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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419852" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>Prologue to the Prophetess, by Beaumont and Fletcher. Revived by Dryden. Spoken by Mr. Betterton</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">What Nostradame, with all his art, can guess <br>The fate of our approaching Prophetess? <br>A play, which, like a prospective set right, <br>Presents our vast expenses close to sight; <br>But turn the tube, and there we sadly view <br>Our distant gains, and those uncertain too; <br>A sweeping tax, which on ourselves we raise, <br>And all, like you, in hopes of better days. <br>When will our losses warn us to be wise? <br>Our wealth decreases, and our charges rise. <br>Money, the sweet allurer of our hopes, <br>Ebbs out in oceans, and comes in by drops. <br>We raise new objects to provoke delight, <br>But you grow sated ere the second sight. <br>False men, even so you serve your mistresses; <br>They rise three stories in their towering dress; <br>And, after all, you love not long enough <br>To pay the rigging, ere you leave them off. <br>Never content with what you had before, <br>But true to change, and Englishmen all o'er. <br>Now honour calls you hence; and all your care <br>Is to provide the horrid pomp of war. <br>In plume and scarf, jack-boots, and Bilbo blade, <br>Your silver goes, that should support our trade. <br>Go, unkind heroes! leave our stage to mourn, <br>Till rich from vanquished rebels you return; <br>And the fat spoils of Teague in triumph draw, <br>His firkin butter, and his usquebaugh. <br>Go, conquerors of your male and female foes; <br>Men without hearts, and women without hose. <br>Each bring his love a Bogland captive home; <br>Such proper pages will long trains become; <br>With copper collars, and with brawny backs, <br>Quite to put down the fashion of our blacks. <br>Then shall the pious Muses pay their vows, <br>And furnish all their laurels for your brows; <br>Their tuneful voice shall raise for your delights; <br>We want not poets fit to sing your flights. <br>But you, bright beauties, for whose only sake <br>Those doughty knights such dangers undertake, <br>When they with happy gales are gone away, <br>With your propitious presence grace our play, <br>And with a sigh their empty seats survey; <br>Then think,—On that bare bench my servant sat! <br>I see him ogle still, and hear him chat; <br>Selling facetious bargains, and propounding <br>That witty recreation, called dumb-founding. <br>Their loss with patience we will try to bear, <br>And would do more, to see you often here; <br>That our dead stage, revived by your fair eyes, <br>Under a female regency may rise.</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=John+Dryden">John Dryden</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=419852" data-title="Prologue to the Prophetess, by Beaumont and Fletcher. Revived by Dryden. Spoken by Mr. Betterton de John Dryden" data-description="What Nostradame, with all his art, can guess 
The fate of our approaching Prophetess? 
A play, which, like a prospective set right, 
Presents our vast expenses close to sight; 
But turn the tube, and there we sadly view 
Our distant gains, and tho..."></div>
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