The prologue to Pastor fido, spoken by Mr. Edward Lambert. The epilogue to Pastor fido, spoken by Sir Walter Ernle, Barronet
         Settle, Elkanah, 1648-1724.
      
       
         
           1677
        
      
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         A59338
         Wing S2713
         ESTC R41644
         31355712
         ocm 31355712
         110621
         
           
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             The prologue to Pastor fido, spoken by Mr. Edward Lambert. The epilogue to Pastor fido, spoken by Sir Walter Ernle, Barronet
             Settle, Elkanah, 1648-1724.
             Lambert, Edward.
             Ernle, Walter, Sir.
          
           2 leaves.
           
             s.n.,
             [London :
             1677]
          
           
             Imperfect: creased, with loss of print.
             Place and date of publication from Wing (2nd ed.)
             Reproduction of original in the Bodleian Library.
          
        
      
    
     
       
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         eng
      
       
         
           Broadsides -- London (England) -- 17th century.
        
      
    
     
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           THE
           PROLOGUE
           TO
           PASTOR
           FIDO
           .
        
         
           Spoken
           by
           Mr.
           
             Edward
             Lambert
          
           .
        
         
           PReface
           and
           Prologue
           ,
           are
           such
           modish
           Toys
           ,
        
         
           Books
           ar'nt
           without
           this
           ,
           nor
           without
           that
           Plays
           .
        
         
           Welcome
           ,
           Gallants
           !
           and
           Ladies
           of
           the
           May
           ,
        
         
           
             You
          
           shall
           
             be
             courted
             modishly
          
           to
           day
           ,
        
         
           
             Because
          
           
             without
             you
          
           ,
           there
           had
           been
           
             no
             Play.
          
        
         
           As
           to
           our
           Play
           
             's
             Original
          
           ;
           we
           'l
           first
        
         
           
             Do
             right
          
           to
           
             fam'd
             Guarini's
             sacred
          
           Dust
           ,
        
         
           It
           's
           learn'd
           Author
           .
           Nor
           let
           it
           be
           decry'd
           ,
        
         
           'Cause
           
             All
             's
             Italian
             ,
             Nothing
             's
             Frenchifi'd
          
           .
        
         
           For
           ,
           Plays
           (
           you
           know
           )
           like
           Cloaths
           submit
           
             to
             Mode
          
           ,
        
         
           And
           that●s
           but
           dull
           ,
           that
           keeps
           the
           
             common
             Road.
          
        
         
           We
           care
           n●t
           for
           that
           —
           for
           here
           ,
           Sirs
           !
           nought
           you
           'l
           have
           ,
        
         
           But
           what
           is
           
             Noble
             ,
             Sage
             ,
             Wise
             ,
             Solid
             ,
             Grave
             .
          
        
         
           
             Stern
             CATO
             a
             Spectator
          
           might
           be
           here
           ,
        
         
           And
           modest
           V●rgins
           may
           Vnmaskt
           appear
           .
        
         
           You
           've
           Come●●
           in
           it's
           
             most
             ancient
          
           dress
           ,
        
         
           As
           when
           
             of
             old
             ▪
             Carted
          
           through
           Villages
           .
        
         
           Here
           's
           then
           
             no
             place
          
           ,
           for
           th'
           Sparks
           and
           th'
           Blades
           o'
           th'
           Times
           ,
        
         
           (
           Vallueing
           themselves
           upon
           
             their
             Garb
             ,
             their
             Crimes
          
           )
        
         
           Who
           scoff
           at
           
             us
             poor
             Bumkins
          
           :
           whose
           defence
        
         
           Is
           our
           Simplicity
           ,
           our
           Innocence
           .
        
         
           To
           please
           
             such
             Fopps
          
           (
           for
           mortally
           we
           hate
           'um
           )
        
         
           Wee
           'l
           ne're
           attempt
           .
           —
        
         
           In
           short
           ,
           you
           've
           here
           ,
           
             the
             Passions
             rudely
          
           drest
        
         
           To
           act
           their
           parts
           ,
           if
           F●ar
           balks
           not
           
             the
             rest
          
           .
        
