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PROLOGUE to the LoYAL BROTHER:

O R,

The PERSIAN PRIN C E.

[By Mr. SOUTHERN E, 1682.]

POETS,

OETS, 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 them !)

hate.

The critic humbly feems advice to bring;
The fawning Whig petitions to the king:
But one's advice into a fatire flides;
T'other's petition a remonftrance 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
Juft fo the Whig would fain pull down the guards.
Guards are illegal, that drive foes away,
As watchful fhepherds, that fright beafts of prey.
Kings, who disband fuch needlefs aids as these,
Are fafe-as long as c'er their subjects please :

And that would be till next queen Befs's night;
Which thus grave penny chroniclers indite.
Sir Edmond Bury first, in woful wife,

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 Antichrift 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-caft whore.

The devil, who brought him to the fhame, takes part;

Sits cheek by jowl, in black, to cheer his heart;
Like thief and parfon in a Tyburn-cart,

The word is given, and with a loud huzza
The mitred poppet from his chair they draw:
On the flain corps contending nations fall :
Alas! what's one poor pope among them all!
He burns; now all true hearts your triumphs ring:
And next, for fashion, cry, God fave the king,
A needful cry in midft of fuch alarms,
When forty thoufand men are up

in arms,

But after he's once fav'd, to make amends,
In each fucceeding health they damn his friends:
So God begins, but ftill the devil ends.

What if fome one, infpir'd with zeal, should call,
Come, let's
go cry,
God fave him at Whitehall?
His best friends would not like this over-care,

Or think him ere the safer for this

prayer.
Five praying faints are by an act allow'd ;
But not the whole church-militant in croud.
Yet, should heaven all the true petitions drain
Of Presbyterians, who would kings maintain,
Of forty thousand, five would fcarce remain.

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EPILOGUE to the fame.

A Virgin poet was ferv'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 several would enjoy,
Begs leave to make the best of his own nat'ral toy.
Were I to play my callow author's

game, The king's houfe would inftruct me by the name. There's loyalty to one; I wish no more:

A commonwealth founds like a common whore.

Let husband or gallant be what they will,
One part of woman is true Tory ftill.
If any factious spirit should rebel,

Our fex, with eafe, can ev'ry rifing quell.

Then, as you hope we should your failings hide,
An honeft jury for our play provide.

Whigs at their poets never take offence;
They fave dull culprits, who have murder'd sense.
Tho nonfenfe is a naufeous heavy mafs,

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 ftatutes make it,
The neighbourhood, that knows the man, will
take it.

'Tis faction buys the votes of half the pit;
Their's is the penfion-parliament of wit.
In city-clubs their venom let them vent;
For there 'tis fafe, in its own element.
Here, where their madness can have no pretencé,
Let them forget themselves an hour of sense.
In one poor ifle, why should two factions be?
Small diff'rence in your vices I can see :
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 ev'ry Whig complains; 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 Proteftants to mend our breed.

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SPOKEN by Mr. HART,

At the Acting of the SILENT WOMAN,

WHA

HAT 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 loft or won.

Methinks I see you, crown'd with olives, fit,
And strike a facred horror from the pit.
A day of doom is this of your decree,
Where even the beft are but by mercy free:

A day, which none but Jonfon durft have wifh'd to fee.

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