XVIII.

EPILOGUE to the fame.

A Virgin poet was ferv'd up to-day,

Who, till this hour, ne'er cackled for a play.

He's neither yet a Whig nor Tory-boy;

But, like a girl whom feveral would enjoy,

Begs leave to make the best of his own natural toy.
Were I to play my callow author's game,

The king's house would inftruct me by the name.
There's loyalty to one; I wish no more :

A commonwealth founds like a common whore.
Let husband or gallant be what they will,
One part of woman is true Tory ftill.

If any factious spirit should rebel,

Our fex, with ease, can every rifing quell.

Then, as you hope we fhould your failings hide,
An honeft jury for our play provide.

Whigs at their poets never take offence;

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They fave dull culprits, who have murder'd fenfe.
Though nonfenfe is a naufeous heavy mass,
The vehicle call'd Faction makes it pafs.
Faction in play's the commonwealth-man's bribe
The leaden farthing of the canting tribe :
Though void in payment laws and statutes make it,
The neighbourhood, that knows the man, will take it.
'Tis faction buys the votes of half the pit ;
Their's is the penfion-parliament of wit.

In

In city-clubs their venom let them vent;
For there 'tis fafe, in its own element.

Here, where their madness can have no pretence,
Let them forget themfelves an hour of fenfe.
In one poor ifle, why fhould two factions be?
Small difference in your vices I can fee:

In drink and drabs both fides too well agree.
Would there were more preferments in the land:
If places fell, the party could not stand:

Of this damn'd grievance every Whig complains :
They grunt like hogs till they have got their grains.
Mean time you fee what trade our plots advance;
We fend each year good money into France;
And they that know what merchandize we need,
Send o'er true Proteftants to mend our breed.

XIX.

PROLOGUE to the Univerfity of OXFORD, fpoken by Mr. HART, at the acting of the SILENT WOMAN.

WHA

HAT Greece, when learning flourish'd, only knew,
Athenian judges, you this day renew.

Here too are annual rites to Pallas done,
And here poetic prizes loft or won.
Methinks I fee you, crown'd with olives, fit,
And strike a facred horror from the pit.
A day of doom is this of your decree,
Where ev'n the beft are but by mercy free:

A day, which none but Jonfon durft have wifh'd to fee.

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Here

Here they, who long have known the useful stage,
Come to be taught themselves to teach the age.
As your commiffioners our poets go,

To cultivate the virtue which you fow ;
In your Lyceum first themselves refin'd,
And delegated thence to human-kind.
But as ambaffadors, when long from home,
For new inftructions to their princes come;
So poets, who your precepts have forgot,
Return, and beg they may be better taught :
Follies and faults elsewhere by them are shown,
But by your manners they correct their own.
'Th' illiterate writer, emp'ric-like, applies
To minds difeas'd, unfafe, chance, remedies:
The learn'd in schools, where knowlege first began,
S tudies with care th' anatomy of man;

Sees virtue, vice, and paffions, in their cause,
And fame from fcience, not from fortune, draws.
So Poetry, which is in Oxford made

An art, in London only is a trade.

There haughty dunces, whofe unlearned pen
Could ne'er fpell grammar, would be reading men.
Such build their poems the Lucretian way;
So many huddled atoms make a play;
And if they hit in order by fome chance,
They call that nature, which is ignorance.
To fuch a fame let mere town-wits aspire,
And their gay nonsense their own cits admire.
Our poet, could he find forgiveness here,
Would wish it rather than a plaudit there.

He

He owns no crown from thofe Prætorian bands,
But knows that right is in the fenate's hands,
Not impudent enough to hope your praife,
Low at the Mufes feet his wreath he lays,
And, where he took it up, refigns his bays.
Kings make their poets whom themselves think fit,
But 'tis your fuffrage makes authentic wit.

N

XX.

EPILOGUE, spoken by the same.

O poor Dutch peafant, wing'd with all his fear,
Flies with more hafte, when the French arms
draw near,

Than we with our poetic train come down,
For refuge hither, from th' infected town:
Heaven for our fins this fummer has thought fit
To visit us with all the plagues of wit.

A French troop first swept all things in its way;
But thofe hot Monfieurs were too quick to stay :
Yet, to our coft, in that fhort time, we find
They left their itch of novelty behind.
Th' Italian merry-andrews took their place,
And quite debauch'd the stage with lewd grimace:
Inftead of wit, and humours, your delight
Was there to fee two hobby-horses fight;
Stout Scaramoucha with rush lance rode in,
And ran a tilt at centaur Arlequin.

For love you heard how amorous affes bray'd,
And cats in gutters gave their serenade.

Nature

Nature was out of countenance, and each day
Some new-born monster shewn you for a play.
But when all fail'd, to ftrike the ftage quite dumb,
Those wicked engines call'd machines are come.
Thunder and lightning now for wit are play'd,
And fhortly scenes in Lapland will be laid:
Art magic is for poetry profest;

And cats and dogs, and each obfcener beaft,
To which Ægyptian dotards once did bow,
Upon our English stage are worship'd now.
Witchcraft reigns there, and raises to renown
Macbeth and Simon Magus of the town,
Fletcher's defpis'd, your Jonson's out of fashion,
And Wit the only drug in all the nation.
In this low ebb our wares to you are shown;
By you thofe ftaple authors worth is known;
For wit's a manufacture of your own.

When you, who only can, their fcenes have prais'd,
We'll boldly back, and say, the price is rais'd.

XXI.

EPILOGUE, fpoken at OXFORD,
by Mrs. MARSHALL.

FT has our poet wish'd, this happy feat

OF

Might prove his fading Mufe's last retreat :

I wonder'd at his wifh, but now I find

He fought for quiet, and content of mind;

Which noifeful towns and courts can never know,
And only in the fhades like laurels grow.

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