Or, what can wars to after-times affure,
Of which our prefent age is not secure?
All that our monarch wou'd for us ordain,
Is but t' enjoy the bleffings of his reign.
Our land's an Eden, and the main's our fence,
While we preserve our state of innocence:
That loft, then beasts their brutal force employ,
And first their lord, and then themselves destroy.
What civil broils have coft, we know too well;
Oh! let it be enough that once we fell!
And ev'ry heart confpire, and ev'ry tongue,
Still to have fuch a king, and this king long.
PROLOGUE to the LOYAL BROTHER; Or, The PERSIAN PRINCE.
Oets, like lawful monarchs, rul'd the stage, [age,
Till critics, like damn'd Whigs, debauch'd our Mark how they jump: Critics wou'd regulate
Our theatres, and Whigs reform our state:
Both pretend love, and both (plague rot 'em!) 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 remonstrance hides.
Thefe will no taxes give, and thofe no pence;
Critics would farve the poet, Whigs the prince.
The critic all our troops of friends difcards;
Juft fo the Whig wou'd fain pull down the guards.
Guards are illegal, that drive foes away,
As watchful fhepherds, that fright beasts of prey.
Kings, who difband fuch needlefs aids as these,
Are fafe--as long as e'er their fubjects please:
And that wou'd be 'till next Queen Befs's night:
Which thus grave penny chroniclers indite.
Sir Edmond Bury firft, 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 congee, 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 feventy years:
Whofe age in vain our mercy wou'd implore;
For few take pity on an old caft whore.
The dev'l, 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 giv'n, and with a loud huzza
The mitred puppet from his chair they draw:
On the flain corps contending nations fall :
Alas! what's one poor pope among 'em 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 thousand 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, inspir'd with zeal, fhou'd call,
Come, let's go cry, God fave him at Whitehall?
His best friends wou'd not like this over-care,
Or think him e'er the fafer for this pray'r.
Five praying faints are by an act allow'd;
But not the whole church-militant in crowd.
Yet, fhou'd Heav'n all the true petitions drain
Of presbyterians, who wou'd kings maintain,
Of forty thoufand, five wou'd fcarce remain.
A Virgin poet was ferv'd up to-day,
Who, till this hour, ne'er cackl'd for a play.
He's neither yet a Whig nor Tory boy;
But, like a girl, whom fev'ral wou'd 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 wou'd inftruct me by the name.
There's loyalty to one: I with no more:
A commonwealth founds like a common whore.
1.et hufband or gallant be what they will,
One part of woman is true Tory still.
If any factious fpirit fhould rebel,
Our fex, with eafe, can ev'ry rifing quell.
Then, as you hope we fhou'd 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 fenfe.
Tho' nonfenfe is a naufeous heavy mafs,
The vehicle call'd faction makes it pafs.
Faction in plays the common-wealth-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 pretence,
Let them forget themselves an hour of fenfe.
In one poor ifle, why thou'd two factions be?
Small diff'rence in your vices I can fee:
In drink and drabs both fides too well agree.
Wou'd there were more preferments in the land:
If places fell, the party cou'd not stand.
Of this damn'd grievance ev'ry Whig complains;
They grunt like hogs, till they have got their grains.
Mean time you fee what trade our plots advance;
We fend each year good money into France;
And they that know what merchandise we need,
Send o'er true proteftants to mend our breed.
EPILOGUE to CONSTANTINE the GREAT.
UR hero's happy in the play's conclufion;
The holy rogue at laft has inet confufion :
Tho' Arius all along appear'd a faint,
The last act fhew'd him a true Proteftant.
Eufebius (for you know I read Greek anthors,)
Reports, that, after all these plots and flaughters,
The court of Conftantine was full of glory,
And ev'ry Trimmer turn'd addressing Tory.
They follow'd him in herds as they were mad:
When Claufe was king, then all the world was glad.
Whigs kept the places they possest before,
And moft were in a way of getting more;
Which was as much as faying, Gentlemen,
Here's pow'r and money to be rogues again.
Indeed, there were a fort of peaking tools,
Some call them modeft, but I call them fools,
Men much more loyal, tho' not half fo loud;
But thefe poor devils were caft behind the crowd.
For bold knaves thrive without one grain of fenfe,
But good men ftarve for want of impudence.
Befides all thefe, there were a fort of wights,
(I think my author calls them Tekelites)
Such hearty rogues against the king and laws,
They favour'd e'en a foreign rebel's caufe.
When their own damn'd defign was quafh'd and aw'd,
At least, they gave it their good word abroad.
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