Such forms on maids in morning slumbers wait,
When fancy first instructs their hearts to beat,
When first they wish, and sigh for what they know
not yet.

Frown not, ye fair, to think your lovers may
Reach your cold hearts by some unguarded way;
Let Villeroy's misfortune make you wise,
There's danger still in darkness and surprise;
Though from his rampart he defy'd the foe,
Prince Eugene found an aqueduct below.
With easy freedom, and a gay address,
A pressing lover seldom wants success:
Whilst the respectful, like the Greek, sits down,
And wastes a ten years siege before one town.
For her own sake let no forsaken maid,
Our wanderer for want of love, upbraid;
Since 'tis a secret, none should e'er confess,
That they have lost the happy power to please.
If you suspect the rogue inclin'd to break,
Break first, and swear you 've turn'd him off a week;
As princes when they resty statesmen doubt,
Before they can surrender, turn them out.
What-e'er you think, grave uses may be made,
As much, e'en for inconstancy be said,
Let the good man for marriage rites design'd,
With studious care, and diligence of mind,
Turn over every page of womankind;
Mark every sense, and how the readings vary,
And when he knows the worst on't--let him marry.

shun,

EPILOGUE

SPOKEN BY MRS. BARRY, AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL IN DRURY-LANE, APRIL 7, 1709, AT HER PLAYING IN LOVE FOR LOVE WITH MRS. BRACEGIRDLE, FOR THE BENEFIT OF MR. BETTERTON.

As some brave knight, who once with spear and

shield

Had sought renown in many a well-fought field;
But now no more with sacred fame inspir'd,
Was to a peaceful hermitage retir'd:
There, if by chance disastrous tales he hears
Of matrons wrongs, and captive virgins tears,
He feels soft pity urge his generous breast,
And vows once more to succour the distress'd.
Buckled in mail, he sallies on the plain,
And turns him to the feats of arms again.

So we, to former leagues of friendship true,
Have bid once more our peaceful homes adieu,
To aid old Thomas, and to pleasure you.
Like errant damsels, boldly we engage,
Arm'd, as you see, for the defenceless stage.
Time was when this good man no help did lack,
And scorn'd that any she should hold his back;
But now, so age and frailty have ordain'd,
By two at once he's forc'd to be sustain'd,
You see what failing nature brings man to;
And yet let none insult, for ought we know,
She may not wear so well with some of you.
Though old, yet find his strength is not clean past,
But true as steel he's metal to the last.
If better he perform'd in days of yore,
Yet now he gives you all that 's in his power;
What can the youngest of you all do more?

What he has been, though present praise be Shall haply be a theme in times to come, dumb, As now we talk of Roscius, and of Rome. Had you withheld your favours on this night, Old Shakespear's ghost had ris'n to do him right. With indignation had you seen him frown Upon a worthless, witless, tasteless town; Griev'd and repining, you had heard him say, 'Why are the Muse's labours cast away? Why did I write what only he could play?" But since, like friends to wit, thus throng'd you meet,

Go on, and make the generous work complete:
Be true to merit, and still own his cause,
Find something for him more than bare applause.
In just remembrance of your pleasure past,
Be kind, and give him a discharge at last:
In peace and ease life's remnant let him wear,
And hang his consecrated buskin2 there.

Was that a present for a new-made widow,
All in her dismal dumps, like doleful Dido?
When one peep'd in--and hop'd for something
good,

There was-Oh! Gad! a nasty heart and blood.'
If the old man had shown himself a father,
His bowl should have inclos'd a cordial rather,
Something to cheer me up amidst my trance,
L'eau de Bardè-or comfortable nants"!
He thought he paid it off with being smart,
And, to be witty, cry'd, he'd send the heart.
I could have told his gravity, moreover,
Were I our sex's secrets to discover,
'Tis what we never look'd for in a lover.
Let but the bridegroom prudently provide
All other matters fitting for a bride,

So he make good the jewels and the jointure,
To miss the heart does seldom disappoint her.
Faith, for the fashion hearts of late are made in,
They are the vilest baubles we can trade in.
Where are the tough brave Britons to be found,
With hearts of oak, so much of old renown'd?
How many worthy gentlemen of late

Swore to be true to mother-church and state;

While theirs-but satire silently disdains
To name what lives not, but in madmen's brains
Like bawds, each lurking pastor seeks the dark,
And fears the justice's inquiring clerk.

In close back-rooms his routed flocks he rallies,
And reigns the patriarch of blind lanes and allies:
There safe, he lets his thundering censures fly,
Unchristens, damns us, gives our laws the lie,
And excommunicates three stories high.
Why, since a land of liberty they hate,
Still will they linger in this free-born state?
Here, every hour, fresh, hateful objects rise,
Peace and prosperity afflict their eyes;
With anguish, prince and people they survey,
Their just obedience and his righteous sway.
Ship off, ye slaves, and seek some passive land,
Where tyrants after your own hearts command.
To your transalpine masters rule resort,
And fill an empty abdicated court:
Turn your possessions here to ready rhino,
And buy ye lands and lordships at Urbino.

