When hope is fled, and passion's over.
Woman that fair and fond deceiver,
How prompt are striplings to believe her,
How throbs the pulse, when first we view,
The eye that rolls in glossy blue;
Or sparkles black, or mildly throws,
A beam from under hazel brows;
How quick we credit every oath,
And hear her plight the willing troth;
Fondly we hope 'twill last for aye,
When lo! she changes in a day,
The Record will forever stand,
"That woman's vows, are writ in sand."

* * * * *


AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE DELIVERED BY THE AUTHOR, PREVIOUS TO THE
PERFORMANCE OF THE WHEEL OF FORTUNE, AT A PRIVATE THEATRE.


Since the refinement of this polish'd age,
Has swept immoral raillery from the stage;
Since taste has now expung'd licentious wit,
Which stamp'd disgrace on all an author writ;
Since now to please with purer scenes we seek,
Nor dare to call the blush from beauty's cheek;
Oh! let the modest muse some pity claim,
And meet indulgence--though she find not fame.
But not for _her_ alone, we wish respect,