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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 needless 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,
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:

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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.

XI.

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PROLOGUE to THE LOYAL BROTHER: Or, THE PER SIAN PRINCE. By Mr. SOUTHERN, 1682.

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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 seems 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,

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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 gentleman of seventy years,
Whose age in vain our mercy would implore,
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.

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The word is giv'n, and, with a loud huzza,
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 ring;
And next (for fashion) cry, God save the King. 40
A needful cry in midst of such alarms,

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

When forty thousand men are up in arms.
But after he's once sav❜d, to make amends,
In each succeeding health they damn his friends; }
So God begins, but still the Devil ends.

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.

XII.

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PROLOGUE to the University of Oxford. Spoken by Mr. HART, at the acting of THE SILENT WOMAN.

WHAT 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,
And strike a sacred horror from the pit.
A day of doom is this of your decree,

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Where ev'n the best are but by mercy free ;[to see.
A day which none but Johnson durst have 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 Lyceum first themselves refin'd,
And delegated thence to human kind,

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But as ambassadors, when long from home,
For new instructions to their princes come;
So poets, who your precepts have forgot,
Return, and beg they may be better taught
Follies and faults elsewhere by them are shown, 20
But by your manners they correct their own.
Th' illit'rate writer, emp'ric like, applies
To minds diseas'd unsafe chance remedies:
The learn'd in schools, where knowledge first began,
Studies with care th' anatomy of man;

Sees virtue, vice, and passions, in their cause,

And fame from science, not from fortune, draws.

So poetry, which is in Oxford made

An art, in London only is a trade:

There haughty dunces, whose unlearned pen

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Could ne'er spell grammar, would be reading men.
Such build their poems the Lucretian way;
So many huddled atoms make a play;
And if they hit in order by some chance,
They call that Nature which is Ignorance.
To such a fame let mere Town-wits aspire,
And their gay nonsense their own Cits admire.
Our Poet, could he find forgiveness here,
Would wish it rather than a plaudit there.

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He owns no crown from those Prætorian bands, 40
But knows that right is in the senate's hands;
Not impudent enough to hope your praise,
Low at the Muses' feet his wreath he lays,
And, where he took it up, resigns his bays.

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