TO SIR THOMAS ST. SERFE,

Zeal ftands but fentry at the gate of Sin, Whilft all that have the word pafs freely in: Silent, and in the dark, for fear of fpies,

1668.

TARUGO gave us wonder and delight,
When he oblig'd the world by candle-light:
But now he's ventur'd on the face of day,

oblige and ferve his friends a nobler way, Make all our old men wits, ftatefmen the young, And teach ev'n Englishmen the English tongue. James, on whofe reign all peaceful stars did fimile,

Did but attempt th' uniting of our ifle.
What kings, and Nature, only could defign,
Shall be accomplish'd by this work of thine :
For who is fuch a Cockney in his heart,
Proud of the plenty of the fouthern part,
To fcorn that union, by which we may
Boaft 'twas his countryman that writ this play?
Phoebus himself, indulgent to my Mufe,
Has to the country fent this kind excufe:
Fair Northern Lafs, it is not through neglect
I court thee at a distance, but refpect:
I cannot act, my paflion is fo great;
But I'll make up in light what wants in heat:
On thee I will bestow my longeft days,
And crown thy fans with everlasting bays:
My beams that reach thee fhall employ their
powers

To ripen feuls of men, not fruits or flowers.
Let warmer climes my fading favours boast:
Poets and ftars fhine brightest in the froft.

EPILOGUE TO MOLIERE'S TARTUFFE, Tranflated by Mr. Medburne.

SPOKEN BY TARTUFFE.

MANY have been the vain attempts of wit,
Against the ftill-prevailing hypocrite:
Once, and but once, a poet got the day,
And vanquish'd Bufy in a puppet-play;
And Buly, rallying, arm'd with zeal and rage,
Poffefs'd the pulpit, and pull'd down the ftage.
To laugh at English knaves is dangerous then,
While English fools will think them honeft men :
But fure no zealous brother can deny us
Free leave with this our Monfieur Ananias:
A man may fay, without being call'd an Atheist,
There are damn'd rogues among the French and
Papilt,

That fix falvation to fhort band and hair,
That belch and fouffle to prolong a prayer;
That ufe" enjoy the Creature," to exprefs
Plain whoring, gluttony, and drunkenness;
And, in a decent way, perform them too
As well, nay, better far, perhaps, than you.
Whofe fleshly failings are but fornication,
We godly phrafe it " gofpel-propagation,"
Juft as rebellion was call'd reformation.

There's not a roaring blade in all this town
Can go fo far towards hell for half a crown
As I for fixpence, for I know the way:
For wart of guides, men are too apt to ftray:
Therefore give ear to what I fhall advise;
Take a Tartuffe of known ability,
Let every marry'd man that's grave and wife
To teach and to increafe his family;
Who fhall fo fettle lafting reformatien,
First get his fon, then give him education.

ENTREATY fhall not ferve, nor violence,
To make me fpeak in fuch a play's defence;
A play, where wit and humour do agree
To break all practis'd laws of Comedy.
The fcene (what more abfurd!) in England lies;
No gods defcend, nor dancing devils rife;
No captive prince from unknown country brought;
No battle, nay, there's fcarce a duel fought:
And fomething yet more sharply might be faid,
But I confider the poor author's dead:
Let that be his excufe-now for our own,
Why, faith, in my opinion, we need none.
The parts were fitted well; but fome will fay,
Pox on them, rogues, what made them choofe
this play?

I do not doubt but you will credit me,
It was not choice, but mere neceffity:
To all our writing friends, in town, we fent;
But not a wit durft venture out in Lent:
Have patience but till Easter term, and then
You fhall have jigg and hobby-horse again.
Here's Mr. Matthew, our domeftic wit,
Does promife one o' th' ten plays he has writ:
But fince great bribes weigh nothing with the juft,
Know, we have merits, and to them we truft.
When any fafts or holidays defer
The public labours of the theatre,
We ride not forth, although the day be fair,
On ambling tit, to take the fuburb air;
But with our authors meet, and spend that time
To make up quarrels between fense and rhyme.
Wednesdays and Fridays conftantly we fate,
Till after many a long and free 'debate,
For diverfe weighty reafons 'twas thought fit,
Unruly fenfe fhould still to rhyme fubmit:
This, the moft wholesome law we ever made,
So ftrictly in his epilogue obey'd,

Sure no man here will ever dare to break-
[Enter Jonfon's Ghost]
Hold, and give way, for I myself will speak :

* Matthew Medbourn, an eminent actor.

IV.

The king, with wonder and furprise,
Will fwear the feas grow bold;
Because the tides will higher rife,
Than e'er they us'd of old:
But let him know, it is our tears
Bring floods of grief to Whitehall flairs.
With a fa, &c.

Should foggy Opdam chance to know
Our fad and difmal ftory;

The Dutch would fcorn fo weak a foe,
And quit their fort at Goree;
For what refiftance can they find

From men who've left their hearts behind!
With a fa, &c.

THE ANTIQUATED COQUET.

