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With joy we bring what our dead authors writ,
And beg from you

the value of their wit : That Shakespear's, Fletcher's, and great Johnson's

claim, May be renew'd from those who gave them fame. None of our living poets dare appear ; For muses so severe are worshipp'd here, That, conscious of their faults, they fhun the eye, And, as prophane, from sacred places fly, Rather than see the offended God, and die. We bring no imperfections, but our own ; Such faults as made are by the makers shown: And you

have been so kind, that we may boast, The greatest judges still can pardon most. Poets must stoop, when they would please our pit, Debas'd even to the level of their wit ; Disdaining that, which yet they know will take, Hating themselves what their applause must make. But when to praise from you they would aspire, Tho they like eagles mount, your Jove is higher. So far your knowlege all their power transcends, As what should be beyond what Is extends.

PROLOGUE to CIR CE.

[By Dr. DAVENANT, 1675.]

ERE you

WE

but half so wise as you're severe, Our youthful poet should not need to fear: To his green years your censures you would suit, Not blast the blossom, but expect the fruit, The sex, that best does pleasure understand, Will always choose to err on t'other hand. They check not him that’s aukward in delight, But clap the young rogue's cheek, and set him

right. Thus hearten'd well, and flesh'd

upon

his

prey, The youth may prove a man another day. Your Ben and Fletcher, in their first young flight, Did no Volpone, nor no Arbaces write; But hopp'd about, and short excursions made From bough to bough, as if they were afraid, And each was guilty of some slighted maid. Shakefpear's own muse her Pericles first bore ; The prince of Tyre was elder than the Moore : 'Tis miracle to see a first good play ; All hawthorns do not bloom on Christmas-day.

A slender poet must have time to grow,
And spread and burnish as his brothers do.
Who still looks lean, sure with some pox is curst;
But no man can be Falstaff-fat at first.
Then damn not, but indulge his rude essays,
Encourage him, and bloat him up with praise,
That he may get more bulk before he dies :
He's not yeț fed enough for sacrifice.
Perhaps, if now your grace you will not grudge,
He
may grow up to write, and

you to judge.

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E P I L OG

OG UE,

Intended to have been spoken by

The Lady HEN. MAR. WENT WORTH,

When CALISTO was acted at Court.

A

S Jupiter I made my coạrt in vain ;
I'll now assume

my

native shape again,
I'm weary to be so unkindly us’d,
And would not be a God to be refus'd.
State grows uneasy when it hinders love
A glorious burden, which the wise removę,

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Now as a nymph I need not sue, nor try
The force of any lightning but the eye.
Beauty and youth more than a God command
No Jove could e'er the force of these withstand.
'Tis here that sov’reign power admits dispute ;
Beauty sometimes is justly absolute.
Our fullen Cato's, whatsoe'er they say,
Even while they frown and dictate laws, obey.
You, mighty fir, our bonds more easy make,
And gracefully, what all must suffer, take :
Above those forms the grave affect to wear ;
For 'tis not to be wife to be severe.
True wisdom

may some gallantry admit,
And foften business with the charms of wit.
These peaceful triumphs with your cares you

bought,
And from the midst of fighting nations brought.
You only hear it thunder from afar,
And fit in peace the arbiter of war :
Peace, the loath'd manna, which hot brains despise.
You knew its worth, and made it early prize:
And in its happy leisure sit and see
The promises of more felicity :
Two glorious nymphs of your own godlike line,
Whose morning rays like noontide strike and shine:

Whom

you to supplant monarchs shall dispose, To bind your friends, and to difarm

your

foes.

EPILOGUE to the Man of Mode;

OR,

Sir FOPLING FLUTTER.

[By Sir George ETHERIDGE, 1676.]

MOST

OST modern wits such monstrous fools

have shown, They seem not of heaven's making, but their own Those nauseous harlequins in farce may pass ; But there goes more to a substantial ass : Something of man must be expos’d to view, That, gallants, they may more resemble you. Sir Fopling is a fool so nicely writ, The ladies would mistake him for a wit; And, when he fings, talks loud, and cocks,

would cry,

I vow, methinks, he's pretty company :
So brisk, so gay, fo travelld, fo refin'd,
As he took pains to graff upon his kind. ,

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