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For, leaving Dad and Mam, as Names too common,
That taught you certain parts of Man and Woman.
I pass your Schools, for there when firft you came,
You wou'd be fure to learn the Latin Name.
In Colleges you fcorn'd the Art of thinking,
But learn'd all Moods and Figures of good Drinking:
Thence come to Town, you practise Play, to know
The vertues of the high Dice, and the low.
Each thinks himself a SHARPER most profound:
He cheats by Pence; is cheated by the Pound:
With thefe Perfections, and what else he Gleans,
The S PAR K fets up for Love behind our Scenes;
Hot in pursuit of Princeffes and Queens.

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There, if they know their Man, with cunning Car-
Twenty to one but it concludes in Marriage. [riage,
He hires fome homely Room, Love's Fruits to gather,
And Garret-high Rebels against his Father.
But he once dead-----

Brings her in Triumph, with her Portion down,
A Twillet, Dreffing-Box, and Half a Crown.
Some Marry firft, and then they fall to Scowring,
Which is, Refining Marriage into Whoring.
Our Women batten well on their good Nature,
All they can rap and rend for the dear Creature.
But while abroad fo liberal the DOLT is,
Poor SPOUSE at Home as Ragged as a Colt is.
Laft, fome there are, who take their first Degrees
Of Lewdness, in our middle Galleries:

The Doughty BULLIES enter Bloody Drunk,
Invade and grubble one another's PUNK:
They Caterwaul, and make a dismal Rout,

Call SONS of WHORES, and strike, but ne'er lug out :
Thus while for Paultry Punk they roar and stickle,
They make it Bawdier than a CONVENTICLE.

An EPILOGUE.

By Mr. DRYDEN.

YOU faw our Wife was Chaft, yet throughly try'd,

You

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And, without doubt, y'are hugely edify'd;
For, like our Hero, whom we fhew'd to day,
You think no Woman true, but in a Play;
Love once did make a pretty kind of Show,
Efteem and Kindness in one Breaft would grow,
But 'twas Heav'n knows how many years ago.
Now fome fmall Chatt, and Guinea Expectation,
Gets all the pretty Creatures in the Nation:
In Comedy, your Little Selves you meet;
'Tis Covent-Garden, drawn in Bridges-ftreet.
Smile on our Author then, if he has fhown
A jolly Nut brown Baftard of your own.
Ah! Happy you, with Eafe and with Delight,
Who act thofe Follies, Poets toil to write!
The fweating Mufe does almost leave the Chace,
She puffs, and hardly keeps your Protean Vices pace.
Pinch you but in one Vice, away you fly
To fome new Frisk of Contrariety.

You rowl like Snow-Balls, gathering as you run,
And get feven Dev'ls, when difpoffefs'd of one.
Your Venus once was a Platonick Queen,
Nothing of Love befide the Face was feen;
But every Inch of her you now Uncafe,
And clap a Vizard-Mask upon the Face.
For Sins like thefe, the Zealous of the Land,
With little Hair, and little or no Band,
Declare how circulating Peftilences

Watch every Twenty Years, to snap Offences.
Saturn, even now, takes Doctoral Degrees,
He'll do your work this Summer, without Fees.
Let all the Boxes, Phœbus, find thy Grace,
And, ah, preferve thy Eighteen-penny Place!

But for the Pit Confounders, let 'em go,
And find as little Mercy as they show:
The Actors thus, and thus thy Poets Pray;
For every Critick fav'd, thou damn'ft a Play.

Upon the Nuptials of the Prince of Denmark, and the Lady Anne.

By Mr. DUKE.

As ;

through the flood to our expecting fhore,

Nereus commanded filence through the Deep,
And laid the Rage of warring Winds afleep,
Whilft thus he fung and smooth'd the Ocean's brow,
Go on in Triumph, happy Hero, go,
Propitious Heaven that on thy Valour smiles,
Prepares a full Reward for all thy toils,
Thy Noble toils of War, that rise above
All Recompence but thy bright Anna's Love:
The fairest Nymph of all the British Race,
Shall crown thy Courage, and thy Triumphs grace;
For her thy Heart, not cuftom'd to obey,
Shall lofe its fierceness and juft Homage pay;
Where e'er the looks she makes a Heart a Prize,
And ready Victory attends her Eyes.

