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(Content our short-liyid Praifes to engage,
The Joy and Wonder of a single Age,)
Unless some Poet in a lasting Song,
To late Posterity their Fame prolong,
Inftru&t our Sons the radiant. Form to prize,
And see your Beauty with their Fathers Eyes.

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W

Hilft Maudlin Whigs bewail'd their C A TO's Fate,

Still with dry. Eyes the Tory CÆLIA fat, bi But tho' her Pride forbad.the Tears to flow, vi The gushing Waters found a Vent below; 'Tho' secret, yet with powerful Streams she mourns, Like twenty River-Gods with all their Urns. Let others New an Hypocritick Face, She shews her Grief in a sincerer place; There Nature reigns, and Pallion's void of Art, For that Road leads dire&ly to the Heart..

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A

PROLOGUE

FOR THE

Fourth of November, 1712.

Being the ANNIVERSARY of the Birth,

Marriage, and Day of Landing in England, of the late King WILLIAM the Third, of Glorious and Immortal MEMORY,

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O Day a Mighty HERO comes to warm
Your curdld Blood, and bids you Britains

arm.

To Valour much he owes, to Virtue more; He fights to save, and conquers to restore. He strains no Text, nor makes Dragoons perswade, He likes RELIGION, but He hates that Trade;

Born

Born for MANKIND, They by his Labours live, Their PROPERTY, is his PREROGATIVE. His Sword destroys less than his Mercy faves, And none, except his Passions, are his Slaves. “ With how much haste his Mercy meets his Foes! " And how unbounded his Forgiveness flows! '« What Trophies o'er our captiv'd Hearts he rears, " By MODERATION, greater than by Wars! “ His Generous Soul for FREEDOM was design'd, “ To pull down Tyrants, and unsave MANKIND; “ He broke the CHAINS of EUROPE; and when we “ Were doom'd før Slaves, he came and set us Free: " Shew'd us how Grace made Majesty reverd, “ And that the PRINCE-belov’d, was truly fear'd.

Such, Britains ! was the PRINCE you did possess, In Councils Great, and in the Camp.no Lefs. Brave, but not Cruel; Wise without Deceit, Born for an Age eurs'd with a Bajazet. But you disdaining to be too secure, Ask'd his P R O TECTION, and yet grudg'd his Power : With you a Monarch's Right admits Dispute, Who give Supplies, are only Absolute. Britains, for shame, your Factious Feuds decline, You've too long Labour'd for the Bourbon Line; Affert loft Rights, an Austrian Prince alone, Is born to Nod upon the Spanish Throne.

Quit your Cabals, Associate, and in Spight
OF WHIG or TORY, in this Cause Unite:
One Vote will then send Anjou into Francez
There let him with Mock-Monarchs rule the Dance.
Else to the Mantuan Soil he may repair,
Ey’n exil'd GODs of Old, were Latium's Care,
At worft he'll find some Cornish Burrough there.

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D

DEAR old Brother, Jo,
Laft Week

you

must know,
Being tir’d with Walking and Thinking;

As soon as 'twas Night,
We whisk'd up a Light;
And refresh'd our Spirits with Drinking.

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