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The friends of Job, who rail'd at him before,
Came cap in hand when he had three times more :
Yet late repentance may, perhaps, be true;

Kings can forgive, if rebels can but sue.
A tyrant's pow'r in rigour is exprest;
The father yearns in the true prince's breast,
We grant an o'ergrown Whig no grace can mend; 30
But most are babes that know not they offend.
The crowd, to restless motion still inclin'd,
Are clouds that tack according to the wind.
Driv'n by their chiefs, theystorms of hailstones pour,
Then mourn, and soften to a silent show'r,

35 O welcome to this much-offending land, The Prince that brings forgiveness in his hand ! Thus angels on glad messages appear ; Their first salute commands us not to fear; Thus Heav'n, that could constrain us to obey, 40 (With rev’rence if we might presume to say) Seems to relax the rights of sov'reign sway ; Permits to man the choice of good and ill, And makes us happy by our own free-will.



1682. Spoken to the King and the Queen, at their coming to the House.

When first the ark was landed on the shore,
And Heay'a had vow'd to curse the ground no more

When tops of hills the longing patriarch saw,
And the new scene of earth began to draw,
The dove was sent to view the waves' decrease.

And first brought back to man the pledge of peace.
'Tis peedless to apply, when those appear
Who bring the olive, and who plant it here.
We have before our eyes the Royal dove,
Still innocent as harbinger to Love :
The ark is open'd to dismiss the train,
And people with a better race the plain.
Tell me, ye pow'rs ! why should vain man pursue,
With endless toil, each object that is new,
And for the seeming substance leave the true ? 15)
Why should he quit for hopes his certain good,
And loath the manna of his daily food ?
Must England still the scene of changes be,
Toss'd, and tempestuous, like our ambient sea ?
Must still our weather and our wills agree ?
Without our blood our liberties we have :
Who that is free would fight to be a slave ?
Or, what can wars to after-times assure,
Of which our present age is not secure?
All that our Monarch would for us ordain,

25 Is but t' enjoy the blessings of his reign. Our land's an Eden, and the main's our fence, While we preserve our state of innocence: That lost, then beasts their brutal force employ, And first their lord, and then themselves, destroy. 30


What Civil broils have cost we know too well ;
Oh ! let it be enough that once we fell,
And ev'ry heart conspire, and ev'ry tongue,
Still to have such a King, and this King long.




SIAN PRINCE. By Mr. SOUTHERN, 1682. Poets, like lawful monarchs, rul'd the stage, Till critics, like damn'd Whigs, debauch'd our age. Mark how they jump: critics would regulate Our theatres, and Whigs reform our state: Both pretend love, and both (plague rot 'em!) hate. The critic humbly seenis advice to bring, The fawning Whig petitions, to the King: But one's advice into a satire slides; Th’ other's petition a remonstrance hides. These will no taxes give, and those no pence; Critics would starve the poet, Whigs the prince. The critic all our troops of friends discards; Just so the Whig would feign pull down the Guards, Guards are illegal, that drive foes away, As watchful shepherds that fright beasts of prey. Kings, who disband such needless aids as these, 16 Are safe—as long as e'er their subjects please, And that would be till next Queen Bess's night, Which thus grave penny chroniclers indite,


sir Edmond Bury first, in woeful wise,
Leads up the show, and milks their maudlin eyes.
There's not a butcher's wife but dribs her part,
And pities the poor pageant from her heart;
Who to provoke revenge, rides round the fire,
And with a civil congé does retire.

But guiltless blood to ground must never fall,
There's Antichrist behind to pay for all.
The punk of Babylon in pomp appears,
A lewd old gentlemap of seventy years,
Whose age in vain our mercy would implore, 30
For few take pity on an old cast whore.
The dev'l, who brought him to the shame, takes part,
Sits cheek by jowl, in black, to cheer his heart,
Like thief and parson in a Tyburn-cart.
The word is giv'n, and, with a loud huzza, 35
The mitred puppet from his chair they draw :
On the slain corpse contending nations fall :
Alas! what's one poor Pope among 'em all!
He burns; now all true hearts your triumphs riog;
And next (for fashion) cry, God save the King. 47
A necdful cry in midst of such alarms,
When forty thousand men are up in arms.
But after he's once sav'd, to make amends, 2
In cach succeeding health they damn his friends : }
So God begins, but still the Devil ends.

45] What if some one inspir’d with zeal, should call, Come, let's go cry God save him, at Whiteball?

His best friends would not like this over-care,
Or think him e'er the safer for this pray’r.
Five praying saints are by an act allow'd,

But not the whole.church-militant in crowd.
Yet, should Heav'n all the true petitions drain
Of Presbyterians, who would kings maintain ?
Of forty thousand five would scarce remain. 54-


PROLOGUE to the University of Oxford. Spoken by Mr.

HART, at the acting of THE SILENT WOMAN. What

Har Greece, when learning flourish'd, only knew, Athenian judges, you this day renew. Here, too, are annual rites to Pallas done, And here poetic prizes lost or won. Methinks I see you, crown'd with olives, sit, 5 And strike a sacred horror from the pit. A day of doom is this of your decree, Where ev’n the best are but by mercy free ;[to see. A day which none but Johnson durst bave wish'd} Here they, who long have known the useful stage, 10 Come to be taught themselves, to teach the age. As your commissioners, our poets go To cultivate the virtue which you sow; In your Lycæum first themselves refin'd, And delegated thence to human kind,


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