But leave you by each others' swords to fall;
As you come here to ruffle vizard punk,
When sober rail, and roar when you are drunk.
But to the wits we can some merit plead,
And urge what by themselves has oft been said:
Our house relieves the ladies from the frights
Of ill-paved streets, and long dark winter nights;
The Flanders horses from a cold bleak road,
Where bears in furs dare scarcely look abroad;
The audience from worn plays and fustian stuff
Of rhyme, more nauseous than three boys in buff.
Though in their house the poets' heads appear,
We hope we may presume their wits are here.
The best which they reserved they now will play;
For, like kind cuckolds, though we' have not the way
To please, we 'll find you abler men who may.
If they should fail, for last recruits we breed
A troop of frisking Monsieurs to succeed;
You know the French sure cards in time of need.
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY
THE LADY HEN. MAR. WENTWORTH,
WHEN CALISTO WAS ACTED AT COURT.
As Jupiter I made my court in vain,
I'll now assume my native shape again:
I'm weary to be so unkindly used,
And would not be a god to be refused.
State grows uneasy when it hinders love;
A glorious burden, which the wise remove.
Now as a nymph I need not sue, nor try
The force of any lightning but the eye,
Beauty and youth more than a god command;
No Jove could e'er the force of these withstand.
'Tis here that sovereign power admits dispute;
Beauty sometimes is justly absolute.
Our sullen Catos, whatsoe'er they say,
Even while they frown and dictate laws, obey.
You, mighty Sir, our bonds more easy make,
And gracefully what all must suffer, take :
Above those forms the grave affect to wear;
For 'tis not to be wise to be severe.
True wisdom may some gallantry admit,
And soften business with the charms of wit.
These peaceful triumphs with your cares you
bought,
And from the midst of fighting nations brought.
You only hear it thunder from afar,
And sit in peace the arbiter of war:
Peace, the loathed manna which hot brains despise,
You knew its worth, and made it early prize;
And in its happy leisure sit and see
The promises of more felicity;
Two glorious nymphs of your own godlike line,
Whose morning rays like noontide strike and shine,
Whom you to suppliant monarchs shall dispose,
To bind your friends, and to disarm your foes.
They seem not of Heaven's making, but their own.
Those nauseous harlequins in farce may pass,
But there goes more to a substantial ass:
Something of man must be exposed to view,
That, Gallants, they may more resemble you.
Sir Fopling is a fool so nicely writ,
The ladies would mistake him for a wit;
And, when he sings, talks loud, and cocks, would
'I vow, methinks he's pretty company:
So brisk, so gay, so travell'd, so refined,
As he took pains to graft upon his kind.'
True fops help Nature's work, and go to school
To file and finish God Almighty's fool.
Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call;
He's knight o' the' shire, and represents ye all.
From each he meets he culls whate'er he can ;
Legion's his name, a people in a man.
His bulky folly gathers as it goes,
And, rolling o'er you, like a snow-ball grows.
His various modes from various fathers follow;
One taught the toss, and one the new French
wallow,
His sword-knot this, his cravat that design'd; And this, the yard-long snake he twirls behind.
From one the sacred periwig he gain'd,
Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat profaned.
Another's diving bow he did adore,
Which, with a shog, casts all the hair before,
Till he with full decorum brings it back,
And rises with a water-spaniel shake.
As for his songs, the ladies' dear delight,
These, sure, he took from most of you who write.
Yet every man is safe from what he fear'd;
For no one fool is hunted from the herd.
MITHRIDATES, KING OF PONTUS.
BY N. LEE. 1678.1
You've seen a pair of faithful lovers die;
And much you care; for most of you will cry,
"Twas a just judgment on their constancy.'
For, Heaven be thank'd, we live in such an age,
When no man dies for love, but on the stage:
And e'en those martyrs are but rare in plays;
A cursed sign how much true faith decays.
Love is no more a violent desire;
'Tis a mere metaphor, a painted fire.
In all our sex, the name examined well,
"Tis pride to gain, and vanity to tell.
In woman 'tis of subtle interest made :
Curse on the punk that made it first a trade!
She first did Wit's prerogative remove,
And made a fool presume to prate of love.
Let honour and preferment go for gold,
But glorious beauty is not to be sold;
Or, if it be, 'tis at a rate so high,
That nothing but adoring it should buy.
Yet the rich cullies may their boasting spare;
They purchase but sophisticated ware.
'Tis prodigality that buys deceit,
Where both the giver and the taker cheat.
Men but refine on the old half-crown way,
And women fight, like Swisses, for their pay.
TRAGEDY CALLED TAMERLANE.
LADIES, the beardless author of this day
Commends to you the fortune of his play:
A woman-wit has often graced the stage,
But he's the first boy-poet of our age.
Early as is the year his fancies blow,
Like young Narcissus peeping through the snow.
Thus Cowley blossom'd soon, yet flourish'd long;
This is as forward, and may prove as strong.
Youth with the fair should always favour find,
Or we are damn'd dissemblers of our kind.
What's all this love they put into our parts?
"Tis but the pit-a-pat of two young hearts.
Should Hag and Graybeard make such tender
Faith you'd e'en trust them to themselves alone, And cry, Let's go, here's nothing to be done.' Since love's our business, as 'tis your delight, young, who best can practise, best can write.
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