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[By Mr. N. LE E, 1689.]

ADIES! (I hope there's none behind to hear)
I long to whisper fomething in your ear:
A fecret, which does much my mind perplex:
There's treason in the play against our fex.

A man that's false to love, that vows and cheats,
And kisses every living thing he meets.

A rogue in mode, I dare not speak too broad,
One that does fomething to the very bawd.
Out on him, traytor, for a filthy beast;
Nay, and he's like the pack of all the rest:
None of them stick at mark; they all deceive.
Some Jew has chang'd the text, I half believe;
There Adam cozen'd our poor grandame Eve.
To hide their faults they rap out oaths, and tear:
Now, tho' we lye, we're too well-bred to fwear.
So we compound for half the fin we owe,
But men are dipt for foul and body too;

And, when found out, excuse themselves, pox cant them,
With Latin ftuff, Perjuria ridet Amantûm.

I'm not book-learn'd, to know that word in vogue,
But I fufpect 'tis Latin for a rogue.

I'm fure, I never heard that fcritch-owl hollow'd
In my poor ears, but separation follow'd.
How can fuch perjur'd villains e'er be faved?
Achitophel's not half fo falfe to David.
With vows and foft expreffions to allure,
They ftand, like foremen of a fhop, demure:



No fooner out of fight, but they are gadding,
And for the next new face ride out a padding.
Yet, by their favour, when they have been kiffing,
We can perceive the ready money miffing.
Well! we may rail; but 'tis as good e'en wink;
Something we find, and fomething they will fink.
But fince they're at renouncing, 'tis our parts,
To trump their diamonds, as they trump our hearts.

EPILOGUE to the fame.


Qualm of confcience brings me back again,
To make amends to you befpatter❜d men.
We women love like cats, that hide their joys,
By growling, fqualling, and a hideous noife.
I rail'd at wild young sparks; but, without lying,
Never was man worse thought on for high-flying.
The prodigal of love gives each her part,
And fquand'ring fhows, at leaft, a noble heart.
I've heard of men, who, in fome lewd lampoon,
Have hir'd a friend, to make their valour known.
That accufation ftraight this question brings;
What is the man that does fuch naughty things?
The fpaniel lover, like a fneaking fop,

Lies at our feet: he's scarce worth taking up.
'Tis true, fuch heroes in a play go

far ;

But chamber-practice is not like the bar.
When men fuch vile, fuch faint, petitions make,
We fear to give, because they fear to take;
Since modefty's the virtue of our kind,
Pray let it be to our own fex confin'd.
When men ufurp it from the female nation,
"Tis but a work of fupererogation-


We fhew'd a princess in the play, 'tis true,
Who gave her Cæfar more than all his due;
Told her own faults: but I fhould much abhor
To choose a husband for my confeffor.

You fee what fate follow'd the faint-like fool,
For telling tales from out the nuptial school.
Our play a merry comedy had prov'd,

Had the confefs'd so much to him fhe lov'd.
True Prefbyterian wives the means would try;
But damn'd confeffing is flat Popery.




Spoken by Mr. HART.

WITH fickly actors and an old house too,

We're match'd with glorious theatres and new,
And with our alehouse fcenes, and cloaths bare worn,
Can neither raise old plays, nor new adorn.'
If, all these ills could not undo us quite,

A brifk French troop is grown your dear delight;
Who with broad bloody bills call you each day,
To laugh and break your buttons at their play;
Or fee some serious piece, which we prefume
Is fall'n from fome incomparable plume;
And therefore, Meffieurs, if you'll do us grace,
Send lacquies early to preferve your place.
We dare not on your privilege intrench,
Or ask you why you like them? they are French.

T 2

Therefore fome go with courtesy exceeding,
Neither to hear nor fee, but show their breeding:
Each lady ftriving to out-laugh the reft;
To make it seem they understood the jeft.
Their countrymen come in, and nothing pay,
To teach us English were to clap the play :
Civil Igad! our hospitable land

Bears all the charge, for them to understand:
Mean time we languish, and neglected lie,
Like wives, while you keep better company;
And wish for your own fakes, without a fatire,
You'd lefs good breeding, or had more good-nature.




Spoken by Mr. BETTER TON. 1690.


HAT Noftradame, with all his art can guess The fate of our approaching Prophetess? A play, which like a perspective set right, Presents our vaft expences close to fight; But turn the tube, and there we fadly view Our diftant gains; and thofe uncertain too :

I This prologue was forbid by the Earl of Dorfet, then Lord Chamberlain, after the first day of its being fpoken. Colley Cibber fays, it had fome familiar fneers at the Revolution; and as the poetry of it was good, the offence was the lefs pardonable.


A fweeping tax, which on ourfelves we raise,
And all, like you, in hopes of better days
When will our loffes warn us to be wife
Our wealth decreases, and our charges rise.
Money, the fweet allurer of our hopes,
Ebbs out in oceans, and comes in by drops,
We raise new objects to provoke delight;
But you grow fated, ere the fecond fight.
False men, e'en fo you ferve your miftreffes:
They rife three ftories in their tow'ring dress;
And, after all, you love not long enough
Το pay the rigging, ere you leave them off.
Never content with what you had before,
But true to change, and English men all o’er.
Now honour calls you hence; and all your care
Is to provide the horrid pomp of war.

In plume and scarf, jack-boots, and Bilbo blade,
Your filver goes, that should support our trade.
Go, unkind heroes 2, leave our ftage to mourn;
'Till rich from vanquish'd rebels you return;
And the fat fpoils of Teague in triumph draw,
His firkin-butter, and his ufquebaugh.

Go, conquerors of your male and female foes;
Men without hearts, and women without hofe.
Each bring his love a Bogland captive home;
Such proper pages will long trains become;
With copper collars, and with brawny backs,
Quite to put down the fashion of our blacks.
Then fhall the pious Mufes pay their vows,
And furnish all their laurels for your brows;
Their tuneful voice fhall raife for your delights;
We want not poets fit to fing your flights.
But you, bright beauties, for whofe only fake
Thofe doughty knights fuch dangers undertake,

2 King William was at this time profecuting the war in Ireland, which is alluded to in thefe lines.

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