The Stolen Heiress

Our Author fearing his Success to Day, Sends me to bribe your Spleen against his Play, And if a Ghost in Nelly's Time cou'd sooth ye, He hopes in these that Flesh and Blood may move ye, Nay, what is more, to win your Hearts, a Maid! If ever such a Thing the Play-house had. For Cold and Shade the waxen Blossom's born, Not to endure the Regions of the Sun, Let every Beau then his Applause begin, And think the Rarity was born for him: Your true-bred Knights for fancy'd Dames advance, And think it Gallantry to break a Launce, And shall a real Damsel e'er be found To plead her Cause in vain on English Ground, Unless that dreadful Prophecy's begun, In which Seven Women are to share——one Man! But thanks my Stars that Danger I disown, For in the Pit, I see 'tis—one—to one. And while the Fair can all their Rights enjoy, We'll keep our Title up to being Coy, So let your Praise be noisy as your Wine, And grant your Favours, if you'd purchase mine.