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But after he's once fav’d, to make amends,
EPILOGUE to the same.
A Virgin poet was ferv'd up to-day,
Who, till this hour, ne'er cackled for a ptay. He's neither yet a Whig nor Tory-boy ; , But, like a girl, whom several would enjoy, Begs leave to make the best of his own nat'ral toy. Were I to play my callow author's game, The king's house would instruct me by the name There's loyalty to one; I wish no more: : A commonwealth sounds like a common whore.
Let husband or gallant be what they will,
of woman is true Tory still.
will take it. 'Tis faction buys the votes of half che pit ; Their’s is the pension-parliament of wit. In city-clubs their venom let them vent; For there 'tis safe, in its own element. Here, where their madness can have no pretence, Let them forget themselves an hour of sense. In one poor ille, why should two factions be: Small diff'rence in your vices I can see: 'In drink and drabs both sides too well agree. Would there were more preferments in the land: If places fell, the party could not stand:
Of this damn'd grievance ev'ry Whig complains; They grunt like hogs till they have got their grains, Mean time
see what trade our plots advance ; We send each year good money into France; And they that know what merchandize we need, Send o'er true Protestants to mend our breed.
SPOKEN by Mr. HART, At the Acting of the SILENT WOMAN,
HAT Greece, when learning flourish'd,
your decree, Where even the best are but by mercy free: A day, which none but Jonson durft have with'd
Here they, who long have known the useful stage,
commillioners our poets go,
your precepts have forgot,
began, Studies with care the anatomy of man; Sees virtue, vice, and passions in their cause, And fame from science, not from fortune, draws. So Poetry, which is in Oxford made An art, in London only is a trade. There haughty dunces, whose unlearned pen Could ne'er spell grammar, would be reading men. Such build their poems the Lucretian way; So many huddled atoms, make a play:
And if they hit in order by some chance,
SPOK EN BY THE SAME.
O poor Dutch peasant, wing'd with all his fear
arms draw near,