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Like Eastern Kings a lazy fate they keep,
From these perhaps (ere Nature bade her die)
But thou, false guardian of a charge too good,
What can atone (oh ever injur'd shade!) Thy fate unpity'd, and thy rites unpaid? No friend's complaint, no kind domestic tear Pleas'd thy pale ghoft, or grac'd thy mournful bier: 50 By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd, By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, By frangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd!
What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear, 55
So, peaceful, refts without a stone, a name,
Poets themselves must fall, like those they sung, 75
O wake the soul by tender strokes of art,
To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
wars, Ignobly vain and'impotently great, Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state ; 30 As her dead Father's rev'rend image past, The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercalt ; The triumph ceas'd, tears gush'd from ev'ry eye; The world's great Victor pass'd unheeded by; Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd,
35 And honour'd Cæsar's less than Cato's sword.
Britons, attend: be worth like this approv'd, And show, you have the virtue to be mov'd. With honeft fcorn the first fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdu'd; Your scene precariously subsists too long
41 On French translation, and Italian song. Dare to have sense yourselves; affert the stage, Be juftly warm’d with your own native rage: Such plays alone should win a British ear, 45 As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.
E PIL OG UE
Mr. Rowe's JANE SHORE.
Designed for Mrs. OLDFIELD.
PRoDicious this! the Frail.one of our Play
From her own sex should mercy find to-day! You might have held the pretty head afide, Peep'd in your fans, been serious, thus, and cry'd, The Play may pass - but that strange creature, Shore, I can't indeed now I so hate a whore
6 Just as a blockhead rubs his thoughtlefs skull, And thanks his stars he was not born a fool ; So from a sister finner you shall hear, " How strangely you expose yourself, my dear ?" 10 But let me die, all raillery apart, Our sex are still forgiving at their heart; And, did not wicked custom fo contrive, We'd be the best, good-natur'd things alive.
There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale, 15 That virtuous ladies
while they rail ; Such rage without betrays the fire within ; In some close corner of the soul, they sin; Still hoarding up, molt scandalously nice, Amidst their virtues a reserve of vice. The godly dame, who flehly failings damns, Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain cram:. VOLI,