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The Factious Natives never cou'd agree;
But aiming, as they call'd it, to be Free,
Those Play-house Whiggs fet up for Property.

Some fay they no Obedience paid of late; But would new Fears and Jealoufies create; 'Till topfy-turvy they had turn'd the State.

Plain Senfe, without the Talent of Foretelling, Might guefs 'twould end in down-right knocks and quelling:

For feldom comes there better of Rebelling.

When Men will, needlefly, their Freedom barter
For lawless Pow'r, fometimes they catch a Tartar:
(There's a damn'd word that rhimes to this call'd
Charter.)

But, fince the Victory with Us remains,

You fhall be call'd to Twelve in all our Gains: (If you'll not think us fawcy for our pains.)

Old Men fhall have good old Plays to delight 'em: And you, fair Ladies and Gallants that flight 'em, We'll treat with good new Plays; if our new Wits can write 'em.

We'll take no blundring Verfe, no fuftian Tumour,
No dribling Love, from this or that Prefumer :
No dull fat Fool shamm❜d on the Stage for humour.

For, faith, fome of 'em fuch vile ftuff have made,
As none but Fools or Fairies ever Play'd;
But 'twas, as Shop-men fay, to force a Trade.

We've giv'n you Tragedies, all sense defying;
And finging men, in woeful Metre dying;
This 'tis when heavy Lubbers will be flying.

All these difalters we well hope to weather;
We bring you none of our old Lumber hither:
Whigg Poets and Whigg Sheriffs may hang together.

An

EPILOGUE

On the fame Occafion.

Written by Mr. DRY DEN.

Ew Minifters, when first they get in place,

Some Laws for publick Welfare we design,
If you, the Power fupream, will please to join:
There are a fort of Pratlers in the Pit,
Who either have, or who pretend to Wit;
These noifie Sirs fo loud their Parts rehearse,
That oft the Play is filenc'd by the Farce;
Let fuch be dumb, this penalty to shun,
Each to be thought my Lady's eldest Son.
But ftay: methinks fome Vizard Mask I fee,
Caft out her Lure from the mid Gallery:
About her all the flutt'ring Sparks are rang'd;
The noise continues though the Scene is chang'd:
Now growling, fputtring, wauling, fuch a clutter,
'Tis just like Pufs defendant in a Gutter:
Fine Love no doubt, but e'er two days are o'er ye,
The Surgeon will be told a wofuls story.
Let Vizard Mask her naked Face expofe,
On pain of being thought to want a Nofe:
Then for your Laqueys, and your Train befide,
(By what e'er Name or Title dignify'd)

They roar fo loud, you'd think behind the Stairs
Tom Dove, and all the Brotherhood of Bears:
They're grown a Nufance, beyond all Difafters,
We've none fo great but their unpaying Masters,

We beg you, Sirs, to beg your Men, that they
Wou'd please to give you leave to hear the Play.
Next, in the Play-houfe fpare your precious Lives ;-
Think, like good Chriftians, on your Bearns and Wives:
Think on your Souls; but by your lugging forth,
It seems you know how little they are worth:
If none of these will move the warlike Mind,
Think on the helpless Whore you leave behind!
We beg you laft, our Scene-Room to forbear,
And leave our Goods and Chattels to our Care:
Alas, our Women are but washy Toys,
And wholly taken up in Stage Employs:
Poor willing Tits they are: but yet I doubt
This double Duty foon will wear 'em out.

Then you are watch'd befides, with jealous Care;
What if my Lady's Page fhou'd find you there?
My Lady knows t'a tittle what there's in ye;
No paffing your gilt Shilling for a Guiney.
Thus, Gentlemen, we have fumm'd up in fhort,
Our Grievances, from Country, Town and Court:
Which humbly we fubmit to your good pleasure;
But firft Vote Money, then redress at leasure.

An EPILOGUE To CONSTANTINE the Great.

Written by Mr. DRYDEN.

UR Hero's happy in the Play's Conclusion,

Tho' Arius all along appear'd a Saint,
The last A&t fhew'd him a true Proteftant.
Eufebius (for you know I read Greek Authors,)
Reports, that after all thefe Plots and Slaughters,
The Court of Conftantine was full of Glory,
And every Trimmer turn'd Addressing Tory ;

They follow'd him in Herds as they were mad:
When Clause was King, then all the World was glad
Whigs kept the Places they poffeft before,
And most were in a way of getting more;
Which was as much as faying, Gentlemen,
Here's Power and Money to be Rogues again.
Indeed there were a fort of peaking Tools,
Some call them modeft, but I call them Fools,
Men much more Loyal, tho' not half fo loud;
But these poor Devils were caft behind the Croud.
For bold Knaves thrive without one grain of Sense,
But good Men ftarve for want of Impudence.
Befides all these, there were a fort of Wights,
(I think my Author calls them Teckelites ;)
Such hearty Rogues against the King and Laws,
They favour'd even a Foreign Rebel's Cause.
When their own damn'd Design was quash'd and ́aw'd,
At least they gave it their good word abroad.
As many a Man, who, for a quiet Life,
Breeds out his Baftard, not to noife his Wife;
Thus o'er their Darling Plot these Trimmers cry;
And tho' they cannot keep it in their Eye,
They bind it Prentice to Count Teckely.
They believe not the laft Plot, may I be curft
If I believe they e'er believ'd the firft;

No wonder their own Plot, no Plot they think;
The Man that makes it, never fmells the ftink.
And, now it comes into my head, I'll tell
Why these damn'd Trimmers lov'd the Turks so well.
The Original Trimmer, tho' a Friend to no man,
Yet in his Heart ador'd a pretty Woman;
He knew that Mahomet laid up for ever,

Kind black-eyed Rogues, for every true Believer:
And, which was more than mortal Man e're tafted,
One Pleasure that for threefcore Twelve-months
To turn for this, may furely be forgiven: [lafted:
Who'd not be circumcis'd for fuch a Heaven!

E

A PROLOGUE.

H

Spoken by Mr. BETTERTON.

Written by Mr. Dryden.

WOW comes it, Gentlemen, that now-a-days,
When all of you fo fhrewdly judge of Plays,
Our Poets tax you ftill with want of Sense?
All Prologues treat you at your own Expence.
Sharp Citizens a wifer way can go ;

They make you Fools, but never call you fo.
They, in good Manners, feldom make a flip,
But treat a common Whore with Ladyship:
But here each faucy Wit at Random writes,
And uses Ladies as he uses Knights.

Our Author, Young, and Grateful in his Nature,
Vows, that from him no Nymph deserves a Satyr.
Nor will he ever Draw----1 mean his Rhime,
Against the sweet Partaker of his Crime.
Nor is he yet fo bold an Undertaker

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To call MEN Fools, 'tis Railing at their MAKER.
Befides, he fears to split upon that Shelf;
He's young enough to be a F OP himself.
And, if his Praife can bring you all A-bed,
He fwears fuch hopeful Youth no Nation ever bred.
Your Nurfes, we prefume, in fuch a Cafe,
Your Father chofe, because he lik'd the Face;
And, often, they fupply'd your Mother's Place.
The Dry Nurfe was your Mother's ancient Maid,
Who knew fome former Slip the ne'er betray'd.
Betwixt 'em both, for Milk and Sugar-Candy,
Your fucking Bottles were well ftor' with Brandy.
Your Father to initiate your Difcourse,
Meant to have taught you firft to fwear and curfe;
But was prevented by each careful Nurse,

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