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None of them ftick 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 we lye, we're too well-bred to fwear.
So we compound for half the fin we owe,
But men are dipt for foul 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 fufpect 'tis Latin for a rogue.

I'm fure, I never heard that fcritch-owl hollow'd
In my poor ears, but feparation follow'd.
How can fuch perjur'd villains e'er be faved?
Achitophel's not half fo falfe to David.
With vows and foft expreffions to allure,
They ftand, like foremen of a fhop, demure:
No fooner 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 kiffing,
We can perceive the ready money miffing.
Well! we may rail; but 'tis as good e'en wink;
Something we find, and fomething they will fink.
But fince they're at renouncing, 'tis our parts,
To trump their diamonds, as they trump our hearts.

EPILOGUE to

the fame.

A

Qualm of confcience brings me back again, To make amends to you befpatter'd men. We women love like cats, that hide their joys, By growling, fqualling, 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 fquandring shows, at least, a noble heart. I've heard of men, who, in fome lewd lampoon, Have hir'd a friend, to make their valor known. That accusation straight this question brings; What is the man that does fuch naughty things? The spaniel lover, like a fneaking fop, Lies at our feet: he's fcarce worth taking up. 'Tis true, fuch heroes in a play go far; But chamber-practice is not like the bar. When men fuch vile, fuch faint, petitions make, We fear to give, because they fear to take; Since modefty's the virtue of our kind,

Pray let it be to our own fex confin'd.

When men ufurp it from the female nation,
Tis but a work of fupererogation

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

You see what fate follow'd the faint-like fool,
For telling tales from out the nuptial school.
Our play a merry comedy had prov❜d,
Had the confefs'd fo much to him the lov'd.
True Prefbyterian wives the means would try;
But damn'd confeffing is flat Popery.

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W

Spoken by Mr. HART.

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

new,

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

dear delight;

you each day,

If all these ills could not undo us quite,
A brifk French troop is grown your
Who with broad bloody bills call
To laugh and break your buttons at their play;
Or fee some serious piece, which we presume
Is fall'n from fome incomparable plume;
And therefore, Meffieurs, if you'll do us grace,
Send lacquies early to preferve your place.
We dare not on your privilege intrench,

Or afk you why you like them? they are French.
Therefore fome go with courtesy exceeding,
Neither to hear nor fee, but show their breeding:
Each lady striving to out-laugh the reft;
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 with for your own fakes, without a fatire,
You'd lefs good breeding, or had more good-nature.

PROLOGUE to the PROPHETESS.

By BEAUMONT and FLETCHER.

Revived by Mr. DRYDEN.

Spoken by Mr. BETTERTON.

WH

HAT Noftradame, with all his art can guess The fate of our approaching Prophetess? A play, which, like a perfpective fet right, Prefents our vaft expences close to fight; But turn the tube, and there we fadly view Our diftant gains; and thofe uncertain too: A fweeping tax, which on ourfelves we raise, And all, like you, in hopes of better days. When will our loffes warn us to be wife? 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 fecond fight. False men, e'en fo you ferve your miftreffes: They rife three ftories 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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