[ing.

Yon trim king Pepin, at Avignon reigning;
Shame on the canting crew of soul-insurers,
The Tyburn tribe of speech-making non-jurors;
Who, in new-fangled terms, old truths explaining,
Teach honest Englishmen, damn'd double-mean-
Oh! would you lost integrity restore,
And boast that faith your plain fore-fathers bore;
What surer pattern can you hope to find,
Than that dear pledge your monarch left behind!
See how his looks his honest heart explain,
And speak the blessings of his future reign!
In his each feature, truth and candour trace,
And read plain-dealing written in his face.

PROLOGUE TO THE NON-JUROR:

À COMEDY. BY MR. CIBBER. AS IT WAS ACTED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL IN DRURY-LANE, 1718. SPOKEN BY MR. WILKS.

TO NIGHT, ye Whigs and Tories, both be safe,
Nor hope at one another's cost to laugh.
We mean to souse old Satan and the pope;
They 've no relations here, nor friends, we hope.
A tool of theirs supplies the comic stage
With just materials for satiric rage:
Nor think our colours may too strongly paint
The stiff non-juring separation saint.
Good-breeding ne'er commands us to be civil
To those who give the nation to the devil;
Who at our surest, best foundation strike,
And hate our monarch and our church alike;
Our church-which, aw'd with reverential fear,
Scarcely the Muse presumes to mention here.
Long may she these her worst of foes defy,
And lift her mitred head triumphant to the sky:

This tragedy was founded upon the story of Segismonda and Guiscardo, one of Boccace's novels; wherein the heart of the lover is sent by the father to his daughter, as a present.

i. e. Citron-water and good brandy.
The prince of Wales then present.

THE LORD GRIFFIN TO THE EARL OF SCARSDALE

Do not, most fragrant earl, disclaim
Thy bright, thy reputable flame,

To Bracegirdle the brown:
But publicly espouse the dame,

And say, G d the town.

Full many heroes, fierce and keen,
With drabs have deeply smitten been,

Although right good commanders;
Some who with you have Hounslow seen,
And some who 've been in Flanders.
Did not base Greber's Peg' inflame
The sober earl of Nottingham,
Of sober sire descended?
That, careless of his soul and fame,
To play-houses he nightly came,

And left church undefended.

Then be not jealous, friend: for why? My lady marchioness is nigh,

To see I ne'er should hurt ye; Besides you know full well that I Am turn'd of five-and-forty.

THE RECONCILEMENT BETWEEN JACOB TONSON AND MR. CONGREVE. AN IMITATION OF HORACE, BOOK III. ODE IX.

TONSON.

WHILE at my house in Fleet-street once you lay,
How merrily, dear sir, time pass'd away?
While "I partook your wine, your wit, and mirth,
I was the happiest creature on God's yearth'."
CON EVE.

While in your early days of reputation,
You for blue garters had not such a passion;
While yet you did not use (as now your trade is)
To drink with noble lords, and toast their ladies;
Thou, Jacob Tonson, wert to my conceiving,
The cheerfullest, best, honest fellow living.

Since to some day propitious and great,
Justly at first thou wast design'd by fate;
This day, the happiest of thy many years,
With thee I will forget my cares:
To my Corvinus' health thou shalt go round,
(Since thou art ripen'd for to day,

And longer age would bring decay) [drown'd.
Till every anxious thought in the rich stream be
To thee my friend his roughness shall submit,
And Socrates himself a while forget.
Thus when old Cato would sometimes unbend

Stern and severe, the stoic quaff'd his bowl,
The rugged stiffness of his mind,

His frozen virtue felt the charm,

And soon grew pleas'd, and soon grew warm, And bless'd the sprightly power that cheer'd his gloomy soul.

[free.

With kind constraint ill-nature thou dost bend,
And mould the snarling cynic to a friend.
The sage reserv'd, and fam'd for gravity,
Finds all he knows summ'd up in thee,
And by thy power unlock'd, grows easy, gay, and
The swain, who did some credulous nymph per-
To grant him all, inspir'd by thee,
Devotes her to his vanity,

[suade

And to his fellow-fops toasts the abandon'd maid.
The wretch who, press'd beneath a load of cares,
And labouring with continual woes, despairs,
If thy kind warmth does his chill'd sense invade,
From earth he rears his drooping head,
Reviv'd by thee, he ceases now to mourn;
His flying cares give way to haste,
And to the god resign his breast,
Where hopes of better days, and better things re-
The labouring hind, who with hard toil and pains,
Amidst his wants, a wretched life maintains;
If thy rich juice his homely supper crown,
Hot with thy fires, and bolder grown,
Of kings, and of their arbitrary power,

[turn;

And how by impious arms they reign,
Fiercely he talks with rude disdain,
And vows to be a slave, to be a wretch no more.

