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Quack Marus, tho he never took degrees In either of our univerfities;

Yet to be shown by some kind wit he looks,
Because he play'd the fool and writ three books.
But, if he wou'd be worth a Poet's pen,

He must be more a fool, and write again:
For all the former fuftian ftuff he wrote,
Was dead-born doggrel, or is quite forgot;
His man of Uz, ftript of his Hebrew robe,
Is just the proverb, and As
poor as Job.
One wou'd have thought he cou'd no longer jog;
But Arthur was a level, Job's a bog.

There, tho he crept, yet ftill he kept in fight;
But here, he founders in, and finks down right.
Had he prepar'd us, and been dull by rule,
Tobit had first been turn'd to ridicule :

But our bold Briton, without fear or awe,
O'er-leaps at once the whole Apocrypha;
Invades the Pfalms with rhymes, and leaves no

For

room

any Vandal Hopkins yet to come.

But when, if after all, this godly geer
Is not fo fenfelefs as it wou'd appear;
Our mountebank has laid a deeper train,
His cant, like Merry Andrew's noble vein,
Cat-calls the fects to draw 'em in again.

At leisure hours, in epic fong he deals,
Writes to the rumbling of his coach's wheels,
Prescribes in haste, and seldom kills by rule,
But rides triumphant between stool and stool.
Well, let him go; 'tis yet too early day,
To get himself a place in farce or play.
We know not by what name we should arraign him,
For no one category can contain him;

A pedant, canting preacher, and a quack,
Are load enough to break one ass's back:
At last grown wanton, he prefum'd to write,
'Traduc'd two kings, their kindness to requite;
One made the doctor, and one dubb'd the knight.

EPILOGUE

TO THE

PILGRIM.

PE

Erhaps the parfon ftretch'd a point too far, When with our Theatres he wag'd a war. He tells you, that this very moral age

Receiv'd the first infection from the stage.

But fure, a banish'd court, with lewdness fraught,
The feeds of open vice, returning, brought.
Thus lodg'd (as vice by great example thrives)
It first debauch'd the daughters and the wives.
London, a fruitful foil, yet never bore
So plentiful a crop of horns before.

The Poets, who must live by courts, or farve,
Were proud, fo good a government to ferve;
And, mixing with buffoons and pimps prophane,
Tainted the Stage, for fome small snip of gain.
For they, like harlots, under bawds profest,
Took all the ungodly pains, and got
the leaft.
Thus did the thriving malady prevail,
The court, its head, the Poets but the tail.
The fin was of our native growth, 'tis true;
The fcandal of the fin was wholly new.
Miffes they were, but modeftly conceal'd;
White-hall the naked Venus first reveal'd.
Who standing as at Cyprus, in her shrine,
The ftrumpet was ador'd with rites divine.
'Ere this, if faints had any fecret motion,
'Twas chamber-practice all, and clofe devotion.
I pafs the peccadillos of their time;
Nothing but open lewdnefs was a crime.
A monarch's blood was venial to the nation,
Compar'd with one foul act of fornication.

Now, they wou'd filence us, and shut the door,
That let in all the bare-fac'd vice before.
As for reforming us, which fome pretend,
That work in England is without an end:
Well may we change, but we fhall never mend.
Yet, if you can but bear the present Stage,
We hope much better of the coming age.
What wou'd you say, if we shou'd first begin
To stop the trade of love behind the scene:
Where actreffes make bold with married men?
For while abroad fo prodigal the dolt is,
Poor spouse at home as ragged as a colt is.
In short, we'll grow as moral as we can,
Save here and there a woman or a man:
But neither you, nor we, with all our pains,
Can make clean work; there will be fome re-
mains,

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