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None of them stick at mark; they all deceive.
Some Jew has chang'd the text, I half believe;
There Adam cozen'd our poor grandame Eve.
To hide their faults they rap out oaths, and tear:
Now, tho wę lye, we're too well-bred to swear.
So we compound for half the fin we owe,
But men are dipt for soul and body too;
And, when found out, excufe themselves, pox cant

them,
With Latin stuff, Perjuria ridet Amantûm.
I'm not book-learn’d, to know that word in vogue,
But I suspect 'tis Latin for a rogue.
I'm sure, I never heard that scritch-owl hollow'd
In

my poor ears, but separation follow’d.
How can such perjur’d villains e'er be saved ?
Achitophel's not half so false to David.
With vows and soft expressions to allure,
They stand, like foremen of a shop, demure:
No sooner out of fight, but they are gadding,
And for the next new face ride out a padding:
Yet, by their favor, when they have been kissing,
We can perceive the ready money missing.
Well! we may rail ; but 'tis as good e’en wink;
Something we find, and something they will fink.
But since they're at renouncing, 'tis our parts,
To trump theirdiamonds, as they trumpour hearts.

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EPILOGUE to the fame.

A

Qualm of conscience brings me back again,

To make amends to you bespatter'd men. We women love like cats, that hide their joys, By growling, squalling, and a hideous noise. I rail'd at wild young sparks ; but, without lying, Never was man worse thought on for high-flying. The prodigal of love gives each her part, And squandring shows, at least, a noble heart. I've heard of men, who, in some lewd lampoon, Have hir'd a friend, to make their valor known. That accusation straight this question brings; What is the man that does such naughty things? The spaniel lover, like a sneaking fop, Lies at our feet : he's scarce worth taking up. 'Tis true, such heroes in a play go far; But chamber-practice is not like the bar. When men such vile, such faint, petitions make, We fear to give, because they fear to take; Since modesty's the virtue of our kind, Pray let it be to our own sex confin’d. When men usurp it from the femałe nation, Tis but a work of supererogation

We shew'd a princess in the play, 'tis true, Who gave her Cæfar more than all his due ; Told her own faults : but I should much abhor To choose a husband for

my confeffor.
You see what fate follow'd the saint-like fool,
For telling tales from out the nuptial school.

Our play a merry comedy had prov'd,
Had the confess'd so much to him she lov'd.
True Presbyterian wives the means would try
But damn'd confefsing is flat Popery:

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W

ITH fickly actors and an old house too,
We're match'd with glorious theatres and

new, And with our alehouse scenes, and cloaths bare worn, Can neither raise old plays, nor new adorn.

each day,

If all these ills could not undo us quite,
A brisk French troop is grown your dear delight;
Who with broad bloody bills call

you
To laugh and break your buttons at their play;
Or fee some serious piece, which we presume
Is fall’n from some incomparable plume ;
And therefore, Messieurs, if you'll do us grace,
Send lacquies early to preserve your place.
We dare not on your privilege intrench,
Or ask you why you like them ? they are French.
Therefore some go with courtesy exceeding,
Neither to hear nor see, but show their breeding :
Each lady striving to out-laugh the rest;
To make it seem they understood the jest.
Their countrymen come in, and nothing pay,
To teach us English were to clap the play:
Civil Igad! our hospitable land
Bears all the charge, for them to understand :
Mean time we languish, and neglected lie,
Like wives, while you keep better company ;
And wish for your own fakes, without a satire,
You'd less good breeding, or had more good-nature.

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PROLOGUE to the PROPHETESS,

By BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.

Revived

by Mr. DR Y DE N.

Spoken by Mr. BETTER TON.

WHA

HAT Nostradame, with all his art can guess

The fate of our approaching Prophetess? A play, which, like a perspective set right, Presents our vast expences close to fight ; But turn the tube, and there we fadly view Our distant gains; and those uncertain too: A sweeping tax, which on ourselves we raise, And all, like you, in hopes of better days. When will our losses warn us to be wise ? Our wealth decreases, and our charges rise. Money, the sweet allurer of our hopes, Ebbs out in oceans, and comes in by drops. We raise new objects to provoke delight; But you grow fated, ere the second sight. False men, e'en so you

serve

your mistresses:
They rise three stories in their tow'ring dress;
And, after all, you love not long enough
To pay the rigging, ere you leave them off.

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