EPILOGUE upon the Reviving of BEN. JOHNSON's Play, call'd, Every Man in his Humour.

By the fame Hand.

Ntreaty fhall not serve, nor Violence,
To make me peak in luch a Play's defence.

A Play, where Wit and Humour do agree
To break all practis'd Laws of Comedy:
The Scene (what more abfurd) in England lyes,
No Gods defcend, nor dancing Devils rife;

No Captive Prince from unknown Country brought,
No Battle, nay there's fcarce a Duel fought;
And fomething yet more sharply might be faid;
But confider the poor Author's dead;

Let that be his Excufe-----Now for our own,
Why, Faith, in my Opinion, we need none.
The Parts were fitted well; but fome will fay,
Pox on 'em Rogues, what made 'em chufe this Play
I do not doubt but you will credit me,
It was not Choice, but meer Neceffity;
To all our writing Friends, in Town, we fent,
But not a Wit durft venture out in Lent;
Have patience but 'till Easter Term, and then
You hall have Jigg, and Hobby-horse agen.
Here's Mr. Matthew, our Domestick Wit,
Does promife one of the ten Plays h'as writ;
But fince great Bribes weigh nothing with the Juft,
Know, we have Merits, and to them we trust:
When any Fafts, or Holy-days, defer

The publick Labours of the Theatre,

We ride not forth, although the Day be fair,
On ambling Tit to take the Suburb Air,

But with our Authors meet, and spend that time
To make up Quarrels between Senfe and Rhyme.
Wednesdays and Fridays conftantly we fate,
Till, after many a long and free Debate,

For divers weighty Reasons 'twas thought fit,
Unruly Senfe fhou'd ftill to Rhyme fubmit.
This the most wholesome Law we ever made,
So ftri&ly in this Epilogue obey'd,

Sure no Man here will ever dare to break.
Enter Johnson's Ghost.

Hold, and give way, for I my self will speak;
Can you encourage fo much Infolence,
And add new Faults ftill to the great Offence`
Your Ancestors fo rafhly did commit
Against the mighty Pow'rs of Art and Wit?
When they condemn'd those noble Works of mine,
Sejanus, and my best lov'd Catiline:

Repent, or on your guilty Heads shall fall
The Curfe of many a rhyming Paftoral:
The three bold Beauchamps thall revive again,
And with the London-Prentice Conquer Spain.
All the dull Follies of the former Age
Shall find Applause on this corrupted Stage.
But if you pay the great Arrears of Praise,
So long fince due to my much-injur❜d Plays,
From all paft Crimes I first will fet you free,
And then inspire fome one to Write like me.

KNOT TIN G. By the fame Hand.

AT

T Noon, in a Sunshiny Day,
The brighter Lady of the May,
Young Chloris innocent and gay,
Sate Knotting in a Shade:

Each flender Finger play'd its part,
With fuch Activity and Art,
As wou'd inflame a youthful Heart,
And warm the most decay'd.

Her Fav'rite Swain by chance came by,
He faw no Anger in her Eye;
Yet when the bashful Boy drew nigh,
She wou'd have feem'd afraid.

She let her Ivory Needle fall,
And hurl'd away the twifted Ball:
But ftraight gave Strephon fuch a Call,
As wou'd have rais'd the dead.

Dear gentle Youth, is't none but thee?
With Innocence I dare be free;
By fo much Truth and Modesty
No Nymph was e'er betray'd.

Come lean thy Head upon my Lap;
While thy smooth Cheeks Iftroke and clap,
Thou may'ft fecurely take a Nap.
Which he, poor Fool, obey'd.

She faw him yawn, and heard him fnore,
And found him faft afleep all o're.
She figh'd and cou'd endure no more,
But ftarting up the faid,

Such Virtue fhall rewarded be:

For this thy dull Fidelity,

I'll trust thee with my Flocks, not me,

Purfue thy grazing Trade;

Go milk thy Goats, and fhear thy Sheep,
And watch all Night thy Flocks to keep;
Thou shalt no more be lull'd asleep.
By me mistaken Maid,

A SONG to CHLORIS from the BLIND ARCHER.

By the fame Hand.

Add as 'thote te dible Glaces?

H Chloris, 'tis time to difarm your bright Eyes,

We live in an Age that's more civil and wife,
Than to follow the Rules of Romances.

II.

When once your round Bubbies begin but to pout, They'll allow you no long time of Courting, And you'll find it a very hard Task to hold out, For all Maidens are mortal at Fourteen.

M with Phyllis and Chloris in every Song; [long Ethinks the poor Town has been troubled too By Fools, who, at once, can both love and defpair, And will never leave calling them Cruel and Fair. Which justly provokes me, in Rhyme, to express The Truth that I know of bonny Black Befs.

II.

This Befs of my Heart, this Befs of my Soul,, Has a Skin white as Milk, and Hair black as a Coal, She's plump, yet, with ease, you may fpan her round Wafte,

But her round fwelling Thighs can scarce be embrac❜d. Her Belly is foft, not a Word of the reft,

But I know what I think when I drink to the Beft..

III.

The Plowman and 'Squire, the erranter Clown, At home the fubdu'd in her Paragon Gown;

But now the adorns the Boxes and Pit,

And the proudest Town Gallants are forc'd to submit g

All Hearts fall a leaping wherever she comes,
And beat day and night, like my Lord Craven's Drums.

IV.

I dare not permit her to come to Whitehall, For fhe'd out-fhine the Ladies, Paint, Jewels, and all; If a Lord fhould but whisper his Love in the Croud, She'd fell him a Bargain, and laugh out aloud; Then the Queen over-hearing what Betty did fay, Would fend Mr. Roper to take her away.

V.

But to these that have had my dear Befs in their Arms She's gentle, and knows how to soften her Charms; And to every Beauty can add a new Grace, Having learn'd how to lifp, and to trip in her Pace ; And with Head on one fide, and a languishing Eye, To kill Us by Looking, as if the wou'd die.

SONG.

Phyllis, the Faireft of Love's Foes,

Though fiercer than a Dragon,

Phyllis, that fcorn'd the powder'd Beaus,
What has the now to brag on?
So long the kept her Legs fo close,
'Till they have fcarce a Rag on.

Compell'd through Want, this wretched Maid
Did fad Complaints begin;
Which fully Strephon hearing, said,

It was both Shame and Sin,

To pity fuch a lazy Jade,

As will neither Play nor Spin.

On TY BURN.

H Tyburn! coud't thou Reafon and Dispute;
Coud'st thou but Judge as well as Execute;