         
           Here
           's
           coy
           Love
           ,
           flattring
           Hope
           ,
           cold
           Desperation
           ,
        
         
           Enliv'ning
           Joys
           ,
           fawning
           Dissimulation
           ,
        
         
           Pleasing
           Revenge
           ,
           easy
           Credulity
           ,
        
         
           Fondness
           ,
           Moroseness
           ,
           Rage
           ,
           and
           Cruelty
        
         
           Charm'd
           into
           Pity
           .
           —
           Here
           ●re
           Love's
           Fatigues
        
         
           It's
           Toyls
           :
           and
           Lover's
           Wi●
           Councels
           ,
           Intrigues
           .
        
         
           And
           if
           
             All
             this
          
           won't
           take
           ,
           stop
           here
           —
           for
           not
        
         
           (
           As
           I
           'me
           a
           Sinner
           )
           
             one
             word
          
           of
           the
           Plot.
        
         
           For
           ,
           since
           't
           is
           at
           
             your
             choice
          
           ,
           to
           clap
           or
           hiss
           ,
        
         
           Expect
           
             the
             rest
          
           :
           if
           well
           ,
           we
           do
           in
           This
        
         
           Your
           patience
           crave
           ;
           pardon
           in
           what
           's
           amiss
           .
        
         
           The
           End.
           
        
      
       
         
         
           THE
           EPILOGUE
           TO
           PASTOR
           FIDO
           .
        
         
           Spoken
           by
           Sir
           
             W●lter
             Ernle
          
           Barronet
           .
        
         
           GAllants
           !
           the
           Stage
           
             is
             cl●r'd
          
           ,
           and
           I
           am
           come
           ,
        
         
           To
           hear
           the
           Actor's
           ●●nd
           or
           fatal
           doom
           .
        
         
           
             Poor
             Wretches
          
           !
           The
           amus'd
           with
           anxious
           fears
        
         
           And
           fled
           ;
           jealous
           they
           've
           fo●feited
           their
           Ears
           ▪
        
         
           Tho'
           to
           be
           try'd
           by
           YOU
           
             more
             than
          
           their
           Peers
           .
        
         
           Yet
           why
           shou'd
           They
           
             a
             pa●●ial
             Tryal
          
           fear
           ,
        
         
           Where
           YOU
           ,
           fair
           Ladi●s
           !
           influence
           the
           Bar
           ?
        
         
           Where
           full
           of
           Pity
           ,
           as
           of
           ●ate
           ,
           YOU
           sit
           ,
        
         
           There
           needs
           no
           IGNO●AMVS
           to
           acquit
           .
        
         
           Do
           like
           your selves
           !
           Ste●m
           the
           moroser
           guise
           !
        
         
           Cramp
           
             snarling
             Criticks
          
           !
           and
           controul
           the
           wise
           !
        
         
           These
           All
           strike
           Sail
           to
           YOU
           —
           and
           
             are
             All
          
           blest
        
         
           Who
           in
           such
           Harbour
           ,
           can
           securely
           rest
           .
        
         
           You
           'l
           say
           the
           Play
           's
           u●modish
           because
           old
           ,
        
         
           Alas
           !
           you
           'l
           
             all
             be
             so
             —
             good
          
           Tales
           are
           oft
           ill
           told
           .
        
         
           This
           seems
           to
           be
           
             our
             ●ase
          
           .
           Put
           
             (
             Ladies
             !
          
           )
           then
        
         
           
             Most
             of
             you
          
           know
           ,
           s●ch
           Striplings
           are
           not
           Men
        
         
           And
           tho'
           your
           kindness
           call
           't
           or
           Farce
           or
           Play.
        
         
           In
           Truth
           't
           is
           neither
           but
           a
           rude
           Essay
           .
        
         
           Faith
           !
           then
           
             be
             kind
             !
             —
             I
             do
             protest
          
           you
           'd
           need
        
         
           Accept
           this
           
             first
             time
          
           ,
           the
           
             good
             will
          
           for
           th'
           deed
           .
        
         
           
             This
             Boon
          
           I
           only
           
             beg
          
           ;
           grant
           This
           and
           then
        
         
           We
           hope
           
             to
             temp●
          
           you
           hither
           
             once
             ag'en
          
        
         
           Mean
           time
           ,
           win
           parting
           thanks
           Clown-like
           we
           treat
           ye
        
         
           And
           in
           
             our
             Hone-bred
          
           Phrase
           can
           only
           say
           t'
           ye
        
         
           After
           an
           ill
           Mea
           
             (
             Friends
             !
          
           )
           much
           good
           may
           't
           do
           t'
           ye
           .
        
         
           The
           End.