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Iscord, and plots, which haveundone our age,
With the same ruin have o'erwhelm'd the
Our house has suffer'd in the common woe,
We have been troubled with Scotch rebels too.
Our brethren are from Thamesto Tweed departed,
And of our sisters, all the kinder-hearted,
To Edinburgh gone, or coach'd, or carted.
With bonny bluecap there they act all night
For Scotch half-crown, in English three-pence
One nymph, to whom fat Sir John Falstaff's lean,
There with her single person fills the scene.
Another, with long use and age decay'd,
Div'd here old woman, and rose there a maid.
Our trusty door-keepers of former time
There strut and swagger in heroic rhime. :
Tack but a copper-lace to drugget suit,
And there's a hero made without dispute :
And that, which was a capon's tail before,
Becomes a plume for Indian emperor.
But all his subjects, to express the care
Of imitation, go, like Indians, bare :
Lac'd linen there would be a dangerous thing;
It might perhaps a new rebellion bring ;
The Scot, who wore it, would be chosen king.
But why should I these renegades describe,
When you yourselves have seen a lewder tribe ?
Teague has been here, and, to this learned pit,
With Irish action slander'd English wit:
You have beheld such barb'rous Macs
appear, As merited a second massacre:
like Cain, were branded with disgrace, And had their country stamp'd upon their face. When strolers durst presume to pick your purse, We humbly thought our broken troop not worse. How ill foe'er our action may deserve, Oxford's a place where wit can never starve.
HO actors cannot much of learning boast,
Of all who want it, we admire it most:
We love the praises of a learned pit,
As we remotely are ally'd to wit.
We speak our poets wit, and trade in ore,
Like those, who touch upon the golden shore:
Betwixt our judges can distinction inake,
Discern how much, and why, our poems take:
Mark if the.fools, or men of sense, rejoice;
Whether th' applause be only found or voice.
When our fop gallants, or our city folly
Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy :
We doubt that scene which does their wonder raise,
And, for their ignorance, contemn their praise.
Judge then, if we who act, and they who write,
Should not be proud of giving you delight.
London likes grolly; but this nicer pit
Examines, fathoms all the depths of wit
The ready finger lays on every blot ;
Knows what should justly please, and what should
Nature herself lies open to your view;
You judge by her, what draught of her is true,
Where outlines false, and colors seem too faint,
Where bunglers dawb, and where true poets paint.
But by the sacred genius of this place,
By ev'ry Muse, by each domestic
Be kind to wit, which but endeavors well,
And, where you judge, presumes not to excel.
Our poets hither for adoption come,
As nations sued to be made free of Rome :
Not in the suffragating tribes to stand,
But in your utmost, last, provincial band.
If his ambition may those hopes pursue,
Who with religion loves your arts and you,
Oxford to him a dearer name shall be,
Than his own mother university.
Thebes did his green, unknowing, youth engage;
He chooses Athens in his riper age.
UR hero's happy in the play's conclusion;
The holy rogue
at last has met confusion :
Tho Arius all along appear'd a faint,
The laft act shew'd him a true Proteftant.
know I read Greek authors, Reports, that, after all these plots and flaughters, The court of Constantine 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 poffest before,
And most were in a way of getting more ;
Which was as much as saying, Gentlemen,
Here's power and money to be rogues again.
Indeed, there were a sort of peaking tools,
Some call them modest, but I call them fools,
Men much more loyal, tho not half so loud;
devils were cast behind the croud.