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Teague has been here, and, to this learned pit,
With Irish action flander'd English wit:
You have beheld fuch barbarous Macs appear,
As merited a fecond maffacre :

Such as, like Cain, were branded with difgrace,
And had their country ftamp'd upon their face.
When ftrolers durft prefume to pick your purse,
We humbly thought our broken troop not worse.
How ill foe'er our action may deferve,

Oxford's a place where wit can never starve,

XXIII.

PROLOGUE to the Univerfity of OXFORD.

THOUGH actors cannot much of learning boat,

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 thofe, who touch upon the golden fhore:
Betwixt our judges can distinction make,
Difcern how much, and why, our poems take:
Mark if the fools, or men of fenfe, rejoice;
Whether th' applause be only found 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

London likes grofsly; but this nicer pit
Examines, fathoms all the depths of wit;
The ready finger lays on every blot;

Knows what should justly pleafe, and what should not.
Nature herfelf lies open to your view;

You judge by her, what draught of her is true,
Where outlines falfe, and colours feem too faint,
Where bunglers dawb, and where true poets paint.
But, by the facred genius of this place,

By every Mufe, by each domeftic grace,
Be kind to wit, which but endeavours well,
And, where you judge, presumes not to excel.
Our poets hither for adoption come,

As nations fued to be made free of Rome :
Not in the fuffragating tribes to ftand,
But in your utmoft, laft, provincial band.
If his ambition may thofe hopes purfue,
Who with religion loves your arts and you,
Oxford to him a dearer name fhall be,
Than his own mother university.

Thebes did his green, unknowing, youth engage;
He choofes Athens in his riper age.

XXIV.

EPILOGUE to CONSTANTINE the GREAT. [By Mr. N. LE E, 1684.]

O

UR hero's happy in the play's conclufion;
The holy rogue at laft has met confusion:
Though Arius all along appear'd a faint,
The laf a&t fhew'd him a true Proteftant.

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Eufebius, for you know I read Greek authors,
Reports, that, after all thefe plots and flaughters,
The court of Conftantine was full of glory,
And every Trimmer turn'd addreffing Tory.
They follow'd him in herds as they were mad:
When Claufe was king, then all the world was glad.
Whigs kept the places they poffest before,
And most were in a way of getting more;
Which was as much as faying, Gentlemen,
Here's power and money to be rogues again.
Indeed, there were a fort of peaking tools,
Some call them modeft, but I call them fools,
Men much more loyal, though not half so loud;
But thefe poor devils were caft behind the croud.
For bold knaves thrive without one grain of fenfe,
But good men ftarve for want of impudence.
Befides all thefe, there were a fort of wights,
I think my author calls them Tekelites,
Such hearty rogues against the king and laws,
They favour'd ev'n a foreign rebel's cause.

When their own damn'd defign was quash'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 baftard, not to noise his wife;
Thus o'er their darling plot these Trimmers cry;
And though they cannot keep it in their eye,
They bind it prentice to Count Tekely.
They believe not the laft plot; may I be curft,
If I believe they e'er believ'd the firft.

}

No wonder their own plot no plot they think;

The man,

that makes it, never fmells the stink.

And now it comes into my head, I'll tell

Why thefe damn'd Trimmers lov'd the Turks fo well. Th' original Trimmer, though a friend to no man, Yet in his heart ador'd a pretty woman;

He knew that Mahomet laid up for ever

Kind black-ey'd rogues, for every true believer ;
And, which was more than mortal man e'er tafted,
One pleasure that for threefcore twelvemonths lafted:
To turn for this, may furely be forgiven:
Who'd not be circumcis'd for fuch a heaven?

XXV.

PROLOGUE to the DISAPPOINTMENT:
Or, The MOTHER in FASHION.
[By Mr. SOUTHERN E, 1684.]
Spoken by Mr. BETTERTON.

HOW comes it, gentlemen, that now a-days,
When all of you fo fhrewdly judge of plays,

Our poets tax you ftill with want of fenfe?
All prologues treat you at your own expence.
Sharp citizens a wifer way can go;

They make you fools, but never call you fo.
They, in good-manners, feldom make a flip,
But treat a common whore with ladyship :
But here each faucy wit at random writes,
And ufes ladies as he ufes knights.
$ 3

Dur

Our author, young and grateful in his nature,
Vows, that from him no nymph deferves a fatire
Nor will he ever draw-I mean his rhyme-
Against the fweet partaker of his crime.
Nor is he yet fo hold an undertaker,

To call men fools; 'tis railing at their Maker.
Befides, he fears to fplit upon that shelf;
He's young enough to be a fop himself:
And, if his praise can bring you all a-bed,
He fwears fuch hopeful youth no nation ever bred.
Your nurses, we prefume, in fuch a cafe,
Your father chofe, because he lik'd the face;
And, often, they supply'd your mother's place.
The dry nurfe was your mother's ancient maid,
Who knew fome former flip fhe ne'er betray'd.
Betwixt them both, for milk and fugar-candy,
Your fucking-bottles were well ftor'd with brandy.
Your father, to initiate your discourse,

Meant to have taught you firft to fwear and curse,
But was prevented by each careful nurse.
For, leaving dad and mam, as names too common,
They taught you certain parts of man and woman.
I país your schools; for there when first you came,
You would be fure to learn the Latin name.

In colleges you fcorn'd the art of thinking,

But learn'd all moods and figures of good drinking:
Thence come to town, you practise play, to know
The virtues of the high dice, and the low.
Each thinks himself a fharper moft profound:
He cheats by pence; is cheated by the pound.

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