I fee a fhip afar :

St. Hermo, St. Hermo, that fits upon the fails?

Ah! No, no, no.

St. Hermo, never, never fhone fo bright; 'Tis Phyllis, only Phyllis, can fhoot fo

fair a light:

'Tis Phyllis, 'tis Phyllis, that faves the fhip alone,

For all the winds are hufa'd, and the ftorm is overblown.

PHYLLIS. Let me go, let me run, let me fly to

his arms..

fhere:

But what's that I view,

So radiant of hue,

VOC. VI.

And all the furies join,

I'll force my way to Phyllis, and break through the charm.

M

[Here they break from their keepers, run
to each other, and embrace.]

PHYLLIS. Shall I marry the man I love?
And fhall I conclude my pains?
Now blefs'd be the powers above,
I feel the blood bound in my veins;
With a lively leap it began to move,
And the vapours leave my brains.
AMYNTAS. Body join'd to body, and heart join'd
to heart,

To make fure of the cure,

Go call the man in black, to mumble
o'er his part.

PHYLLIS. But fuppofe he should stay-
AMYNTAS. At worst if he delay,

'Tis a work must be done,
We'll borrow but a day,
And the better, the fooner begun,
Cho. of both. Al worft if he delay, &c.

[They run out together band in band.

So fhipwreck'd paffengers efcape to land,
So look they, when on the bare beach they stand
Dropping and cold, and their first fear fcarce o'er,
Expecting famine on a defert fhote.

From that hard climate we must wait for bread,
Whence ev'n the natives, forc'd by hunger, fled.
Our frage does human chance present to view,
But ne'er before was feen io fadly true:
You are chang'd too, and your pretence to fee
Is but a nobler name for charity.
Your own provifions furnith out our feasts,
While you the founders make yourselves the guests.
Of all mankind befide fate had some care,
But for poor wit no portion did prepare,
Tis left a rent-charge to the brave and fair.

}

You cherish'd it, and now its fall you mourn,
Which blind unmanner'd zealots make their scorn,
Who think that fire a judgment on the stage,
Which spar'd not temples in its furious rage.
But as our new-built city rifes higher,
So from old theatres may new aspire,
Since fate contrives magnificence by fire.
Our great metropolis does far furpass
Whate'er is now, and equals all that was:
Our wit as far does foreign wit excel,
And like a king, should in a palace dwell.
But we with golden hopes are vainly fed,
Talk high, and entertain you in a fhed:
Your prefence here, for which we humbly sue,
Will grace old theatres, and build up new,

You, who each day can theatres behold,
Like Nero's palace, fhining all with gold,
Our mean ungilded stage will scorn, we fear,
And, for the homely room, difdain the cheers

Yet now cheap druggets to a mode are grown,
And a plain fuit fince we can make but one,
Is better than to be by tarnish'd gawdry known.
They, who are by your favours wealthy made,
With mighty fums may carry on the trade:
We, broken bankers, half destroy'd by fire,
With our small stock to humble roofs retire;
Pity our lofs, while you their pomp admire.
For fame and honour we no longer strive,
We yield in both, and only beg to live:
Unable to fupport their vast expence,
Who build and treat with fuch magnificence;
That, like th' ambitious monarchs of the age,
They give the law to our provincial stage.
Great neighbours enviously promote excefs,
While they in pofe their fplendour on the less.
But only fools, and they of vast estate,
'Th' extremity of modes will imitate,
The dangling knee-fringe, and the bib-cravat.
Yet if fome pride with want may be allow'd,
We in our plainnefs may be juftly proud:
Our royal mafter will'd it fhould be fo;
Whate'er he's pleas'd to own, can need no fhew:

}

That facred name gives ornament and grace,
And, like his ftamp, makes basest metals pass.
Twere folly now a ftately pile to raise,

To build a playhoufe while you throw down plays;
While scenes, machines, and empty operas reign,
And for the pencil you the pen difdain:
While troops of famifh'd Frenchmen hither drive,
And laugh at thofe upon whofe alms they live:
Old English authors vanish, and give place
To thefe new conquerors of the Norman race.
More tamely than your fathers you fubmit:
You're now grown vaffals to them in your wit,
Mark, when they play, how our fine fops ad-

vance,

The mighty merits of their men of France, Keep time, cry Bon, and humour the cadence, Well, please yourselves; but fure 'tis understood That French machines have ne'er done England

good.

I would not prophefy our house's fate: But while vain fhews and fcenes you over-rate, 'Tis to be fear'd

That as a fire the former house o'erthrew, Machines and tempefts will deftroy the new.

So may not France your warlike hands recal,
But leave you by each other's fwords to fall:
As you come here to ruffle vizard punk,
When fober, rail, and roar when you are drunk.
But to the wits we can fome merit plead,
And urge what by themfelves has oft been faid:
Our houfe relieves the ladies from the frights
of ill pav'd streets, and long dark winter nights;
The Flanders horfes from a cold bleak road,
Where bears in furs dare fcarcely look abroad;
The audience from worn plays and fustian stuff,
Of rhyme, more naufcous than three boys in buff.
Though in their houfe the poets heads appear,
We hope we may prefume their wits are here.
The best which they referv'd they now will play,"
For, like kind cuckolds, though w've not the

way

To pleafe, we'll find you abler men who may.
If they should fail, for last recruits we breed
A troop of frifking Monfieurs to fuccced:
You know the French fere cards at time of

need.

[go,

Porrs, your fubjects, have their parts affign'd
T'unbend, and to divert their fovereign's mind:
When tir'd with following nature, you think fit
To feek repose in the cool fhades of wit,
And, from the fweet retreat, with joy furvey
What refts, and what is conquer'd, of the way.
Here, free yourselves from envy, care, and ftrife,
You view the various turns of human life:
Safe in our scene, through dangerous courts you
And, undebauch'd, the vice of cities know.
Your theories are here to practice brought,
As in mechanic operations wrought;
And man, the little world, before you fet,
As once the sphere of crystal shew'd the great.
Bleft fure are you above all mortal kind,
If to your fortunes you can fuit your mind:
Content to fee, and shun, thofe ills we shew,
And crimes on theatres alone to know.
With joy we bring what our dead authors writ,
And beg from you the value of their wit:

That Shakspeare's, Fletcher's, and great Jonfon's claim,

May be renew'd from those who gave them fame.
None of our living poets dare appear;
For Mufes fo fevere are worfhip'd here,
That, confcious of their faults, they fhun the eye,
And, as profane, from facred places fly,
Rather than fee th' offended God, and die.
We bring no imperfections, but our own;
Such faults as made arc by the makers fhewn :
And you have been so kind, that we may boast,
The greatest judges ftill can pardon mok.
Poets muft ftoop, when they would please our pit,
Debas'd ev'n to the level of their wit;
Difdaining that, which yet they know will take,
Hating themselves what their applause must make.
But when to praise from you they would aspire,
Though they like eagles mount, your Jove is
higher.

So far your knowledge all their power tranfcends,
As what should be beyond what is extends.

WERE

V.

ERE you but half fo wife as you're severe, Our youthful poet fhould not need to fear;

To his green years your cenfures you would fuit, Not blast the bloffom, but expect the fruit,

The fex, that best does pleasure understand,
Will always choose to err on t' other hand.
They check not him that's aukward in delight,
But clap the young rogue's cheek,and fet him right