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TH

HO actors cannot much of learning boast,

Of all who want it, we admire it most: We love the praises of a learned pit, As we remotely are ally'd to wit. We speak our poets wit, and trade in ore, Like those, who touch upon the golden shore : Betwixt our judges can distinction make, Discern how much, and why, our poems take : Mark if the fools, or men of sense, rejoice; Whether th' applause be only sound or voice. When our fop gallants, or our city folly Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy: We doubt that scene which does their wonder raise, And, for their ignorance, contemn their praise. Judge then, if we who act, and they who write, Should not be proud of giving you delight. London likes grolly, but this nicer pit Examines, fathoms all the depths of wit ; The ready finger lays on every Knows what should justly please, and what should

not.

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Nature herself lies open to your view;
You judge by her, what draught of her is true,
Where outlines false, and colors seem too faint,
Where bunglers dawb, and where true poets paint.
But by the facred genius of this place,
By ev'ry Mufe, by each domestic grace.
Be kind to wit, which but endeavors well,
And, where you judge, presumes not to excel.
Our poets hither for adoption come,
As nations sued to be made free of Rome :
Not in the fuffragating tribes to stand,
But in your utmost, last, provincial band.
If his ambition may those hopes pursue,
Who with religion loves your arts and you,
Oxford to him a dearer name shall be,
Than his own mother university.
Thebes did his green, unknowing, youth engage;
He chooses Athens in his riper age.

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And

UR hero's happy in the play's conclusion;

The holy rogue at last has met confusion: Tho Arius all along appear'd a saint, The last act Thew'd him a true Protestant. Eusebius, for you know I read Greek authors, Reports, that, after all these plots and laughters, The court of Constantine was full of glory, every

Trimmer turn'd addressing Tory. They follow'd him in herds as they were mad: When Clause was king, then all the world was glad. Whigs kept the places they possest before, And most were in a way of getting more; Which was as much as saying, Gentlemen, Here's power

and

money rogues again. Indeed, there were a sort of peaking tools, Some call them modest, but I call them fools, Men much more loyal, tho not half fo loud; But these poor devils were cast behind the croud.

to be

For bold knaves thrive without one grain of sense,
But good men starve for want of impudence.
Besides all these, there were a sort of wights,
I think my author calls them Tekelites,
Such hearty rogues against the king and laws,
They favor'd e'en a foreign rebel's cause.
When their own damn’d design was quafh'd and

aw'd,
At least, they gave it their good word abroad.
As many a man, who, for a quiet life,
Breeds out his bastard, not to noise his wife;
Thus o'er their darling plot these Trimmers cry;
And tho they cannot keep it in their eye,
They bind it prentice to Count Tekely.
They believe not the last plot; may I be curst,
If I believe they e'er believ'd the first.
No wonder their own plot no plot they think;
The man, that makes it, never smells the stink.
And now it comes into my head, I'll tell
Why these damn'd Trimmers lov'd the Turks fo

well. The original Trimmer, tho a friend to no man, Yet in his heart ador'd a pretty woman ; He knew that Mahomet laid

up Kind black-ey'd rogues, for

every true believer ;

for ever

And, which was more than mortal man e'er tasted, One pleasure that for threescore twelvemonths

lasted: To turn for this, may surely be forgiven: Who'd not be circumcis'd for such a heaven?

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OW comes it, gentlemen, that now a-days,
When all of

you so shrewdly judge of plays,
Our poets tax you still with want of sense ?
All prologues treat you at your own expence.
Sharp citizens a wiser way can go ;
They make you fools, but never call you

fo. They, in good manners, seldom make a flip, But treat a common whore with ladyship : But here each saucy wit at random writes, And uses ladies as he uses knights.

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