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O wake the soul by tender strokes of art,

To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:
For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage,

Commanding tears to stream through every age ;
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;
In pitying Love, we but our weakness show,
And wild Ambition well deserves its woe.
Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause,
Such tears as Patriots shed for dying Laws :
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise, IS
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confess’d in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was :
No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys,

A brave

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A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little Senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his Country's cause ?
Who sees him aet, but envies every


Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev’n when proud Cæsar ’midst 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 state ;
As her dead father's reverend image past,

pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast;
The triumph ceas’d, tears gulh'd from every eye;
The world's great Victor pass’d unheeded by ;
Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd,

35 And honour'd Cæsar's less than Cato's sword.

Britons, attend : be worth like this approv’d, And show, you have the virtue to be mov'd. With honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued; Your scene precariously subsists too long On French translation, and Italian song. Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage; Be justly warm'd with your own native rage : Such plays alone should win a British eary

45 As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.


Vol. 1.







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RODIgrous this! the Frail-one of our Play

From her own sex should mercy find to-day!
You might have held the pretty head afide,
Peep'd in your fans, been serious, thus, and cry'd,
The Play may pass- but that strange creature, Shore,
I can't--indeed now I so hate a whore !-
Just as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull,
And thanks his stars he was not born a fool;
So from a fifter finner you shall hear,
“ How ftrangely you expose yourself, my dear!"
But let me die, all raillery apart,
Our sex are still forgiving at their heart;
And, did not wicked custom so contrive,
We'd be the best, good-natur'd things alive.

There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale, 15 That virtuous ladies envy while they rail ; Such rage without betrays the fire within; In fome close corner of the soul, they sin ; Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice, Amidst their virtues a reserve of vice. The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns, Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.




Would you enjoy soft nights, and solid dinners ?
Faith, gallants, board with saints, 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 sure such kind good creatures may be living.
In days of old they pardon'd breach of vows,
Stern Cato's self was no relentless spouse :

30 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 so, should 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 rings The Stoic Husband was the glorious thing. The man had courage, was a fage, 'tis true, And lov’d his country-bụt 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 honest man may copy Cato, Who ne'er faw naked fword, or look'd in Plato. If, after all, you think it a disgrace,

45 That Edward's Mifs thus perks it in your face; To see a piece of failing flesh and blood, In all the rest fo impudently good; Faith let the modeft Matrons of the town Come here in crowds, and stare the strumpet down, 50


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AY, lovely youth, that dost my heart command,

Can Phaon's eyes forget his Sappho's hand ?
Must then her name the wretched writer prové,
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 scorching fields retires,
While I consume with more than Ætra's fires!




ECQUID, ut inspecta eft ftudiofae littera dextrae,

Protinus est oculis cognita noftra tuis ? An, nifi legiffes auctoris nomina Sapphûs,

Hoc breve nescires unde movetur opus ? Forsitan et quare mea sint 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 messibus ardet ager.
Arva Phaon celebrat diversa Typhoïdos Ætnae,

Me calor Ætnaeo non minor igne coquit.

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