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AN EPILOGUE.

You saw our wife was chaste, yet throughly tried,
And, without doubt, you're hugely edified;
For, like our hero, whom we show'd to-day,
You think no woman true, but in a play.
Love once did make a pretty kind of show:
Esteem and kindness in one breast would grow:
But 'twas Heaven knows how many years ago.
Now some small chat, and guinea expectation,
Gets all the pretty creatures in the nation :
In comedy your little selves you meet;
'Tis Covent Garden drawn in Brydges-street,
Smile on our author then, if he has shown
A jolly nut-brown bastard of your own.
Ah! happy you, with ease and with delight,
Who act those follies, Poets toil to write !
The sweating Muse does almost leave the chace ;
She puffs, and hardly keeps your Protean vices pace.
Pinch you but in one vice, away you fly
To some new frisk of contrariety.
You roll like snow-balls, gathering as you run,
And get seven devils, when dispossess'd of one.
Your Venus once was a Platonic queen;
Nothing of love beside the face was seen;
But every inch of her you now uncase,
And clap a vizard-mask upon the face.
For sins like these, the zealous of the land,
With little hair, and little or no band,
Declare how circulating pestilences
Watch, every twenty years, to snap offences.
Saturn, e'en now, takes doctoral degrees;
He'll do your work this summer without fees.
Let all the boxes, Phæbus, find thy grace,
And, ah, preserve the eighteen-penny place!
But for the pit confounders, let 'em go,
And find as little mercy as they show:
The Actors thus, and thus thy Poets pray:
For every critic saved, thou damn’st a play.

TO “ THE HUSBAND HIS OWN CUCKOLD.'

LIKE some raw sophister that mounts the pulpit,
So trembles a young Poet at a full pit.
Unused to crowds, the Parson quakes for fear,
And wonders how the devil he durst come there;
Wanting three talents needful for the place,
Some beard, some learning, and some little grace :
Nor is the puny Poet void of care;
For authors, such as our new authors are,
Have not much learning, nor much wit to spare :
And as for grace, to tell the truth, there's scarce one,
But has as little as the very Parson :
Both say, they preach and write for your instruction:
But 'tis for a third day, and for induction.
The difference is, that though you like the play,
The poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day.
But with the Parson 'tis another case,
He, without holiness, may rise to grace ;
The Poet has one disadvantage more,
That, if his play be dull, he's damn'd all o'er,
Not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn'd poor.
But dulness well becomes the sable garment;
I warrant that ne'er spoil'd a Priest's preferment:
Wit's not his business, and as wit now goes,
Sirs, 'tis not so much yours as you suppose,
For you like nothing now but nauseous beaux.
You laugh not, gallants, as by proof appears,
At what his beauship says, but what he wears ;
So 'tis your eyes are tickled, not your ears :
The tailor and the furrier find the stuff,
The wit lies in the dress, and monstrous muff.
The truth on 't is, the payment of the pit
Is like for like, clipt money for clipt wit.
You cannot from our absent author hope,
He should equip the stage with such a fop:
Fools change in England, and new fools arise,
For though the immortal species never dies,
Yet

every year new maggots make new flies. But where he lives abroad, he scarce can find One fool, for million that he left behind.

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TO “ THE PILGRIM.”

PERHAPS the parson stretch'd a point too far,
When with our Theatres he waged a war.
He tells you, that this very moral age
Received the first infection from the Stage.
But sure, a banish'd court, with lewdness fraught,
The seeds of open vice, returning, brought.
Thus lodged (as vice by great example thrives)
It first debauch'd the daughters and the wives.
London, a fruitful soil, yet never bore
So plentiful a crop of horns before.
The Poets, who must live by courts, or starve,
Were proud so good a government to serve;
And, mixing with buffoons and pimps profane,
Tainted the Stage, for some small snip of gain.
For they, like harlots, under bawds profess’d,
Took all the ungodly pains, and got the least.
Thus did the thriving malady prevail

,
The court, its head, the Poets but the tail.
The sin was in our native growth, 'tis true ;
The scandal of the sin was wholly new.
Misses they were, but modestly conceald ;
Whitehall the naked Venus first reveal'd.
Who standing as at Cyprus, in her shrine,
The strumpet was adored with rites divine.
Ere this, if saints had any secret motion,
'Twas chamber-practice all

, and close devotion. I

pass the peccadillos of their time; Nothing but open lewdness was a crime. A monarch's blood was venial to the nation, Compared with one foul act of fornication. Now, they would silence us, and shut the door That let in all the barefaced vice before. As for reforming us, which some pretend, That work in England is without an end : Well may we change, but we shall never mend. Yet, if you can but bear the present Stage, We hope much better of the coming age. What would you say, if we should first begin To stop the trade of love behind the scene : Where actresses make bold with married men ?

KK

For while abroad so prodigal the dolt is,
Poor spouse at home as ragged as a colt is.
In short, we'll grow as moral as we can,
Save here and there a woman or a man :
But neither you, nor we, with all our pains,
Can make clean work ; there will be some remains,
While you have still your Oates, and we our Hains.

OD ES, SONGS,

&c.

ALEXANDER'S FEAST; OR, THE POWER OF MUSIC:

AN ODE IN HONOUR OF ST. CECILIA'S DAY.

'Twas at the royal feast, for Persia won

By Philip's warlike son :
Aloft in awful state
The god-like hero sate

On his imperial throne:

His valiant peers were placed around,
Their brows with roses and with myrtles bound;

(So should desert in arms be crown'd.)
The lovely Thais, by his side,
Sate like a blooming Eastern bride
In flower of youth and beauty's pride.
Happy, happy, happy pair!

None but the brave,

None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.

CHORUS.
Happy, happy, happy pair!

Nône but the brave,

None but the brave,
None but the brave deserves the fair.

Timotheus, placed on high

Amid the tuneful choir,
With flying fingers touch'd the lyre:
The trembling notes ascend the sky,

And heavenly joys inspire.
The song began from Jove,
Who left his blissful seats above,
(Such is the power of mighty love.).
A dragon's fiery form belied the god :
Sublime on radiant spires he rode,

When he to fair Olympia press’d:
And while he sought her snowy.

breast:
Then round her slender waist he curld,
And stamp'd an image of himself, a sovereign of the world.
The listening crowd admire the lofty sound,
A present deity! they shout around :
A present deity! the vaulted roofs rebound.

With ravish'd ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,

Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.

CHORUS.
With ravish'd ears
The monarch hears,
Assumes the god,

Affects to nod,
And seems to shake the spheres.

The praise of Bacchus then the sweet musician sung,
Of Bacchus—ever fair and ever young :

The jolly god in triumph comes ;
Sound the trumpets ; beat the drums :

Flush'd with a purple grace

He shows his honest face :
Now give the hautboys breath. He comes ! he comes !

Bacchus, ever fair and young,

Drinking joys did first ordain ;
Bacchus' blessings are a treasure,
Drinking is the soldier's pleasure :

Rich the treasure,

Sweet the pleasure,
Sweet is pleasure after pain.

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