Befides three holy mitred Hectors,
And the whole college of Electors.

No health of potentate is funk,

That pays to make his

Thefe Dutch delights, I mention'd laft,
Suit not, I know, your English taste :
For wine to leave a whore or play
Was ne'er your excellency's way.
Nor need this title give offence,
For here you were your excellence,
For gaming, writing, fpeaking, keeping,
His excellence for all but fleeping.
Now if you tope in form, and treat,
'Tis the four fauce to the fweet meat,
The fine you pay for being great.
Nay, here's a harder impofition,
Which is indeed the court's petition,
That fetting worldly pomp afide,
Which poet has at font deny'd,
You would be pleas'd in humble way
To write a trifle call'd a Play.

This truly is a degradation,

But would oblige the crown and nation. Next to your wife negotiation.

4

If you pretend, as well you may,

Your high degree, your friends will fay,
The duke St. Aignon made a play.
If Gallic wit convince you scarce,

His grace of Bucks has made a farce,

And

you, whofe comic wit is terfe all, Can hardly fall below Rehearsal. Then finish what you have began; But fcribble fafter if you can: For yet no George, to our difcerning, Has writ without a ten years warning.

EPISTLE the EIGHTH.

то

Mr. SOUTHERN E,

ON HIS

COMEDY call'd, The WIVES EXCUSE.

URE there's a fate in plays, and 'tis in vain

SUR

To write, while these malignant planets reign. Some very foolish influence rules the pit, Not always kind to sense, or just to wit: And whilft it lafts, let buffoonry fucceed, To make us laugh; for never was more need. Farce, in itself, is of a nafty scent; But the gain smells not of the excrement. The Spanish nymph, a wit and beauty too, With all her charms, bore but a single show: But let a monfter Mufcovite appear,

He draws a crowded audience round the

year. May be thou haft not pleas'd the box and pit ; Yet those who blame thy tale applaud thy wit: So Terence plotted, but fo Terence writ.

}

Like his thy thoughts are true, thy language clean; E'en lewdness is made moral in thy scene.

The hearers

may for want of Nokes repine;

But reft fecure, the readers will be thine.
Nor was thy labor'd drama damn'd or hifs'd,
But with a kind civility difmifs'd;

With fuch good manners, as the Wife did use,
Who, not accepting, did but just refuse.
There was a glance at parting; fuch a look,
As bids thee not give o'er, for one rebuke.
But if thou wouldst be feen, as well as read,
Copy one living author, and one dead:
The standard of thy ftyle let Etherege be;
For wit, th'immortal fpring of Wycherly:
Learn, after both, to draw fome just design,
And the next age will learn to copy thine.

EPISTLE the NINTH.

то

HENRY HIGDEN, Esq;

ON HIS

Tranflation of the Tenth Satire of JUVENAL.

HE Grecian wits, who Satire firft began,

ΤΗ
Twere pleasant on the life of man,

Were pleasant Pasquins on the life of man ;

At mighty villains, who the state oppreft, They durft not rail, perhaps; they lafh'd, at leaft, And turn'd them out of office with a jeft. No fool could peep abroad, but ready stand The drolls to clap a bauble in his hand. Wife legiflators never yet could draw A fop within the reach of common law; For pofture, drefs, grimace and affectation, Tho foes to fense, are harmless to the nation. Our laft redress is dint of verfe to try, And Satire is our court of Chancery. This way took Horace to reform an age, Not bad enough to need an author's rage. But yours, who liv'd in more degenerate times, Was forc'd to faften deep, and worry crimes. Yet you, my friend, have temper'd him fo well, You make him fmile in fpite of all his zeal :