MR. HAYNES His Recantation-Prologue Upon his first Appearance on the STAGE AFTER HIS RETURN from ROME.
AS you dislikt the Converts of the Nation,
That went to Rome, and left your Congregation;
By the same Rule, pray, kindly entertain
Your Penitent lost Sheep return'd again:
For Reconverted Haynes (taught by the Age.)
Is now come back to's Primitive Church—the Stage,
And owns his Crimes; that's leaving in the Lurch
His Mother Play-House, She's my Mother Church.
As Penitents some go from you to Rome,
A Penitent from Rome to you I come;
Tho' I, from you to Rome, did never go
As Renegate to Her, but Spy for you:
For seeing the Beau's and Banterer's every Day,
Tyr'd, even with themselves, in every Play,
I went to Rome, to seek out Fops more new,
And more Ridiculous than any of you,
A Miracle from Rome I thought might do.
Besides, when I left you, ye all design'd for Rome,
But seeing you came not over—I came home,
Like most of you, finding my self mistaken,
I early tackt about to save my Bacon. Pox on't,
At Rome, a Godly Part they made me Play,
A damn'd unnatural one for me you'l fay,
They wou'd not let me Drink, nor Roar, nor Swear,
But fob'd me off with Penance and with Prayer;
Guess how that Penance went down with a Player.
That ever any Player shou'd ha'the Face
Ere to pretend to such a thing as Grace!
Never in all that time to break a Jest!
Nor ever drink one Bumper to the Best!
'Twas very hard. Indeed th' Italian Nation
Did put this Phiz a little out of Fashion:
But yielding Nature, and this Tempting Place
Confirms me Flesh and Blood now, 'spite of Grace;
Therefore Dear Loving Sisters of the Pit,
Again, your Brother Renegade admit;
And don't esteem me less, 'cause I did live
Where Sawcy Boys claim your Prerogative. No Sisters, no,
I ne'r turn'd Heretick—in Love at least
To Decent Whoring kept my Thoughts still Chast.
For you, Pert Gallants, who are daily known
To love all Whores—But her of Babylon.
You'le ne'r damn Haynes for his Religion;
For to make us of any, Me or You,
Were such a Miracle Rome ne'r could do. Well Sirs,
Being thus confess'd, and freed from Rome's Pollution, Kneeling
I beg from your kind Hands, my Absolution.
LONDON, Printed for Richard Baldwin, near the Black Bull in the Old Baily, 1689.