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A brave man ftruggling in the ftorms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.

While Cato gives his little Senate laws,
What bofom beats not in his Country's caufe?

Who fees him act, but envies every deed?

Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev'n when proud Cæfar 'midft triumphal cars,

The fpoils of nations, and the
pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in ftate;
As her dead father's reverend image past,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercaft;
The triumph ceas'd, tears gufh'd from every eye;
The world's great Victor pafs'd unheeded by;
Her laft good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Cæfar's lefs than Cato's fword.
Britons, attend: be worth like this approv'd,
And show, you have the virtue to be mov'd.
With honeft fcorn the first fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom the fubdued;
Your fcene precariously fubfifts too long

On French tranflation, and Italian fong.




Dare to have fenfe yourfelves; affert the stage,

Be juftly warm'd with your own native rage:

Such plays alone should win a British ear,
As Cato's felf had not difdain'd to hear.








PRODIGIOUS this! the Frail-one of our Play

From her own fex fhould mercy find to-day! You might have held the pretty head afide, Peep'd in your fans, been ferious, thus, and cry'd, The Play may pass-but that strange creature, Shore, I can't--indeed now-I fo hate a whore !Juft as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull, And thanks his ftars he was not born a fool; So from a fifter finner you shall hear,

"How ftrangely you expofe yourfelf, my dear!"
But let me die, all raillery apart,

Our fex are still forgiving at their heart;
And, did not wicked cuftom fo contrive,

We'd be the beft, good-natur'd things alive.

There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale,
That virtuous ladies envy while they rail;
Such rage without betrays the fire within;
In fome close corner of the foul, they fin;
Still hoarding up, moft fcandaloufly nice,
Amidst their virtues a referve of vice.
The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns,

Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.


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Would you enjoy foft nights, and folid dinners?
Faith, gallants, board with faints, and bed with finners.
Well, if our Author in the Wife offends,

He has a Husband that will make amends:

He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving,

And fure fuch kind good creatures may be living.


In days of old they pardon'd breach of vows,
Stern Cato's felf was no relentless spouse:


Plu-Plutarch, what's his name, that writes his life? Tells us, that Cato dearly lov'd his wife:

Yet if a friend, a night or fo, fhould need her,

He'd recommend her as a special breeder.
To lend a wife, few here would fcruple make,
But, pray, which of you all would take her back?
Though with the Stoic Chief our Stage may ring,
The Stoic Hufband was the glorious thing.
The man had courage, was a fage, 'tis true,
And lov'd his country-but what's that to you?
Those strange examples ne'er were made to fit ye,
But the kind cuckold might inftruct the City:
There many an honeft man may copy Cato,
Who ne'er faw naked fword, or look'd in Plato.
If, after all, you think it a disgrace,
That Edward's Mifs thus perks it in your face;
To fee a piece of failing flesh and blood,




In all the reft fo impudently good;

Faith let the modeft Matrons of the town

Come here in crowds, and ftare the ftrumpet down. 50

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SAY, lovely youth, that doft my heart command,

Can Phaon's eyes forget his Sappho's hand?
Must then her name the wretched writer prove,
To thy remembrance loft, as to thy love?
Ask not the cause that I new numbers chuse,
The lute neglected, and the Lyric Muse;
Love taught my tears in fadder notes to flow,
And tun'd my heart to Elegies of woe.

I burn, I burn, as when through ripen'd corn
By driving winds the spreading flames are borne.
Phaon to Ætna's fcorching fields retires,

While I confume with more than Ætna's fires!

ECQUID, ut infpecta eft studiosae littera dextrae,

Protinus eft oculis cognita nostra tuis ?

An, nifi legisses auctoris nomina Sapphûs,
Hoc breve nefcires unde movetur opus?
Forfitan et quare mea fint alterna requiras

Carmina, cum lyricis fim magis apta modis.
Flendus amor meus eft: elegeïa flebile carmen ;
Non facit ad lacrymas barbitos ulla meas.
Uror, ut, indomitis ignem exercentibus Euris,
Fertilis accenfis meffibus ardet ager.
Arva Phaon celebrat diverfa Typhoïdos Ætnae,
Me calor Ætnaeo non minor igne coquit.

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No more my foul a charm in mufic finds,
Mufic has charms alone for peaceful minds.
Soft scenes of folitude no more can please,
Love enters there, and I'm my own disease.
No more the Lesbian dames my passion move,
Once the dear objects of my guilty love;
All other loves are loft in only thine,
Ah, youth ungrateful to a flame like mine!



Whom would not all those blooming charms furprize,
Those heavenly looks, and dear deluding eyes?
The harp and bow would you like Phoebus bear,
A brighter Phoebus Phaon might appear;
Would you with ivy wreathe your flowing hair,
Not Bacchus' felf with Phaon could compare :
Yet Phoebus lov'd, and Bacchus felt the flame,
One Daphne warm'd, and one the Cretan dame;



Nec mihi, difpofitis quae jungam carmina nervis,
Proveniunt; vacuae carmina mentis opus.
Nec me Pyrrhiades Methymniadefve puellae,
Nec me Lesbiadum caetera turba juvant.
Vilis Anactorie, vilis mihi candida Cydno :
Non oculis grata eft Atthis, ut ante, meis;
Atque aliae centum, quas non fine crimine amavi:
Improbe, multarum quod fuit, unus habes.
Eft in te facies, funt apti lufibus anni.

O facies oculis infidiofa meis !

Sume fidem et pharetram; fies manifeftus Apollo
Accedant capiti cornua; Bacchus eris.



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