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In city-clubs their venom let them vent;
For there 'tis fafe, 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 fhould two factions be?
Small difference in your vices I can fee:
In drink and drabs both fides too well agree.
Would there were more preferments in the land:
If places fell, the party could not stand:
Of this damn'd grievance every Whig complains:
They grunt like hogs till they have got their grains.
Mean time you see what trade our plots advance;
We fend each year good money into France;
And they that know what merchandize we need,
Send o'er true Proteftants to mend our breed.
TO THE DUKE OF GUISE, 1683.
OUR play's a parallel: the Holy League
Begot our Covenant: Guifards got the Whig:
Whate'er our hot-brain'd fheriffs did advance
Was, like our fashions, firft produc'd in France;
And, when worn-out, well fcourg'd, and banish'd there,
Sent over, like their godly beggars, here.
Could the fame trick, twice play'd, our nation gull?
It looks as if the devil were grown dull,
Or ferv'd us up, in fcorn, his broken meat,
And thought we were not worth a better cheat.
The fulfome Covenant, one would think in reason,
Had given us all our bellies full of treason:
And yet, the name but chang'd, our nasty nation
Chaws its own excrement, th' Affociation.
'Tis true we have not learn'd their poisoning way,
For that's a mode but newly come in play;
Befides, your drug's uncertain to prevail;
But your true Proteftant can never fail,
With that compendious instrument a flail.
Go on; and bite, e'en though the hook lies bare;
Twice in one age expel the lawful heir):
Once more decide religion by the sword;
And purchase for us a new tyrant lord.
Pray for your king; but yet your purses spare:
Make him not two-pence richer by your prayer.
To fhew you love him much, chastise him more;
And make him very great, and very poor.
Push him to wars, but ftill no pence advance;
Let him lofe England, to recover France.
Cry freedom up with popular noify votes:
And get enough to cut each other's throats.
Lop all the rights that fence your monarch's throne;
For fear of too much power, pray leave him none.
A noife was made of arbitrary fway;
But, in revenge, you Whigs have found a way,
An arbitrary duty now to pay.
Let his own fervants turn, to fave their stake;
Glean from his plenty, and his wants forfake.
But let fome Judas near his person stay,
To fwallow the last sop, and then betray.
Make London independent of the crown:
A realm apart; the kingdom of the town.
Let ignoramus juries find no traitors:
And ignoramus poets fcribble fatires.
And, that your meaning none may fail to scan,
Do what in coffee-houses you began;
Pull down the master, and fet
EPILOGUE TO THE SAME.
UCH time and trouble this poor play has coft;
And, faith, I doubted once the cause was loft.
Yet no one man was meant; nor great nor fmall;
Our poets, like frank gamefters, threw at all.
They took no fingle aim-
But, like bold boys, true to their prince and hearty,
Huzza'd, and fir'd broadfides at the whole party.
Duels are crimes; but, when the cause is right,
In battle every man is bound to fight.
For what fhould hinder me to fell my fkin
Dear as I could, if once my hand were in?
Se defendendo never was a fin.
'Tis a fine world, my masters, right or wrong,
The Whigs must talk, and Tories hold their tongue.
They must do all they can-
But we, forfooth, must bear a christian mind;
And fight, like boys, with one hand ty'd behind.
Nay, and when one boy's down, 'twere wondrous nice,
To cry box fair, and give him time to rife.
When fortune favours, none but fools will dally:
Would any of you fparks, if Nan or Mally
Tipt you th' inviting wink, ftand fhall I; fhall I?
A trimmer cry'd (that heard me tell the ftory),
Fie, miftrefs Cooke! faith, you're too rank a Tory!
With not Whigs hang'd, but pity their hard cafes;
You women love to fee men make wry faces.
Pray fir, faid I, don't think me fuch a Jew;
I fay no more, but give the devil his due.
Lenitives, fays he, fuit best with our condition.
Jack Ketch, fays I, 's an excellent phyfician.
I love no blood-Nor I, Sir, as I breathe;
But hanging is a fine dry kind of death.
We Trimmers are for holding all things even:
Yes-juft like him that hung 'twixt hell and heaven.
Have we not had men's lives enough already?
Yes fure:-but you're for holding all things fteady:
Now, fince the weight hangs all on our fide, brother,
You Trimmers should, to poize it, hang on t'other.
Damn'd neuters, in their middle way of steering,
Are neither fish, nor flesh, nor good red-herring:
Not Whigs nor Tories they; nor this, nor that;
Not birds, nor beafts; but just a kind of bat,
A twilight animal, true to neither caufe,
With Tory wings, but Whiggish teeth and claws.
*The actress, who fpake the epilogue. N.
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN TO THE PLAY,
BEFORE IT WAS FORBIDDEN LAST SUMMER.
WO houfes join'd, two poets to a play?
You noify Whigs will fure be pleas'd to-day;
It looks fo like two fhrieves the city way.
But, fince our discords and divisions cease,
You, Bilboa gallants, learn to keep the peace:
Make here no tilts: let our poor ftage alone;
Or, if a decent murther must be done,
Pray take a civil turn to Marybone.
If not, Ifwear, we'll pull up all our benches;
Not for your fakes, but for our orange-wenches :
For you thruft wide fometimes; and many a fpark,
That miffes one, can hit the other mark.
This makes our boxes full; for men of sense
Pay their four fhillings in their own defence;
That fafe behind the ladies they may stay,
Peep o'er the fant, and judge the bloody fray.
But other foes give beauty worse alarms;
The poffe poetarum 's up in arms:
No woman's fame their libels has escap'd;
Their ink runs venom, and their pens are clapt.
* Langbaine fays, this play found many enemies at its first ap pearance on the stage.
+ Hence Mr. Pope's couplet, Effay on Criticism. ver. 543. "The modest fan was lifted up no more,
"And virgins fmil'd at what they blush'd before."