Pent there fince our laft fire, and, Lilly fays,
Foreshews our change of state, and thin third-days.
'Tis not our want of wit that keeps us poor;
For then the printer's prefs would fuffer more.
Their pamphleteers each day their venom spit ;
They thrive by treason, and we starve by wit.
Confefs the truth, which of you
has not laid
Four farthings out to buy the Hatfield maid?

Or, which is duller yet, and more would fpite us,
Democritus's wars with Heraclitus?

Such are the authors, who have run us down,
And exercis'd you critics of the town.

Yet thefe are pearls to your lampooning rhymes,
Y'abuse yourselves more dully than the times.
Scandal, the glory of the English nation,
Is worn to rags, and fcribbled out of fashion.
Such harmless thrufts, as if, like fencers wife,
They had agreed their play before their prize.
Faith, they may hang their harps upon the willows;
'Tis just like children when they box with pillows.
Then put an end to civil wars for fhame;
Let each knight-errant, who has wrong'd a dame,
Throw down his pen, and give her, as he can,
The fatisfaction of a gentleman.

XVII. PROLOGUE

XVII.

PROLOGUE to the LOYAL BROTHER: or, The PERSIAN PRINCE.

[By Mr. SOUTHERNE, 1682.]

OETS, like lawful monarchs, rul'd the stage, Till critics, like damn'd Whigs, debauch'd our age. Mark how they jump: critics would regulate Our theatres, and Whigs reform our state :

Both pretend love, and both (plague rot them !) hate.
The critic humbly feems advice to bring;

The fawning Whig petitions to the king:
But one's advice into a fatire flides;
T'other's petition a remonstrance hides.
These will no taxes give, and thofe no pence;
Critics would ftarve the poet, Whigs the prince.
The critic all our troops of friends difcards;
Juft fo the Whig would fain pull down the guards.
Guards are illegal, that drive foes away,
As watchful fhepherds that fright beafts of prey.
Kings, who disband such needlefs aids as these,
Are fafe-as long as e'er their fubjects please :
And that would be till next queen Befs's night:
Which thus grave penny chroniclers indite.
Sir Edmund Bury first, in woful wife,

Leads up the fhow, and milks their maudlin eyes.
There's not a butcher's wife but dribs her part,
And pities the poor pageant from her heart;

Who, to provoke revenge, rides round the fire,
And, with a civil congé, does retire :

But guiltless blood to ground must never fall;
There's Antichrift behind, to pay for all.
The punk of Babylon in pomp appears,
A lewd old gentleman of seventy years :
Whofe age in vain our mercy would implore;
For few take pity on an old cast-whore.

The devil, who brought him to the shame, takes part;
Sits cheek by jowl, in black, to cheer his heart;
Like thief and parfon in a Tyburn-cart.

The word is given, and with a loud huzza
The mitred puppet from his chair they draw:
On the flain corpfe contending nations fall:
Alas! what's one poor pope among them all!
He burns; now all true hearts your triumphs ring:
And next, for fashion, cry, God fave the king!
A needful cry in midst of such alarms,

When forty thousand men are up in arms.
But after he's once fav'd, to make amends,
In each fucceeding health they damn his friends:
So God begins, but ftill the devil ends.

What if some one, inspir'd with zeal, should call,
Come, let's go cry, God fave him at Whitehall?
His best friends would not like this over-care,
Or think him e'er the fafer for this prayer.
Five praying faints are by an act allow'd ;
But not the whole church-militant in croud.
Yet, fhould heaven all the true petitions drain
Of Prefbyterians, who would kings maintain,
Of forty thousand, five would fcarce remain.

}

XVIII. EPILOGUE

XVIII.

EPILOGUE to the fame.

A Virgin poet was ferv'd up to-day,

Who, till this hour, ne'er cackled for a play.
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 natural toy.
Were I to play my callow author's game,
The king's house would inftruct me by the name.
There's loyalty to one; I wifh no more:

A commonwealth founds like a common whore.
Let husband or gallant be what they will,
One part of woman is true Tory still.
If any factious spirit should rebel,

Our fex, with eafe, can every rifing quell.

Then, as you hope we should your failings hide,
An honeft jury for our play provide.

Whigs at their poets never take offence;

They fave dull culprits, who have murder'd fenfe.
Though nonsense is a naufeous 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 :

}

Though void in payment laws and ftatutes make it, The neighbourhood, that knows the man, will take it. 'Tis faction buys the votes of half the pit ;

Their's is the penfion-parliament of wit.

In city-clubs their venom let them vent;

For there 'tis fafe, in its own element.

Here, where their madnefs can have no pretence,
Let them forget themfelves an hour of sense.
In one poor ifie, why fhould two factions be?
Small difference in your vices I can fee:
In drink and drabs both fides too well agree.
Would there were more preferments in the land:
If places fell, the party could not stand:

Of this damn'd grievance every Whig complains:
They grunt like hogs till they have got their grains.
Mean time you see what trade our plots advance
We fend each year good money into France;
And they that know what merchandize we need,
Send o'er true Proteftants to mend our breed.

}

XIX.

PROLOGUE to the Univerfity of OXFORD, fpoken by Mr. HART, at the acting of the SILENT WOMAN.

WHA

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 loft or won.
Methinks I fee you, crown'd with olives, fit,
And ftrike a facred horror from the pit.
A day of doom is this of your decree,
Where ev'n the beft are but by mercy free:

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