True wifdom may fome gallantry admit,
And foften business with the charms of wit.
Thefe peaceful triumphs with your cares you bought,
And from the midst of fighting nations brought.
You only hear it thunder from afar,
And fit in peace the arbiter of war:
Peace, the loath'd manna, which hot brains defpife,
You knew its worth, and made it early prize:
And in its happy leifure fit and fee
The promises of more felicity:
Two glorious nymphs of your own god-like line,
Whofe morning rays like noontide strike and shine;
Whom you to fuppliant monarchs fhall dispose,
To bind your friends, and to difarm your foes.
EPILOGUE to the MAN of MODE,
or Sir FOPLING FLUTTER.
(By Sir G. ETHEREGE. 1676.)
OST modern wits fuch monftrous fools have
fhown,
They feem not of heav'n's making, but their own.
Thofe naufeous Harlequins in farce may pass;
But there goes more to a fubftantial afs:
Something of man must be expos'd to view,
That, gallants, they may more resemble you.
Sir Fopling is a fool fo nicely writ,
The ladies would miftake him for a wit;
And, when he fings, talks loud, and cocks, would cry, I vow, methinks, he's pretty company;
So brifk, fo gay, fo travell'd, fo refin'd,
As he took pains to graft upon his kind.
True fops help nature's work, and go to school,
To file and finish God Almighty's fool.
Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call;
He's knight o' th' fhire, and reprefents ye all.
From each he meets he culls whate'er he can ;
Legion's his name, a people in a man.
His bulky folly gathers as it goes,
And, rolling o'er you, like a fnow-ball grows.
His various modes from various fathers follow;
One taught the tofs, and one the new French wallow,
His fword-kot this, his cravat that defign'd;
And this, the yard-long fnake he twirls behind.
From one the facred periwig he gain'd,
Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat profan'd.
Another's diving bow he did adore,
Which with a fhog cafts all the hair before,
Till he with full decorum brings it back,
And rifes with a water-fpaniel thake.
As for his fongs (the ladies dear delight)
Thefe fure he took from most of you who write.
Yet ev'ry man is fafe from what he fear'd;
For no one fool is hunted from the herd.
EPILOGUE to MITHRIDATES,
King of PONTUS.
(By Mr N. LEE. 1678.)
Ou've feen a pair of faithful lovers die:
And much you care; for most of you will cry,
'Twas a juft judgment on their conftancy.
For, heav'n be thank'd, we live in fuch an age,
When no man dies for love, but on the ftage:
And e'en those martyrs are but rare in plays;
A curfed fign how much true faith decays.
Love is no more a violent defire;
'Tis a meer netaphor, a painted fire.
In all our fex, the name examin'd well,
'Tis pride to gain, and vanity to tell.
In woman, 'tis a fubtle interest made:
Curfe on the punk that made it firft a trade!
She firft did wit's prerogative remove,
And made a fool prefume to prate of love.
Let honour and preferment go for gold;
But glorious beauty is not to be fold:
Or, if it be, 'tis at a rate fo high,
That nothing but adoring it should buy.
Yet the rich cullies may their boasting spare;
They purchate but fophifticated ware.
'Tis prodigality that buys deceit,
Where both the giver and the taker cheat.
Men but refine on the old half-crown way;
And women fight, like Swiffers, for their pay,
PROLOGUE to CAESAR BORGIA.
(By Mr N. LEE. 1630.)
H' unhappy man, who once has trail'd a pen, Lives not to pleafe himfelf, but other men; Is always drudging, waftes his life and blood, Yet only eats and drinks what you think good. What praise foe'er the poetry deserve, Yet ev'ry fool can bid the poet starve. 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 Ludegate is in arms. Were there no fear of Antichrist 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; Most of your talents lie another way. 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, Both for yourselves, and all the world befide. One theatre there is of vaft refort,
Which whilom of Requests was call'd The Court ; But now the great Exchange of News 'tis hight, And full of hum and buz from noon till night.
Up ftairs and down you run, as for a race,
And each man wears three nations in his face,
So big you look, though claret you retrench,
That, arm'd with bottl'd ale, you huff the French.
But all your entertainment still is fed
By villains in your own dull island bred.
Wou'd you return to us, we dare engage
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 fmelling a perfume to make you die;
A trick would make you lay your fnuff-box by.
Murder's a trade so known and practis'd there,
That 'tis infallible as is the chair.
But, mark their feast, you shall behold such pranks;
The pope fays grace, but 'tis the devil gives thanks.
Hefpis, the firft profeflor of our art,
To prove this true, if Latin be no trefpafs,
Dicitur et plauftris vexiffe poemata Thefpis.
But Æfchylus, fays Horace in fome page,
Was the firft mountebank that trode the stage:
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