POETS, like disputants, when reasons fail,
Have one sure refuge left; and that's to rail.
Fop, coxcomb, fool, are thunder'd through the pit;
And this is all their equipage of wit.
We wonder how the devil this difference grows,
Betwixt our fools in verse, and your's in prose:
For, faith, the quarrel rightly understood,
'Tis civil war with their own flesh and blood.
The thread-bare author hates the gaudy coat,
And swears at the gilt coach; but swears a-foot;
For 'tis observed of every scribbling man,
He grows a fop as fast as e'er he can;
Prunes up, and asks his oracle, the glass,
If pink or purple best becomes his face-

For our poor wretch, he neither rails nor prays;
Or likes your wit just as you like his plays;
He has not yet so much of Mr Bayes.

He does his best; and if he cannot please,
Would quietly sue out his writ of ease.
Yet, if he might his own grand jury call,
By the fair sex, he begs to stand or fall.
Let Cæsar's pow'r the men's ambition move,
But grace you him who lost the world for love.
love.
Yet, if some antiquated lady say,
The last age is not copied in his play;
Heav'n help the man who for that face must
drudge,

Which only has the wrinkles of a judge.
Let not the young and beauteous join with those;
For should you raise such numerous hosts of foes,
Young wits and sparks he to his aid must call;
'Tis more than one man's work to please you all.

BY

THE judge remov'd, though he's no more my lord,
May plead at bar, or at the council-board:
So may cast poets write; there's no pretension,
To argue loss of wit from loss of pension.
Your looks are cheerful; and in all this place
I see not one, that wears a damning face.
The British nation is too brave to show
Ignoble vengeance, on a vanquished foe;
At least be civil to the wretch imploring,
And lay your paws upon him, without roaring;
Suppose our poet was your foe before,
Yet now the bus'ness of the field is o'er;
'Tis time to let your civil wars alone,
When troops are into winter-quarters gone.
Jove was alike to Latian and to Phrygian;
And you well know, a play's of no religion.
Take good advice, and please yourselves this day;
No matter from what hands you have the play.
Among good fellows ev'ry health will pass,
That serves to carry round another glass:
When, with full bowls of burgundy you dine,
Though at the mighty monarch you repine,
You grant him still Most Christian, in his wine.

Thus far the poet, but his brains grow addle;
And all the rest is purely from this noddle.
You've seen young ladies at the senate door,
Prefer petitions, and your grace implore;
However grave the legislators were,
Their cause went ne'er the worse for being fair;
Reasons as weak as theirs perhaps I bring,
But I could bribe you with as good a thing.
I heard him make advances of good nature,
That he for once would sheath his cutting satire;
Sign but his peace, he vows he'll ne'er again
The sacred names of fops and beaux prophane.
Strike up the bargain quickly; for I swear,
As times go now, he offers very fair.

Be not too hard on him with statutes neither;
Be kind; and do not set your teeth together,
To stretch the laws, as coblers do their leather.
Horses by papists are not to be ridden;

But sure the muses' horse was ne'er forbidden;
For in no rate-book, it was ever found
That Pegasus was valued at five pound:
Fine him to daily drudging and inditing;
And let him pay his taxes out,-in writing.

BRIGHT beauties, who in awful circle sit,
And you, grave synod of the dreadful pit,
And you the upper-tire of pop-gun wit,
Pray ease me of my wonder, if you may;
Is all this crowd barely to see the play,
Or is't the poet's execution day?

His breath is in your hands I will presume,
But I advise you to defer his doom,
Till you have got a better in his room;

And don't maliciously combine together,
As if in spite and spleen you were come hither,
For he has kept the pen, though lost the feather.
And on my honour, ladies, I avow,
This play was writ in charity to you,
For such a dearth of wit who ever knew?
Sure 'tis a judgment on this sinful nation
For the abuse of so great dispensation;
And therefore I resolved to change vocation

For want of petticoat I've put on buff,
To try what may be got by lying rough :
How think you, sirs-is it not well enough?
Of bully critics I a troop would lead,
But one replied, thank you, there's no such need,
I at groom-porters, sir, can safer bleed.
Another, who the name of danger loathes,
Vow'd he would go, and swore me forty oaths,
But that his horses were in body-cloaths;
A third cry'd, damn my blood! I'd be content
To push my fortune, if the parliament
Would but recall claret from banishment.
A fourth (and I have done) made this excuse,
I'd draw my sword in Ireland, sir, to chuse,
Had not their women gouty legs, and wore no
shoes.

Well, I may march, thought I, and fight and trudge,
But of these blades the devil a man will budge;
They there would fight e'en just as here they
judge.

Here they will pay for leave to find a fault,
But when their honour calls, they can't be bought,

Honour in danger, blood and wounds is sought. Lost virtue, whither fled, or where's thy dwelling?

