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A36266 The country-wake a comedy, as it is acted at the New Theatre in Little Lincoln's-Inn-Fields by His Majesty's servants / written by Mr. Tho. Dogget. Dogget, Thomas, d. 1721. 1696 (1696) Wing D1828; ESTC R5372 45,756 82

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THE Country-Wake A COMEDY As it is Acted at the NEW THEATRE IN Little Lincoln's-Inn-Fields BY His Majesty's Servants Written by Mr. THO. DOGGET Comedian LONDON Printed for Sam. Briscoe at the Corner of Charles-street in Russel-street Covent-Garden Sold by R. Wellington at the Lute in St. Paul's Church-yard R. Parker at the Royal-Exchange 1696. Price One Shilling Six Pence ☞ There is in the Press and will be speedily Publish'd Mr. Dennis's Miscellany of Poems with several Select Translations from the Ancient Poets Also The Passion of Bibblis Translated into English By Mr. Dennis 〈…〉 Drammatis Personae MEN. Sir Thomas Testie Mr. Vnderhill Woodvill Mr. Betterton Friendly Mr. Kenneston Old Hob Mr. Tresise Young Hob Mr. Dogget WOMEN Lady Testie Mrs. Barry Flora Mrs. Bracegirdle Lucia Mrs. Bowman Betty Mrs. Lee. Clowns Servants c. SCENE Glocester TO THE Illustrious and Truly Noble Prince JAMES Duke Marquess and Earl of Ormond in England and Ireland Earl of Ossory and Viscount Thurles Baron of Arclo Lord of the Regalities and Liberties of the County of Tiperary Baron of Lanthony Earl of Brecknock Chancellor of the Vniversity of Oxford One of the Lords of the Bed-Chamber to His Sacred Majesty Knight of the most Noble Order of the Garter and One of His Majesty's most Honourable Privy Council May it please your Grace I Know what I ought to expect from this Presumption but the assurance I had of your Graces Goodness to forgive me made me suffer my Inclinations to get the better of me and beseech your Protection for this poor Play that has but little else to recommend it to the World the satisfaction I had to see the little Success it undeservedly met with from the Town gave me not so great pleasure as I have to see your Graces Name fix'd to the Dedication not that I Pride my Self upon any imaginary Desert but the occasion it gives me of doing the Duty of an Englishman from whom all that 's due to the Preserver of his Country shou'd be paid to your Grace this I confess ought to be my Task I own my Obligation tho' I cannot pay it nor am I much concern'd at it since a better Pen than mine will find it a Duty too difficult to be Just in and the generality of Mankind I 'm sure will think me in the right not to prophane your Noble Character by endeavouring to describe it which wou'd betray my Ignorance more than the Publishing this piece of Folly will do which cost me more Time and Trouble to get Acted than did to Write it except one Act of it which I wrote three Years ago As for its Faults one of them is I hear that it is Obscene I 'm sorry it shou'd appear so I 'm sure I never design'd it and I believe it will be hard to find a Comedy with less in it those that have the clearest Reputation have more Reason to blush for that Sin than this has I own there 's a scarcity of that which some call Wit and what many Authors in this Age run mad after endeavouring to produce it out of every bodys Mouth whether it belongs to their Character or no still losing the Man to goe out of the way for a Jest 't is what I shall never labour for either in Writing if I were capable or Acting for he that will make Nature his Study will find more Charms in it and a more certain way to Applause than can be produc'd from any abortive Conceit which at best can but repay him with a loud Laughter from the Multitude who shou'd be pleas'd I own but not at the expence of the Author or the Actors Reputation nor the Displeasure of the Judicious who I hope will not condemn this Play from the appearance it had upon the Stage where it suffer'd in the Acting By the Industrious Care of whom was so visible to the Audience I shall spare any further Reflexion at this time which could chiefly be spent in begging your Grace's Pardon for presuming so unworthily to write my self Your Grace's most Humble Faithful and Obedient Servant THO. DOGGET PROLOGUE Spoken by Mrs. BARRY NEW Plays as well as Guineas fall of late Like Addle Plotters hurried to their Fate And yet our Ben wou'd needs be Plotting too But only Plotted for himself and you But yet I fear he will not please to day Alas 't is a meer out-of-fashion Play No Bawdy in 't to make the Ladies Glow Nay what is worse the Play 's without a Beau No Chit-Chat Repartee nor Raillery Such as Masks sell Sins within the Gallery Stuff learnt by Rote pass with you for Sence Brought here by Wits and by Fools carry'd hence Nay he has to day spar'd min ' honest Citt Who 's Holiday Halfe Crown seats him i' th' Pit And Laughs when he 's abus'd because 't is Wit Thus all he doe's but Politickly spare He fears to Bite yet hardly can forbear The Poet wou'd be at you if he might Did not the Player deter him from the Fight He Draws on your side Swears you shall not frown The Comick Vein shall keep the Cynick down 'Twixt you and him no Quarrel yet has been If now he ere 's he 'll freely own his Sin Nay what 's more strange he will repent on 't too But not as other wretched Scriblers do Attempt to mend yet trouble still the Age Confirm them Blockheads and Confound the Stage EPILOGUE Spoken by Mr. Betterton THE Careful Pilot when he Views the Shelf Where others have been lost secures himself The Cautious Robber from that road abstains Where his unlucky Comrade hangs in Chains Thus all except the Brothers of the Quill Take Early Warning by another's ill Writing's the Fatal Rock on which has split Many a Stout and well-built Man of Wit And yet there 's not a Sculler but shall Dare To venture his weak rotten Cock-boat there Bless me What Wits might some Men be to th' Sight Wou'd they be rul'd and neither Talk nor Write For here 's the Mischief of the Poet's trade He must be born a Wit as well as made A Native inbred spark of Heavenly heat In ev'ry Vein in ev'ry Pulse must beat Nor will indifferent Writing do the feat For Poetry allows no Middle State No so-so Plays will do no pretty-well You fail if you but Moderately excell It must be Heaven all or else 't is Hell Criticks are Heralds that deny one blot To be of Honour in a Poet's Coat 'T is time and labour thrown away in all But they that do perceive an inward Call And by the Orthodox none ought to be Admitted to this Sacred Ministry Less then a Dryden Congreve Wycherly These Matters running in our Author's head He vows to me have almost made him Mad To know so well the Strictness of the Rule And yet to write Incorrigible Fool Yonder he stands in Sad and Doloful Case Waiting the Judgment you shall please to pass I see he beckons to me to intreat