THREE HOURS AFTER MARRIAGE

A COMEDY.

Rumpatur, quifquis rumpitur invidia. MART.

ADVERTISEMENT.

IT may be neceffary to acquaint the Reader, that this Play is printed exactly as it is acted: for though the Players, in compliance with the tafte of the Town, broke it into five parts in the representation; yet as the action pauses, and the stage is left vacant but three times, so it properly confists but of three Acts, like the Spanish Comedies.

I must farther own the affiftance I have received in this Piece from two of my friends *; who, though they will not allow me the honour of having their names joined with mine, cannot deprive me of the pleasure of making this acknowledgment.

JOHN GAY.

*Pope and Arbuthnot, who had an equal hand in the performance. It was unsuccessful on the Stage; and Cibber, in the character of Bays, introduced an allusion to it, which was one of the offences which procured him a place in the DUNCIAD. See Vol. IV. p. 16. Note; Vol. V. p. 50. Note.

C.

Pope was certainly as much concerned in writing this Farce, as he was in writing the Memoirs of Scriblerus: it was a joint production: though it is unworthy the names of its authors; yet as fo much has been faid of it, and as it was the cause of the memorable quarrel of Pope with Cibber, I have thought it might gratify curiofity, if I gave it a place.

PROLOGUE.

AUTHORS are judg’d by ftrange capricious rules,
The great ones are thought mad, the fmall ones Fools."
Yet sure the best are most severely fated,

For Fools are only laugh'd at,—Wits are hated.
Blockheads with reafon men of fenfe abhor;
But Fool 'gainst Fool is barb'rous civil war.
Why on all Authors then should Critics fall?
Since fome have writ, and fhewn no wit at all.
Condemn a Play of theirs, and they evade it,
Cry, "Damn not us, but damn the French that made it."
By running goods, these graceless Owlers gain,
Theirs are the rules of France, the plots of Spain :
But Wit, like wine, from happier climates brought,
Dafh'd by thefe rogues, turns English common draught:
They pall Moliere's and Lopez' sprightly strain,
And teach dull Harlequins to grin in vain.
How fhall our Author hope a gentle fate,
Who dares most impudently—not translate!
It had been civil, in these ticklish times,

To fetch his Fools and Knaves from foreign climes;
Spaniard and French abuse, to the world's end,
But spare Old England, left you hurt a friend.
If any Fool is by our fatire hit,

Let him hifs loud, to fhow you all—he's bit.
Poets make characters, as Salesmen clothes;
We take no measure of your fops and beaus:
But here all fizes and all fhapes ye meet,
And fit yourselves-like chaps in Monmouth-freet.

Gallants,

*

Gallants, look here! this fool's-cap has an airGoodly and fmart-with ears of Iffachar.

Let no one Fool engrofs it, or confine:

A common bleffing! now 'tis yours, now mine,
But Poets in all

ages

had the care

To keep this cap, for fuch as will, to wear:
Our Author has it now; for ev'ry Wit
Of course refign'd it to the next that writ:
And thus upon the Stage 'tis fairly thrown †,
Let him that takes it, wear it as his own.