A SATIRE ON A LADY OF IRELAND ].

PHYLLIS, if you will not agree,
To give me back my liberty;
In spite of you, I must regain

My lofs of time, and break your chain.
You were mistaken, if you thought

I was fo grofsly to be caught;
Or that I was fo blindly bred,
As not to be in woman read.
Perhaps you took me for a fool,
Defign'd alone your fex's tool;
Nay, you might think fo mad a thing,
That, with a little fashioning,

I might in time, for your dear fake,
That monfter call'd a husband make:
Perhaps I might, had I not found
One darling vice in you abound;
A vice to me, which e'er will prove
An antidote to banish love.

O! I could better bear an old,
Ugly, difeas'd, mis-shapen scold,
Or one who games, or will be drunk,
A fool, a spendthrift, bawd, or punk,
Than one at all who wildly flies,
And, with foft, afking, giving eyes,
And thousand other wanton arts,
So meanly trades in begging hearts.
How might such wondrous charms perplex,
Give chains, or death, to all our fex,
Did the not fo unwifely fet,
For every fluttering fool her net!
So poorly proud of vulgar praife,
Her very look her thoughts betrays;
She never ftays till we begin,
But beckons us herfelf to fin.
Ere we can afk, the cries confent,
So quick her yielding looks are sent,
They hope forestal, and ev'n defire prevent.
But Nature's turn'd when women woo,
We hate in them what we should do;
Defire's afleep, and cannot wake,
When women fuch advances make :
Both time and charms thus Phyllis waftes,
Since each muft furfeit ere he tastes.
Nothing efcapes her wandering eyes,
No one the thinks too mean a prize;
Ev'n Lynch, the lag of human kind,
Nearest to brutes of God defign'd,
May boaft the fmiles of this coquet,
As much as any man of wit.
The figns hang thinner in the Strand,
The Dutch fcarce more infeft the land,

Suppofed to be of the name of Clanbrazil TA Rotorious debauchee.

Though Egypt's locufts they outvie,
In number and voracity.

Whores are not half fo plenty found,
In play-house, or that hallow'd ground
Of Temple-walks, or Whetstone's park ;
Careffes lefs abound in Spark †.

Then with kind loooks for all who come,
At bawdy house, the Drawing-room:
But all in vain fhe throws her darts,
They hit, but cannot hurt our hearts:
Age has enerv'd her charms so much,
'That fearless all her eyes approach;
Each her autumnal face degrades

With "Reverend Mother of the Maids !"
But 'tis ill-natur'd to run on,
Forgetting what her charms have done;
To Teagueland we this beauty owe,
Teagueland her earliest charms did know :
There firft her tyrant beauties reign'd;
Where'er the look'd, fhe conqueft gain'd.
No heart the glances could repel,
The Teagues in thoals before her fell;
And trotting bogs was all the art,
The found had left to fave his heart.
She kill'd fo faft, by my falvation,
She near difpeopled half the nation :
Though fhe, good foul, to fave, took care
All, all she could from fad defpair.
From thence the thither came to prove
If yet her charms could kindle love:
But ah! it was too late to try,
For Spring was gone, and Winter nigh:
Yet though her eyes fuch conquefts made,
That they were fhunn'd, or elfe obey'd,
Yet now her charms are fo decay'd,
She thanks each coxcomb that will deign
To praife her face, and wear her chain.

So fome old foldier, who had done
Wonders in youth, and battles won,
When feeble years his ftrength depose,
That he too weak to vanquish grows,
With mangled face and wooden leg,
Reduc'd about for alms to beg,
O'erjoy'd, a thousand thanks bestows
On him who but a farthing throws.

Let little Orange stay and fight,

For danger's his diverfion;

The wife will think you in the right,
Not to expofe your person:

Nor vex your thoughts how to repair
The ruins of your glory;
You ought to leave fo mean a care
To those who pen your story.

Are not Boileau and Corneille paid
For panegyric writing?
They know how heroes may be made,
Without the help of fighting.

When foes too faucily approach,

'Tis beft to leave them fairly: Put fix good horses to your coach, And carry me to Marly.

Let Bouflers, to fecure your fame,

Go take fome town or buy it; Whilft you, great Sir, at Nôtre Dame, Te Deum fing in quiet.

SONG.

PHYLLIS, the faireft of Love's foes,
Though fiercer than a dragon,
Phyllis, that corn'd the powder'd beaux,
What has the now to brag on?

So long she kept her legs fo close,

Till they had scarce a rag on.

Compell'd through want, this wretched maid
Did fad complaints begin;
Which furly Strephon hearing, said,
It was both fhame and fin,

To pity fuch a lazy jade,

As will neither play nor fpin.

SONG.

DORINDA's fparkling wit and eyes,
United, caft too fierce a light,
Which blazes high, but quickly dies,
Pains not the heart, but hurts the fight.

Love is a calmer gentler joy,

Smooth are his looks, and foft his pace; Her Cupid is a blackguard boy,

That runs his link full in your face.