Prologue. Spoken, at the opening of the new house, by Mr Betterton.

Love for Love

by William Congreve

The husbandman in vain renews his toil
To cultivate each year
a hungry soil;
And fondly hopes for rich and generous fruit,

When what should feed the tree devours the root;
Th' unladen
boughs, he sees, bode certain dearth,
Unless transplanted to more
kindly earth.
So the poor husbands of the stage, who found

Their labours lost upon ungrateful ground,
This last and only
remedy have proved,
And hope new fruit from ancient stocks
removed.
Well may they hope, when you so kindly aid,
Well
plant a soil which you so rich have made.
As Nature gave the
world to man's first age,
So from your bounty, we receive this
stage;
The freedom man was born to, you've restored,
And to
our world such plenty you afford,
It seems like Eden, fruitful of
its own accord.
But since in Paradise frail flesh gave way,

And when but two were made, both went astray;
Forbear your
wonder, and the fault forgive,
If in our larger family we
grieve
One falling Adam and one tempted Eve.
We who remain
would gratefully repay
What our endeavours can, and bring this
day
The first-fruit offering of a virgin play.
We hope
there's something that may please each taste,
And though of
homely fare we make the feast,
Yet you will find variety at
least.
There's humour, which for cheerful friends we got,
And
for the thinking party there's a plot.
We've something, too, to
gratify ill-nature,
(If there be any here), and that is
satire.
Though satire scarce dares grin, 'tis grown so mild

Or only shows its teeth, as if it smiled.
As asses thistles,
poets mumble wit,
And dare not bite for fear of being bit:

They hold their pens, as swords are held by fools,
And are afraid
to use their own edge-tools.
Since the Plain-Dealer's scenes of
manly rage,
Not one has dared to lash this crying age.
This
time, the poet owns the bold essay,
Yet hopes there's no
ill-manners in his play;
And he declares, by me, he has
designed
Affront to none, but frankly speaks his mind.
And
should th' ensuing scenes not chance to hit,
He offers but this
one excuse, 'twas writ
Before your late encouragement of wit.