To her bright Form do's filver Thetis yield,
And thou art Great as Pelens in the field:
Nor were their happy Nuptials grac'd more high,
When Gods defcending left the empty'd Sky,
Than fhall be thine, when mighty Charles and fames
Shall blefs your Love, and shall unite your Flames:
CHARLES that o'er all the watry Globe doth Reign,
And lays his Laws o'er the obedient Main:
And James, that in his Brother's Right hath dy'd
So oft with Hoftile Blood the fwelling Tide;

Tis for their Sakes my Waves thus gently flow,
And I thus fing and blefs you, as you go:
'Tis the last time that I to you shall fing,
Or my glad Waves to your attendance bring;
For when those wondrous Beauties you fhall fee,
That Charles, and James, and Heaven defign for thee,
Love fhall confine thee to that happy Shore,
Nor ever let thee part from that bleft and more.

On the DEATH of

KING CHARLES II.

By Mr. William Bowles.

H! where, protecting Providence! Ah! where)

That thro arm'd Troops the Royal Charge untouch'd did bear!

From Civil Fury and Inteftine Rage,

Which exercis'd his Youth, and vex'd his Age,
So often guarded; by a fierce Disease

He falls furpriz'd in the fallacious Calm of Peace.
Ah! mighty Prince! thy Mercy, Virtue fuch,
That Heav'n fure thought our Happiness too much;
Inherent Goodness in thy Soul did fhine,
Thou bright Refemblance of the Pow'r Divine;
For fure the Great Original is best

By Mercy, join'd with mighty Power, expreft.
In thy bleft Reign how juftly mixt appear
The Father's Kindness, and the Prince's Care!
Nor War, nor Exile, nor a Father's Blood,
Nor juft Revenge for injur'd Virtue, cou'd
The native fweetness of his mind controul,
Or change the Godlike Temper of his Soul.
Contending Rebels feem'd in vain to strive,
They could not more offend, than he forgive;

A nobler Triumph, and more glorious far,
Than all the Trophies of deftructive War:
For mercy does a bloodlefs conqueft find,
And with fweet force the rudeft Paffions bind.
The gaping wounds of civil rage he mourn'd,
And fav'd his Country firft, and then adorn'd.
Our dreadful Navy does in Triumph ride,
And the World's riches flow with ev'ry tide;
And, as thofe flying Tow'rs the Sea command,
His Caftles grace at once, and guard, the Land.
To his Protection improv'd Arts we owe,
And folid knowledge does from Trial grow;
(All fubje&t Nature ours) new Worlds are found,
And Sciences difdain their ancient bound.
Auguftus fo, the ftorms of War o'er-blown,
Agypt fubdu'd, and all the World his own,
His fofter hours in Arts of Peace employ'd,
And Rome adorn'd, by Civil Fire destroy'd.
Nor was he made only to bless our Isle,
But born for Peace, did Europe reconcile;
Contending Princes heard from him their Fate:
And the World's motion on his Will did wait.
The threatning Cloud we faw at laft withdrawn,
And a new Morn of Triumphs feem'd to dawn,
Th' Aufpicious Profpect did bright years foreshow,
And Golden Times in long fucceffion seem'd to flow:
Once more he did our Civil jars compofe,
And gain'd new glories from his Pardon'd Foes;
No private paffion to revenge could draw,
But Juftice govern'd, and impartial Law.
So juft, yet fo indulgently fevere,

Like Heav'n, he pity'd thofe he cou'd not spare.
And, forc'd to draw the neceffary fword,
The fad effects of their own crimes abhorr'd.
Now juft Success the Royal Conduct Crown'd,
And ftubborn Factions their great Sovereign own'd,
But ah! black fhades his facred Head furround.
Nor doft thou fall unwept: Three Kingdoms groan,
And in their Ruler's Fate bewail their own.

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