SPOKEN BY LADY ALLONBY, WHO ENTERS IN A FLURRY  
    The author bade we come—Lud, I protest!—
  He bade me come—and I forget the rest.
  But 'tis no matter; he's an arrant fool
  That ever bade a woman speak by rule.
 
    Besides, his Prologue was, at best, dull stuff,
  And of dull writing we have, sure, enough.
  A book will do when you've a vacant minute,
  But, la! who cares what is, and isn't, in it?
 
    And since I'm but the Prologue of a book,
  What I've omitted all will overlook,
  And owe me for it, too, some gratitude,
  Seeing in reason it cannot be good
  Whose author has as much but now confessed,—
  For, Who'd excel when few can make a test
  Betwixt indifferent writing and the best?
  He said but now.
 
                           And I:—La, why excel,
  When mediocrity does quite as well?
  'Tis women buy the books,—and read 'em, say,
  What time a person nods, en négligée,
  And in default of gossip, cards, or dance,
  Resolves t' incite a nap with some romance.
 
  The fool replied in verse,—I think he said
  'Twas verses the ingenious Dryden made,
  And trust 'twill save me from entire disgrace
  To cite 'em in his foolish Prologue's place.
    Yet, scattered here and there, I some behold,
  Who can discern the tinsel from the gold;
  To these he writes; and if by them allowed,
  'Tis their prerogative to rule the crowd,
  For he more fears, like, a presuming man,
  Their votes who cannot judge, than theirs can.