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Justice and equal Government are things

That Subjects make more happy than their Kings.
Thy Fame, beft Prince, if Poets can divine,
Shall the Great Troublers of the World outshine :
Successful Robberies their Titles fwell,

But thine from Justice rife, and doing well.
Thy deathlefs Cares beyond fhort life extend,
And nobly to fucceeding Times defcend,
And, that falfe Claims, and rifing Wars might cease,
Secur'd Succeffion, and fecur'd our Peace,

Thy latest Toil! How Barb'rous was the Rage,
That of fuch Heroes would deprive our Age!
What Wonders may we from that Prince expect,
Whofe private Valour could our Isle protect!
Whom fuch amazing Virtues recommend,
The kindest Brother, and the bravest Friend!

A

E

PROLOGUE

By Sir Charles Sedley.

NVY and Faction rule the grumbling Age, The State they cannot, but they shake the Stage: This barren Trade fome would engross, ftill hoping From our poor Port to banish interloping; And like the plodding Lawyers take great care To elbow blooming Merit from the Bar. In ev'ry Age there were a fort of Men, As you do know, damn'd all was written then; Thousands before 'em less provoke their pride, Than one poor Rival ftreining by their fide. Such Vermin Criticks we expect to find, For Nature knows not how to lofe a kind, The ftinking Pole-Cat, or the Mole that's blind. But against old, as well as new to rage, Is the peculiar frenzy of this Age.

Shakespear muft down, and you must praise no more
Soft Defmodena, nor the jealous Moor.
Shakespear, whofe fruitful Genius, happy Wit,
Was fram'd and finish'd at a lucky hit;

The pride of Nature, and the shame of Schools,
Born to create, and not to learn from Rules,
Must please no more; his Baftards now deride
Their Father's nakedness they ought to hide.
But when on Spurs their Pegasus they force,
Their jaded Mufe is diftanc'd in the Course.
All that is now hath been before, 'tis true;
But yet the Art, the Fashion, may be new :
Tho' old Materials the large Palace raise,
The skilful Archite&t deferves his praise.
If nothing pleafe, you are not nice but fick,
'Tis want of ftomach ever to dislike:
On our past Poets petty Juries fit,

The living fink beneath your prefent fpite,
As if this were the Dooms-day of all Wit.
But, Beaux, and Ladies, be you not too nice,
You'll break our Lott'ry if none draw a Prize,
Then down go half th' Artillery of your Eyes.
For this one Night do as kind Lovers use,
Tie up ftri&t judgment, and let fancy loose.

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To a Lady, who discovered a new Star in Caffiopeia.

The Words and Tune by Mr. C. Dryden.

I.

AS Ariana, Young and Fair,

By Night the Starry Quire did tell,
She found in Caffiopeia's Chair
One beauteous light the reft excel:

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This happy Star unfeen before, Perhaps was kindled from her Eyes,

And made for mortals to adore A new-born Glory in the Skies. IL

Or if within the Sphere it grew, Before she gaz'd the Lamp was dim; But from her Eyes the Sparkles flew That gave new Luftre to the Gem. Bright Omen! what doft thou portend, Thou threatning Beauty of the Sky? What great, what happy Monarch's end! For fure by thee 'tis fweet to dye.

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Whether to thy fore-boding Fire We owe the Crescent in decay?

Or must the mighty Gaul Expire
A Victim to thy fatal Ray

Such a prefage will late be fhown
Before the World in ashes lies;
But if lefs ruin will attone,
Let Strephon's only fate fuffice.

A SONG

By the E. of M.

1.

INCE from my Dear Aftraa's fight,

SINCE

I was fo rudely torn,

My Soul has never known delight,

Unless it was to mourn.

II.

But oh, alas! with weeping Eyes
And bleeding Heart I lie;
Thinking on her whofe abfence 'tis,
That makes me wish to die.

W

S O N. G..

By Mr. Prior.

HILST I am fcorch'd with hot defire,
In vain cold Friendship you return :

Your drops of Pity on my Fire,

Alas! but make it fiercer burn.

Ah! would you have the flame fuppreft
That kills the heart it heats too faft
Take half my Paffion to your Breast,
The rest in mine fhall ever laft.

Æ N I G

Μ

A.

By Mr. Prior.

Y Birth I'm a Slave, yet can give you a Crown,

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I'm oblig'd by juft Maxims to govern my Life,
Yet I hang my own Mafter, and lie with his Wife
When men are a gaming, I cunningly fneak,
And their Cudgels and Shovels away from them take.
Fair Maidens and Ladies I by the hand get,
And pick off their Diamonds though ne'er fo well fet.
But when I have Comrades, we rob in whole bands,
Then we presently take off your Lands from your
hands.

But this fury once over, I've fuch winning arts, That you love me much more than you do your own Hearts.

VERSES on the Snuff of a Candle; made in Sickness.

By Mrs. WHARTON.

EE there the Taper's dim and doleful Light,

Singloomy Waves flently rous abou

And reprefents to my dim weary fight, My Light of Life almost as near burnt out.

Ah Health! Best part and substance of our joy, (For without thee 'tis nothing but a fhade) Why doft thou partially thy felf employ, Whilst thy proud Foes as partially invade ?

What we, who ne'er enjoy, fo fondly feek, Those who poffefs thee ftill, almost despise; To gain immortal glory, raise the weak, Taught by their former want thy worth to prize.

Dear melancholy Mufe, my conftant guide, Charm this coy Health back to my fainting Heart, Or I'll accufe thee of vain-glorious pride, And fwear thou doft but feign the moving Art.

But why do I upbraid thee, gentle Mufe ;
Who for all forrows mak'ft me fome amends ?
Alas! Our fickly minds fometimes abufe
Our beft Phyficians, and our dearest Friends..

L'AL

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