Ifcord, and plots, which have undone our age,
With the fame ruin have o'erwhelm'd the
Our house has fuffer'd in the common woe,
We have been troubled with Scotch rebels too.
Our brethren are from Thames to Tweed departed,
And of our fifters, 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 fingle person fills the scene.
Another, with long use and age decay'd,
Div'd here old woman, and rose there a maid.
Our trufty door-keepers of former time
There ftrut and swagger in heroic rhime.
Tack but a copper-lace to drugget fuit,
And there's a hero made without difpute:
And that, which was a capon's tail before,
Becomes a plume for Indian emperor.
But all his fubjects, to exprefs 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 thefe renegades describe,
When you yourselves have feen a lewder tribe?
Teague has been here, and, to this learned pit,
With Irish action flander'd English wit:
You have beheld fuch barb'rous Macs appear,
As merited a fecond maffacre:
Such as, like Cain, were branded with disgrace,
And had their country stamp'd upon their face.
When ftrolers durft 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 moft: 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 thofe, who touch upon the golden fhore:
Betwixt our judges can distinction make,
Difcern how much, and why, our poems take :
Mark if the fools, or men of fense, 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 praife.
Judge then, if we who act, and they who write,
Should not be proud of giving you delight.
London likes grofly; but this nicer pit
Examines, fathoms all the depths of wit;
The ready finger lays on every blot ;
Knows what should justly pleafe, and what should
Nature herself lies open to your view;
You judge by her, what draught of her is true,
Where outlines falfe, and colors feem too faint,
Where bunglers dawb, and where true poets paint.
But by the facred genius of this place,
By ev'ry Mufe, by each domeftic grace.
Be kind to wit, which but endeavors well,
And, where you judge, presumes not to excel.
Our poets hither for adoption come,
As nations fued to be made free of Rome:
Not in the fuffragating tribes to stand,
But in your utmost, last, provincial band.
If his ambition may thofe hopes purfue,
Who with religion loves your arts and
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 conclufion; The holy rogue at last has met confufion : Tho Arius all along appear'd a faint,
The laft act fhew'd him a true Proteftant.
Eufebius, for you know I read Greek authors,
Reports, that, after all these plots and flaughters,
The court of Conftantine was full of glory,
And every Trimmer turn'd addreffing Tory.
They follow'd him in herds as they were mad:
When Claufe 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.
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