Not courts, nor courtiers living on the rents
Of the three last ungiving Parliaments :
So wretched, that if Pharaoh could divine,
He might have spar'd his dream of seven lean kine,
And chang'd his vision for the Muses Nine.
The comet that, they say, portends a dearth,
Was but a vapour drawn from playhouse earth,
Pent there since our last fire, and, Lilly says,
Foreshows our change of state, and thin-third days.
'Tis not our want of wit that keeps us poor, 16
For then the printer's press would suffer more.
Their pamphleteers each day their venom spit;
They thrive by treason, and we starve by wit.
Confess the truth, which of you has not laid
Four farthings out to buy the Hatfield Maid?
Or, which is duller yet, and more would spite us,
Democritus his Wars with Heraclitus?
Such are the authors who have run us down,
And exercis'd you critics of the Town.
Yet these are pearls to your lampooning rhymes;
Y' abuse yourselves more dully than the times.
Scandal, the glory of the English Nation,
Is worn to rags, and scribbled out of fashion.
Such harmless thrusts as if, like fencers wise,
They had agreed their play before their prize.
Faith they may hang their harps upon the willows;
'Tis just like children when they box with pillows.
Then put an end to Civil wars for shame;
Let each knight-errant who has wrong'd a dame
Throw down his pen, and give her, as he can,
The satisfaction of a gentleman.
PERSIAN PRINCE, 1682.
A VIRGIN poet was serv'd up to-day,
Who, till this hour, ne'er cackled for a play.
He's neither yet a Whig nor Tory boy,
But, like a girl, whom sev'ral would enjoy,
Begs leave to make the best of his own nat'ral toy.
Were I to play my callow author's game,
The Kings House would instruct me by the name,
There's loyalty to one: I wish no more;
A commonwealth sounds like a common whore.
Let husband or gallant be what they will,
One part of woman is true Tory still.
any factious spirit should rebel,
Our sex, with ease, can ev'ry rising quell.
Then, as you hope we should your failings hide,
An honest jury for our play provide.
Whigs at their poets never take offence;
They save dull culprits who have murder'd sense : Tho' nonsense is a nauscous heavy mass,
The vehicle call'd Faction makes it pass.
Faction in play's the Commonwealth-man's bribe, The leaden farthing of the Canting tribe;
Tho' void in payment laws and statutes make it,
The neighbourhood, that knows the man, will take it.
'Tis faction buys the votes of half the pit ;
Theirs is the pension-parliament of wit.
In city-clubs their venom let them vent;
For there 'tis safe in its own element:
Here, where their madness can have no pretence,
Let them forget themselves an hour of sense.
In one poor isle why should two factions be? 30
Small diff'rence in your vices I can see;
In drink and drabs both sides too well agree.
Would there were more preferments in the land!
If places fell the party could not stand.
Of this damn'd grievance ev'ry Whig complains; 35
They grunt like hogs till they have got their grains.
Mean-time you see what trade our plots advance,
We send each year good money into France;
And they that know what merchandize we need,
Send o'er true Protestants to mend our breed.
EPILOGUE to the University of Oxford. Spoken by Mr. HART at the acting of the SILENT WOMAN,
No poor Dutch peasant, wing'd withall his fear, [near,
Flies with more haste when the French arms draw
Than we with our poetic train come down,
For refuge hither, from th' infected Town.
Heav'n for our sins this summer has thought fit
To visit us with all the plagues of wit.
A French troop first swept all thiugs in its way,
But those hot Monsieurs were too quick to stay:
Yet, to our cost, in that short time we find
They left their itch of novelty behind.
Th' Italian Merry Andrews took their place,
And quite debauch'd the stage with lewd grimace.
Instead of wit and humours, your delight
Was there to see two hobby horses fight:
Stout Scaramoucha with rush lance rode in,
And ran a tilt at Centaur Arlequin.
For love you heard how am'rous asses bray'd,
And cats in gutters gave their serenade.
Nature was out of count'nance, and each day
Some new-born monster shewn you for a play. 20
But when all fail'd to strike the stage quite dumb,
Those wicked engines call'd Machines are come.
Thunder and lightning now for wit are play'd,
And shortly scenes in Lapland will be laid :
Art-magic is for poetry profest;
And cats and dogs, and each obscener beast,
To which Egyptian dotards once did bow,
Upon our English stage are worshipp'd now.
Witchcraft reigns there, and raises to renown
Macbeth, and Simon Magus of the Town;
Fletcher's despis'd, your Johnson's out of fashion,
And wit the only drug in all the nation.
In this low ebb our wares to you are shown;
By you those staple author's worth is known;
For wit's a manufacture of your own.
When you, who only can their scenes have prais'd, We'll boldly back, and say their price is rais'd. 37
EPILOGUE. Spoken at Oxford. By Mrs. MARSHALL.
OFT' has our poet wish'd this happy seat
Might prove his fading Muse's last retreat:
I wonder'd at his wish, but now I find
He sought for quiet and content of mind,
Which noiseful towns and courts can never know, 5
And only in the shades, like laurels, grow.
Youth, ere it sees the world, here studies rest,
And Age returning thence concludes it best.
What wonder if we court that happiness
Yearly to share which hourly you possess,
Teaching e'en you, while the vext world we show
Your peace to value more and better know ?
'Tis all we can return for favours past,
Whose holy memory shall ever last;
For patronage from him whose care presides
O'er ev'ry noble art, and ev'ry science guides;
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