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Besides three holy mitred Hectors,
has at font deny'd, You would be pleas'd in humble way To write a trifle call’d a Play, This truly is a degradation, But would oblige the crown and nation Next to your wise negotiation.
If you pretend, as well
you may, Your high degree, your friends will say, The duke St. Aignon made a play. If Gallic wit convince
you scarce, His grace
of Bucks has made a farce, And you,
whose comic wit is terse all, Can hardly fall below Rehearsal. Then finish what
you But scribble faster if you can : For yet no George, to our discerning, Has writ without a ten years warning.
EPISTLE the EIGHTH.
Mr. SOUTHERN E,
Comedy call'd, The WIVES Excuse.
URE there's a fate in plays, and 'tis in vain
To write, while these malignant planets reign. Some
very foolish influence rules the pit,
The hearers may
for want of Nokes repine; But rest secure, the readers will be thine. Nor was thy labor’d drama damn'd or hiss'd, But with a kind civility dismiss’d; With such good manners, as the Wife did use, Who, not accepting, did but just refuse. There was a glance at parting; such a look, As bids thee not give o'er, for one rebuke. But if thou wouldst be seen, as well as read, Copy one living author, and one dead : The standard of thy style let Etherege be; For wit, th’immortal spring of Wycherly : Learn, after both, to draw fome just design, And the next age will learn to copy
EPISTLE the NINT H.
HENRY HIGDEN, Efq;
Translation of the Tenth Satire of JUVENAL.
HE Grecian wits, who Satire first began,
the life of man;
took Horace to reform an age, Not bad enough to need an author's rage. But yours, who liv'd in more degenerate times, Was forc'd to fasten deep, and worry
crimes. Yet you, my friend, have temper'd him so well, You make him smile in spite of all his zeal :