Obrazy na stronie
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at 10. For they their thefts ftill undiscover'd think,

And durft not steal, unless you please to wink.

Perhaps, you may award by your decree,
Is They should refund; but that can never be.
25

For should letters of reprisal seal,
These men write that which no man else would

steal.

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A N E P I L OG U E.
U saw our wife was chaste, yet throughly

try'd,
And, without doubt, y'are hugely edify'd ;
For, like our hero, whom we thew'd to-day,
You think no woman true, but in a play.
Love once did make a pretty kind of show:
Esteem and kindness in one breast would

grow:
But 'twas Heav'n knows how many years ago.
Now some small chat, and guinea expectation,
Gets all the pretty creatures in the nation:
In Comedy your little selves you meet;
'Tis Covent Garden drawn in Bridges-street.
Smile on our author then, if he has shown
A jolly nut-brown bastard of

your own.

ing

Ah! happy you, with ease and with delight,
Who act those follies, Poets toil to write!
The sweating Muse does almost leave the chace;
She puffs, and hardly keeps your Protean vices pace.
Pinch

you

but in one vice, away you fly
To some new frisk of contrariety.
You rowl like snow-balls, gathering as you run,
And get seven devils, when dispossess’d of one.
Your Venus once was a Platonic queen;
Nothing of love beside the face was seen;
But
every

inch of her you now uncase,
And clap a vizard-mask upon the face,
For fins like these, the zealous of the land,
With little hair, and little or no band,
Declare how circulating pestilences
Watch, every twenty years, to snap offences.
Saturn, e'en now, takes doctoral degrees ;
He'll do your work this summer without fees.
Let all the boxes, Phæbus, find thy grace,
And, ah, preserve the eighteen-penny place!
But for the pit confounders, let 'em go,
And find as little mercy as they show :
The Actors thus, and thus thy Poets pray ;
For ev'ry critic sav'd, thou damn'st a play.

E PILOLOG U E

TO THE

HUSBAND HIS Own CUCKOLD.

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Ike someraw sophister that mounts the pulpit,

So trembles a young Poet at a full pit. .
Unus'd to crowds, the Parson quakes for fear,
And wonders how the devil he durft come there;
Wanting three talents needful for the place,
Some beard, some learning, and some little grace:
Nor is the puny Poet void of care ;
For authors, such as our new authors are,
Have not much learning, nor much wit to spare:
And as for grace, to tell the truth, there's scarce

one,
But has as little as the

very Parson :
Both say, they preach and write for your instruc-

tion :
But 'tis for a third day, and for induction.
The difference is, that tho you like the play,
The Poet's gain is ne'er beyond his day,
But with the Parson 'tis another case,
He, without holiness, may rise to grace;

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The Poet has one disadvantage more,
That if his play be dult, he's damn'd all o'er,
Not only a damn'd blockhead, but damn’d poor,
But dulness well becomes the fable

garment;
I warrant that ne'er spoild a Priest's preferment:
Wit's not his business, and as wit now goes,
Sirs, 'tis not so much yours as you suppose,
For you like nothing now but nauseous beaux.
You laugh not, gallants, as by proof appears,
At what his beauship says, but what he wears;
So 'tis your eyes are tickled, not your ears ;
The taylor and the furrier find the stuff,
The wit lies in the dress, and monstrous muff.
The truth on’t is, the payment of the pit
Is like for like, clipt money for clipt wit.
You cannot froin our absent author hope
He should equip the stage with such a fop :
Fools change in England, and new fools arise,
For tho' the immortal species never dies,
Yet ev'ry year new maggots make new flies.
But where he lives abroad, he scarce can find
One fool, for million that he left behind.

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Wwretched is the fate of those who write!
Brought muzzled to the stage, for fear

they bite.

Where, like Tom Dove, they stand the common

foe;

Lugg’d by the critic, haited by the beau.
Yet worse, their brother Poets damn the play,
And roar the loudest, tho they never pay.
The fops are proud of scandal, for they cry,
At every lewd, low character,---- That's I.
He, who writes letters to himself, would swear,
The world forgot him, if he was not there.
What should a Poet do? 'Tis hard for one
To pleasure all the fools that wou'd be shown:
And yet not two in ten will pass the town.
Most coxcombs are not of the laughing kind;
More goes to make a fop, than fops can find.

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