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But after he's once fav’d, to make amends,
In each succeeding health they damn his friends:
So God begins, but still the devil ends.
What if some one, inspir’d.with zeal, should call,
Come, let's go cry, God save him at Whitehall ?
His best friends would not like this over-care,
Or think him ere the safer for this prayer.
Five praying faints are by an act allow'd;
But not the whole church-militant in croud.
Yet, Mould heaven all the true petitions drain
Of Presbyterians, who would kings maintain,
Of forty thousand, five would scarce remain.


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.
If any factious spirit should rebel,
Our sex, with ease, can ev'ry rising quell.
Then, as you hope we should your failings hide,
An honest jury for our play provide.
Whigs at their poets never take offence;
They fave dull culprits, who have murder'd sense.
Tho nonsense is a nauseous heavy mass,
The vehicle call’d Faction makes it pass.
Faction in play's the commonwealth-man's bribe;
The leaden farthing of the canting tribe :
Tho void in payment laws and statutes make it,
The neighbourhood, that knows the


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.

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SPOKEN by Mr. HART, At the Acting of the SILENT WOMAN,


HAT Greece, when learning flourish'd,

only knew,
Athenian judges, you this day renew.
Here too are annual rites to Pallas done,
And here poetic prizes lost or won.
ATethinks I see you, crown'd with olives, fit,
And strike a sacred horror from the pit.
A day of doom is this of

your decree, Where even the best are but by mercy free: A day, which none but Jonson durft have with'd

to fee,


poets, who

Here they, who long have known the useful stage,
Come to be taught themselves to teach the age.

commillioners our poets go,
To cultivate the virtue which you fow;
In your Lycæum first themselves refin'd,
And delegated thence to human-kind.
But as ambassadors, when long from home,
For new instructions to their princes come ;

your precepts have forgot,
Return, and beg they may be better taught:
Follies and faults elsewhere by them are shown,
But by your manners they correct their own.
Th’illiterate writer, emperic-like, applies
To minds diseas'd, unsafe, chance, remedies :
The learned in schools, where knowlege first

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,
They call that nature, which is ignorance.
To such a fame let mere town-wits aspire,
And their gay nonsense their own cits admire.
Our poet, could he find forgiveness here,
Would wish it rather than a plaudit there.
He owns no crown from thofe Prætorian bands,
But knows that right is in the senate's hands,
Not impudent enough to hope your praise,
Low at the Muses feet his wreath he lays,
And, where he took it up, resigns his bays.
Kings make their poets whom themselves think fit,
But 'tis your suffrage makes authentic wit.







O poor Dutch peasant, wing'd with all his fear
Flies with more haste, when the French

arms draw near,
Than we with our poetic train come down,
For refuge hither, from th' infected town :
Vol. II.


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