Who can reveal? at least 'tis past my telling,
Unless thou art embark'd for Inniskelling.
On carrion tits those sparks denounce their rage,
In boot of wisp and Leinster freese engage,
What would you do in such an equipage?
The siege of Derry does you gallants threaten;
Not out of arrant shame of being beaten,
As fear of wanting meat, or being eaten.
Were wit, like honour, to be won by fighting,
How few just judges would there be of writing,
Then you would leave this villainous back-biting;
Your talents lie how to express your spite,
But where is he knows how to praise aright?
You praise like cowards, but like critics fight.
Ladies be wise, and wean these yearling calves,
Who in your service too are mere faux braves,
They judge, and write, and fight, and love-by
halves.

vants,

As Muley-Zeydan were not worth their care,
And younger brothers but the draff of nature.
Bend. Be still, and learn the soothing arts of
court;

Adore his fortune, mix with flattering crowds,
And when they praise him most, be you the loudest.
Your brother is luxurious, close, and cruel,
Generous by fits, but permanent in mischief.
The shadow of a discontent would ruin us;
We must be safe before we can be great:
These things observ'd, leave me to shape the rest.
Mul. Zeyd. You have the key, he opens in-
ward to you.

Bend. So often tried, and ever found so true,
Has given me trust, and trust has given me means
Once to be false for all. I trust not him:
For now his ends are serv'd, and he grown ab-
solute,

How am I sure to stand who serv'd those ends?
I know your nature open, mild, and grateful;
In such a prince the people may be blest,
And I be safe.

Mul. Zeyd. My father! [Embracing him.
Bend. My future king! auspicious Muley-
Zeydan!

Shall I adore you? No, the place is public,
I worship you within; the outward act
Shall be reserv'd till nations follow me,
And heaven shall envy you the kneeling world.
You know th' alcald of Alcazar, Dorax?
Mul. Zeyd. The gallant renegade you mean?
Bend. The same:

That gloomy outside, like a rusty chest,
Contains the shining treasure of a soul,
Resolv'd and brave; he has the soldiers' hearts,
And time shall make him ours.

Mul. He's just upon us.
Bend. I know him from afar,
By the long stride and by the sullen port:
Retire, my lord.

Wait on your brother's triumph; your's is next;
His growth is but a wild and fruitless plant;
I'll cut his barren branches to the stock,
And graft you on to bear.
Mul. Zeyd. My oracle!

[Exit MULEY-ZEYD. Bend. Yes, to delude your hopes; poor credulous fool,

To think that I would give away the fruit
Of so much toil, such guilt, and such damna-
tion;

If I am damned, it shall be for myself:
This easy fool must be my stale, set up

To catch the people's eyes; he's tame and mer

ciful;

Him I can manage till I make him odious
By some unpopular act, and then dethrone him.

Now, Dorax!

Enter DORAX.

Dor. Well, Benducar.

Bend. Bare Benducar?

Dor. Thou wouldst have titles? take 'em then; chief minister,

First hangman of the state.

Bend. Some call me favourite.

Dor. What's that, his minion?
Thou art too old to be a catamite.
Now prithee tell me, and abate thy pride,
Is not Benducar bare a better name
In a friend's mouth, than all those gaudy titles,
Which I disdain to give the man I love!

Bend. But always out of humour.
Dor. I have cause:

Though all mankind is cause enough for satire.

Bend. Why then thou hast reveng'd thee on

mankind.

They say in fight, thou hadst a thirsty sword, And well 'twas glutted there.

Dor. I spitted frogs, I crushed a heap of emmets,

A hundred of 'em to a single soul,

And that but scanty weight too: the great devil Scarce thank'd me for my pains; he swallows vulgar

Like whipp'd cream, feels 'em not in going down. Bend. Brave renegade! couldst thou not meet Sebastian?

Thy master had been worthy of thy sword.

Dor. My master! by what title? Because I happen'd to be born where he Happen'd to be a king? and yet I serv'd him, Nay, I was fool enough to love him too. You know my story, how I was rewarded, For fifteen hard campaigns, still hoop'd in iron, And why I turn'd Mahometan. I'm grateful; But whosoever dares to injure me,

Let that man know, I dare to be reveng❜d. Bend. Still you run off from bias; say what

moves

Your present spleen?

Dor. You mark'd not what I told you:
I kill'd not one that was his maker's image;
I met with none but vulgar two-legg❜d brutes.
Sebastian was my aim: he was a man,-
Nay, though he hated me, and I hate him,
Yet I must do him right, he was a man
Above man's height, ev'n tow'ring to divinity ;
Brave, pious, generous, great, and liberal;
Just as the scales of heaven, that weigh the seasons.
He lov'd his people, him they idoliz❜d:
And thence proceeds my mortal hatred to him,
That thus unblameable to all besides,
He err'd to me alone:

His goodness was diffus'd to human kind,
And all his cruelty confin'd to me.

Bend. You could not meet him then?
Dor. No, though I sought

Where ranks fell thickest; 'twas indeed the place
To seek Sebastian: through a track of death
I follow'd him, by groans of dying foes,
But still I came too late; for he was flown