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PROLOGUE FOR MR. D'URFY'S PLAY. 405 "Omicron and Omega from us
"Would each hope to be O in Thomas;
"And all th' ambitious vowels vie, "No less than Pythagorick Y,
"To have a place in Tom D'Urfy.
"Then well-belov'd and trusty letters!
"Et cet'ra, therefore, we decree,
DESIGNED FOR MR. D'URFY'S LAST PLAY.
GROWN old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard Your persevering, unexhausted bard:
Damnation follows death in other men,
But your damn'd poet lives, and writes again.
Who strives to please the fair against her will:
But ever writ, as none e'er writ before.
You modern wits, should each man bring his claim, Have desperate debentures on your fame;
And little would be left you, I'm afraid,
If all your debts to Greece and Rome were paid.
PROLOGUE TO THE THREE HOURS, &C.
Tho' plays for honour in old time he made,
Let ease, his last request, be of your giving,
THREE HOURS AFTER MARRIAGE.
AUTHORS are judg'd by strange capricious rules;
For fools are only laugh'd at, wits are hated.
PROLOGUE TO THE THREE HOURS, &C. 407
By running goods these graceless owlers gain;
How shall our author hope a gentler fate,
To fetch his fools and knaves from foreign climes.
Let him hiss loud, to show you all he's hit.
Let no one fool engross it, or confine
A common blessing! now 'tis yours, now mine.
To keep this cap for such as will, to wear.
Of course resign'd it to the next that writ)
And thus upon the stage 'tis fairly thrown † ;
Let him that takes it wear it as his own.
Shows a cap with ears. Flings down the cap, and exit.
A PROPER NEW BALLAD
NEW OVID'S METAMORPHOSES,
AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF
YE lords and commons, men of wit
And pleasure about town,
Read this, ere you translate one bit
Beware of Latin authors all!
Nor think your verses sterling, Though with a golden pen you scrawl,
And scribble in a berlin:
For not the desk with silver nails,
Nor bureau of expense,
Nor standish well japann'd, avails
Hear how a ghost in dead of night,
With saucer eyes of fire,
In woful wise did sore affright
A wit and courtly 'squire.
Rare imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth!
Ah! why did he write poetry,
To rhyming and the devil?
A desk he had of curious work,
Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought,
With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,
And ruff compos'd most duly,
This 'squire he dropp'd his
While as the light burnt bluely.
Ho! master Sam, quoth Sandys' sprite,
Write on, nor let me scare ye;
I hear the beat of Jacob's drums,
Henry Carey was a musick-master, and taught several persons to sing. He wrote several poems and pamphlets, and nine dramatick pieces, some of which met with success.
He put a