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of war.

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Never content with what

you

had before, But true to change, and English men all o'er. Now honor calls

you

hence; and all your care
Is to provide the horrid pomp
In plume and scarf, jack-boots, and Bilbo blade,
Your silver goes, that should support our trade.
Go, unkind heroes, leave our stage to mourn ;
'Till rich from vanquilh'd rebels you return;
And the fat spoils of Teague in triumph draw,
His firkin-butter, and his usquebaugh.
Go, conquerors

of
your

male and female foes Men without hearts, and women without hose. Each bring his love a Bogland captive home; Such

proper pages will long trains become ; With copper collars, and with brawny backs, Quite to put down the fashion of our blacks. Then shall the pious Muses pay

their

Vows, And furnish all their laurels for

; Their tuneful voice shall raise for your delights; We want not poets fit to sing your flights. But you, bright beauties, for whose only fake Those doughty knights such dangers

dangers undertake, When they with happy gales are gone away, With your propitious presence grace our play; And with a sigh their empty feats survey:

your brows

Then think, on that bare bench my fervant fat;
I fee him ogle still, and hear him chat;
Selling facetious bargains, and propounding
That witty recreation, call’d dum-founding.
Their lofs with patience we will try to bear ;
And would do more, to see you

often here: That our dead stage, reviv'd by your fair

eyes, Under a female

regency may rise.

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Entlemen, we must beg your pardon ; here's

no Prologue to be had to-day ; our new play is like to come on, without a frontispiece ; as bald as one of you young beaux, without

your periwig. I left our young-poet, snivelling and fobbing behind the scenes, and cursing fomebody that has deceived him.

Enter Mr. Bowen.

HOLD your prating to the audience: here's honest Mr. Williams, just come in, half mellow, from the Rose-Tavern. He swears he is inspired with claret, and will come on, and that extempore too, either with a prologue of his own or something like one: O here he comes to his tryal, at all adventures ; for my part I wilh him a good deliverance.

[Exeunt Mr. Bright and Mr. Bowen.

Enter Mr. WILLIAMS.

SAVE ye sirs, save ye! I am in a hopeful way. I should speak something, in rhyme, now, for

the play : But the duce take me, if I know what to say. I'll stick to my friend the author, that I can tell ye, To the last drop of claret, in my belly. So far I'm sure 'tis rhyme—that needs no granting: And, if my verses feet stumble---you see my own

are wanting Qur young poet has brought a piece of work, , In which, tho much of art there does not lurk, It may hold out three days---and that's as long

as Cork.

But, for this play---(which till I have done, we

show not) What

may be its fortune---by the Lord---I know

not. This I dare swear, no malice here is writ: ”Tis innocent of a!l things—even of wit. He's no high-flyer--he makes no sky-rockets, His fquibs are only levell’d at your pockets. And if his crackers light among your pelf, You are blown up;

if not, then he's blown up himself. By this time, I'm something recover'd of my flus

ter'd madness : And now, a word or two in sober sadness. Ours is a common play; and you pay down A common harlot's price---just half a crown. You'll say, I play the pimp, on my friend's score; But since 'tis for a friend your gibes give o'er : For many a mother has done that before. How's this, you cry? an actor write?--we know it; But Shakespear was an actor, and a poet. Has not great Jonson's learning, often fail'd ? But Shakespear's greater genius still prevail’d. Have not some writing actors, in this age Deserv'd and found success upon the stage?

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To tell the truth, when our old wits are tir’d,
Not one of us but means to be inspir’d.

kind presence grace our homely cheer; Peace and the butt, is all our business here: Somuch for that;---and the devil take small beer.

Let your

EPILOGUE to HENRY II.

[ [By Mr. MOUNTFORT, 1693.]

Spoken by Mrs. BRACEGIRDLE.

TH

HUS

you the fad catastrophe have seen,
Occasion'd by a mistress and a queen.
Queen Eleanor the proud was French, they say;
But English manufacture got the day.
Jane Clifford was her name, as books aver:
Fair Rosamond was but her Nom de

guerre.
Now tell me, gallants, would you lead your life
With such a mistress, or with such a wife ?
If one must be your choice, which d'ye approve,
The curtain lecture, or the curtain love?
Would ye be godly with perpetual strife,
Still drudging on with homely Joan your wife;

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