When thou could'st mix Ambition with my Joy,
Then, peevish Phantome, thou wer't nice and coy
Not Beauty would invade thee then,
Nor all the Arts of lavish Men;
Not all the pow'rful Rhet'rick of the Tongue,
No facred Wit cou'd charm thee on;
Not the foft Play that Lovers make,
Nor Sighs could fan thee to a Fire ;
No pleading Tears or Vows could thee awake,
Nor charm the unform'd----Something----to Defire.
Oft I've conjur'd thee to appear,
By Youth, by Love, by all their Pow'rs,
Have fearch'd and fought thee every where,
In filent Groves, in lonely Bowers,
On flow'ry Beds, where Lovers wishing lye,
In fheltring Woods, where fighing Maids
To their affigning Shepherds hye,
And hide their Blushes in the gloom of Shades.
Yet there, ev'n there though Youth affail'd,
Where Beauty proftrate lay, and fortune woo'd,
My Heart (infenfible) to neither bow'd;
Thy lucky aid was wanting to prevail.
In Courts I fought thee then, thy proper Sphere,
But thou in Crouds wer't ftifled there;
Intereft did all the loving bus'ness do,
Invites the Youths, and wins the Virgins too;
Or if by chance fome Heart thy Empire own,
Ah, Pow'r ingrate! the Slave must be undone.
Tell me, thou nimble Fire, that doft dilate
Thy mighty force through every part,
What God or human Power did thee create
In my (till now) unfacil Heart?
Art thou fome welcome Plague fent from above,
In this dear Form, this kind Disguise?
Or the falfe Off-spring of mistaken Love, Begot by fome foft Thought, that feeble ftrove With the bright-piercing Beauties of Lyfander's Eyes. Yes, yes, Tormenter, I have found thee now, And found to whom thou doft thy being owe; 'Tis thou the Blushes doft impart, 'Tis thou that trembleft in my Heart. When the dear Shepherd does appear, I faint and die with pleafing pain; My words intruding fighings break, When e'er I touch the charming Swain; When e'er I gaze, when e'er I speak, Thy confcious Fire is mingled with my Love. As in the fanctify'd Abodes
Mifguided Worshippers approve
The mixing Idols with their Gods.
In vain (alas) in vain I strive
With Errours, which my Soul do please and vex;
For Superftition will furvive,
Purer Religion to perplex.
Oh tell me, you Philofophers in Love,
That can these burning Fev'rish Fits controul,
By what ftrange Arts you cure the Soul,
And the fiery Calenture remove?
Tell me, ye Fair ones, you that give Desire, How 'tis you hide the kindling Fire. O wou'd you but confefs the Truth, It is not real Virtue makes you nice : But when you do refift the preffing Youth, 'Twas want of dear Defire to thaw the Virgin-Ice. And while your young Adorers lye,
All languishing and hopeless at your Feet; Raifing new Trophies to your Chastity, Oh, tell me how you do remain difcreet? And not the Paffion to the throng make known, Which Cupid in revenge has now confin'd to one. VOL. I.
How you fupprefs the rifing Sighs,
And the foft-yielding Soul that withes in your Eyes,
While to the admiring Crowd you nice are found,
Some dear, fome fecret Youth, who gives the wound,
Informs you all your Vertue's but a cheat,
And Honour but a false Disguise,
Your Modefty a neceffary flight,
To gain the dull repute of being Wife.
Deceive the foolish World, deceive it on,
And veil your Paffion in your Pride;
But now I've found your weakness by my own,
From me the needful fraud you cannot hide,
For, tho' with Vertue I the World perplex,
Lyfander finds the feeble of my Sex:
So Helen, tho' from Thefeus's Arms she fled,
To charming Paris yields her Heart and Bed.
A PROLOGUE,
Written by Mr. Dryden..
F yet there be a few that take delight
In that which reffonable Men fhould write ;
To them Alone we Dedicate this Night.
The Reft may satisfie their curious Itch
With City Gazets or fome Factious Speech,
Or what-e'er Libel for the Publick Good,
Stirs up the Shrove-tide Crew to Fire and Blood!
Remove your Benches you Apoftate Pit,
And take Above, twelve penny-worth of Wit;
Go back to your dear Dancing on the Rope,
Or fee what's worse, the Devil and the Pope!
The Plays that take on our Corrupted Stage,
Methinks refemble the distracted Age;
Noife, Madness, all unreasonable Things,
That strike at Senfe, as Rebels do at Kings!
The ftile of Forty One our Poets write,
And you are grown to judge like Forty Eight.
Such Cenfures our mistaking Audience make,
That 'tis almoft grown Scandalous to Take!
They talk of Fevers that infect the Brains,
But Non-sense is the new Disease that reigns.
Weak Stomachs with a long Disease oppreft,
Cannot the Cordials of ftrong Wit digeft.
Therefore thin Nourishment of Farce ye chufe,
Decoctions of a Barley-water Mufe:
A Meal of Tragedy would make ye Sick,
Unless it were a very tender Chick.
Some Scenes in Sippets wou'd be worth our time,
Those would go down; fome Love that's poach'd in
If these should fail----
We must lie down, and after all our coft,
Keep Holy-day, like Water-men in Froft,
While you turn Players on the World's great Stage, And Act your felves the Farce of your own Age.
Ladies, the Beardies Author of this Day
Commends to you the Fortune of his Play. A Woman Wit has often grac'd the Stage, But he's the first Boy-Poet of our Age. Early as is the Year his Fancies blow, Like young Narciffus peeping through the Snow; Thus Cowley Bloffom'd foon, yet Flourish'd long, This is as forward, and may prove as ftrong. Youth with the Fair fhould always Favour find, Or we are damn'd Diffemblers of our kind. What's all this Love they put into our Parts? 'Tis but the pit-a-pat of Two Young Hearts.
Should Hag and Gray-Beard make fuch tender
Faith you'd c'en truft 'em to themselves alone,
And cry let's go, here's nothing to be done.
Since Love's our Bufinefs, as 'tis your Delight,
The Young, who beft can practife, beft can Write.
What though he be not come to his full Pow'r,
He's mending and improving every
hour.
You fly She-Jockies of the Box and Pit,
Are pleas'd to find a hot unbroken Wit,
By management he may in time be made,
But there's no hopes of an old batter'd Jade;
Faint and unnerv'd he runs into a Sweat,
And always fails you at the Second Heat.
Spoken upon his Royal Highness the Duke of York's coming to the Theatre, Friday, April 21. 1682.
Written by Mr. Otway.
Hen too much Plenty, Luxury, and Ease,
Had furfeited this Ile to a Disease ;
When noisome Blains did its best parts o'erfpread,
And on the reft their dire Infection fhed;
Our Great Phyfician, who the Nature knew
Of the Distemper, and from whence it grew,
Fix't for Three Kingdoms quiet (Sir) on you:
He caft his searching Eyes o'er all the Frame,
And finding whence before one fickness came,
How once before our Mischiefs foster'd were,
Knew well your Virtue, and apply'd you there:
where fo your Goodness, so your Justice sway'd,
You but appear'd, and the wild Plague was ftay'd.
When, from the filthy Dunghil-faction bred,
New form'd Rebellion durft rear up its head,
Answer me all; who struck the Monster dead?
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