do?” |
| With generous questions that no answer wait, |
| “How vastly full! An’t you come vastly late? |
| Isn’t it quite charming? When do you leave town? |
| An’t you quite tired? Pray, can’t we sit down?” |
| These suburb pleasures of a London May, |
| Imperfect yet, we hail the cold delay; |
| Should our play please—and you’re indulgent ever— |
| Be your decree—“’Tis better late than never.” |
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