By Sir _JOHN FALSTAFFE_.

_To be Continued every_ Tuesday _and_ Saturday.

Price Two-pence.

_I am Myself, but call me What you please._

South. in Oroon.

Saturday, _April 9. 1720._


Men, that like myself, set up for being Wits, and dictating to the World in
a censorial Way, should like Oracles endeavour to be barely heard, but
never have it distinguish'd from whence the Voice comes. _Faith_ and
_Reputation_ have ever been built on _Doubt_ and _Mystery_, and sometimes
the Art of being _unintelligible_ does not a little advance the Credit of a
Writer. There are many Reasons why we, who take upon Us the Task of Diurnal
or Weekly Lucubrations, should be like the River _Nilus_, sending abroad
fertile Streams to every Quarter, and still keeping our Heads undiscover'd.
But why should I be compell'd to give Reasons for every thing? _Were
Reasons as plenty as Blackberries_, as my worthy Ancestor was wont to say,
_I would not give a Reason upon Compulsion_.

I have confess'd to the World I am a _Knight_ (nor am I asham'd to own it,
tho' 'tis a Condescension as Knighthood goes;) and my Name is _John
Falstaffe_; must they have too a Tree of my Pedigree, and a Direction to my
Lodgings? 'Tis ill-Manners to pluck the Masque off, when we would not be