MOORS have this way (as flory tells) to know
Whether their brats are truly got, or no;
Into the sea, the new-born babe is thrown,
There, as inftin&t directs, to swim, or drowa.
A barbarous device, to try if Spouse
Has kept religiously her nuptial vows.
Such are the trials, poets make of plays :
Only they truft to more inconftant feas;
So does our author, this his child commit
To the tempestuous mercy of the pit,
To know if it be truly born of wit.
Criticks avaunt ; for you are fish of prey,
And feed, like sharks, upon an infant play,
Be ev'ry monster of the deep away ;
Let's have a fair trial, and a clear
Let Nature work, and do not damn too foor,
For life will struggle long, ere it fink down :
And will at least rise thrice, before it drown.
Let us confider, had it been our fate,
Thus hardly to be prov'd legitimate !
I will not say, we'd all in danger been,
Were each to suffer for his mother's fin:
But by my troth I cannot avoid thinking,
How nearly fome good men might have fcap'd finking.
But, Heav'n be prais'd, this custom is confin'd
Alone to th' offspring of the Muses kind:
Our christian cuckolds are more bent to pity ;
I know not one Moor-husband in the city.
I'th' good man's arms the chopping bastard thrives,
For he thinks all his own that is his wife's.
Whatever fate is for this play defign'd,
The poet's fure be fall fome comfort
For if his Muse has play'd him falfe, the worst
That can befall hin, is, to be divorc'd;
You busbands judge, if that, be to be curs d.