Fair queen of love, and thou great god of wine,
Hear, every grace, and all ye powers divine,
All that to mirth and friendship do incline,
Crown this auspicious cask, and happy night,
With all things that can give delight;
Be every care and anxious thought away;
Ye tapers, still be bright and clear,
Rival the Moon, and each pale star,
Your beams shall yield to none, but his who
brings the day.

=

HORACE BOOK IV. ODE I.
TO VENUS.

ONCE more the queen of love invades
my breast
Late, with long ease and peaceful pleasure blest;
Spare, spare the wretch, that still has been thy
[slave,
And let my former service have
The merit to protect me to the grave.
Much am I chang'd from what I once have been,
When under Cynera, the good and fair,
With joy I did thy fetters wear,
Bless'd in the gentle sway of an indulgent queen.

Have wisely from those envy'd heights declin'd,
Have sunk to that just level of mankind,
Where not too little nor too much gives the true
peace of mind.

ON THE LAST JUDGMENT,

AND THE HAPPINESS OF THE SAINTS IN HEAVEN.
DONE FROM THE LATIN OF J. GERHARD.

In that bless'd day, from every part, the just,
Rais'd from the liquid deep or mouldering dust,
The various products of Time's fruitful womb,
All of past ages, present and to come,
In full assembly shall at once resort,
And meet within high Heaven's capacious court:
There famous names rever'd in days of old,
Our great forefathers there we shall behold,
From whom old stocks and ancestry began,
And worthily in long succession ran;

The reverend sires with pleasure shall we greet,
Attentive hear, while faithful they repeat
Full many a virtuous deed, and many a noble feat.
There all those tender ties, which here below,
Or kindred, or more sacred friendship know,
Firm, constant, and unchangeable shall grow.
Refin'd from passion, and the dregs of sense,
A better, truer, dearer love from thence,
Its everlasting being shall commence :
There, like their days, their joys shall ne'er be done,
No night shall rise, to shade Heaven's glorious sun,
But one eternal holy-day go on.

Ah, Colin, thy hopes are in vain,

Thy pipe and thy laurel resign; Thy false-one inclines to a swain, Whose music is sweeter than thine.

"And you, my companions so dear, Who sorrow to see me betray'd, Whatever I suffer, forbear,

Forbear to accuse the false maid, Though through the wide world I should range, 'Tis in vain from my fortune to fly; 'Twas hers to be false and to change,

'Tis mine to be constant and die. "If while my hard fate I sustain,

In her breast any pity is found, Let her come with the nymphs of the plain, And see me laid low in the ground. The last humble boon that I crave,

Is to shade me with cypress and yew; And when she looks down on my grave,

Let her own that her shepherd was true. "Then to her new love let her go,

And deck her in golden array, Be finest at every fine show,

And frolie it all the long day; While Colin, forgotten and gone,

No more shall be talk'd of, or seen, Unless when beneath the pale Moon, His ghost shall glide over the green."

COLIN'S COMPLAINT.

A SONG, TO THE TUNE OF "GRIM KIng of the GHOSTS."

DESPAIRING beside a clear stream,

A shepherd forsaken was laid;

And while a false nymph was his theme,
A willow supported his head.
The wind that blew over the plain,

To his sighs with a sigh did reply;
And the brook, in return to his pain,
Ran mournfully murmuring by.
"Alas, silly swain that I was!"

Thus sadly complaining, he cry'd,
When first I beheld that fair face,
"Twere better by far I had dy'd.
She talk'd, and I bless'd the dear tongue;
When she smil'd, twas a pleasure too great.
I listen'd, and cry'd, when she sung,
Was nightingale ever so sweet?
"How foolish was I to believe

She could doat on so lowly a clown,
Or that her fond heart would not grieve,
To forsake the fine folk of the town?
To think that a beauty so gay,

So kind and so constant would prove;
Or go clad like our maidens in gray,
Or live in a cottage on love?

"What though I have skill to complain,
Though the Muses my temples have crown'd;
What though, when they hear my soft strain,
The virgins sit weeping around.

REPLY, BY ANOTHER HAND. YE winds, to whom Colin complains, In ditties so sad and so sweet, Believe me, the shepherd but feigns He's wretched to show he has wit. No charmer like Colin can move, And this is some pretty new art; Ah! Colin's a juggler in love,

And likes to play tricks with my heart.

When he will, he can sigh and look pale,
Seem doleful and alter his face,
Can tremble, and alter his tale,

Ah! Colin has every pace:
The willow my rover prefers

To the breast, where he once beg'd to lie, And the stream, that he swells with his tears, Are rivals belov'd more than 1.

His head my fond bosom would bear,

And my heart would soon beat him to rest; Let the swain that is slighted despair,

But Colin is only in jest;
No death the deceiver designs,

Let the maid that is ruin'd despair;
For Colin but dies in his lines,
And gives himself that modish air.
Can shepherds, bred far from the court,
So wittily talk of their flame?
But Colin makes passion his sport,

Beware of so fatal a game;
My voice of no music can boast,
Nor my person of ought that is fine,
But Colin may find to his cost,
A face that is fairer than mine.