His cause ne'er fails; for whatsoe'er he spends, There's ftill God's plenty for himself and friends. Should men be rated by poetic rules, Lord! what a poll would there be rais'd from fools! As if 'twere made fome French commodity. Bauble and cap no fooner are thrown down, Of foreign cattle there's no longer need, When we're fupply'd so fast with English breed. PROLOGUE то CESAR BORGI A. TH [By Mr. N. LEE, 1680.] you H'unhappy man, who once has trail'd a pen, a Lives not to please himself, but other men; Is always drudging, waftes his life and blood, Yet only eats and drinks what think good. What praise foe'er the poetry deserve, Yet ev'ry fool can bid the poet ftarve. That fumbling letcher to revenge is bent, Because he thinks himself or whore is meant: Name but a cuckold, all the city fwarms; From Leadenhall to Ludgate is in arms: Were there no fear of Antichrift or France, In the bleft time poor poets live by chance. Either you come not here, or, as you grace Some old acquaintance, drop into the place, Careless and qualmish with a yawning face: You fleep o'er wit, and by my troth you may; Moft of talents lie another way. your You love to hear of fome prodigious tale, The bell that toll'd alone, or Irish whale. News is your food, and you enough provide, Which whilome of Requests was called the Court; By villains in your own dull island bred. To fhew you better rogues upon the stage. You know no poison but plain ratsbane here ; Death's more refin'd, and better bred elsewhere. They have a civil way in Italy By smelling a perfume to make you die ; A trick would make you lay your fnuff-box by. Murder's a trade, fo known and practis'd there, That 'tis infallible as is the chair. But, mark their feast, you shall behold fuch pranks; The pope fays grace, but 'tis the devil gives thanks. PROLOGUE то SOPHONIS BA, at OXFORD, 1680. T HESPIS, the firft profeffor of our art, At country wakes, fung ballads from a cart. To prove this true, if Latin be no trespass, Dicitur & plauftris vexiffe Poemata Thefpis. But Æfchylus, fays Horace in fome page, But 'tis the talent of our English nation, to pot, poets fhall be us'd like infidels, No zealous brother there would want a stone, I A PROLOGUE. F yet there be a few that take delight In that which reasonable men fhould write To them alone we dedicate this night. The reft may fatisfy their curious itch Go back to your pope. |