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Thus while he frives to pleafe, he's forc'd to do 't,
Like Volfcius, hip-hop, in a single boot.
Criticks, he knows, for this may damn his books :
But he makes feasts for friends, and not for cooks.
Though errant-knights of late no favour find,
Sure
you

will be to ladies-errant kind.
To follow fame, knights-errant make profession :
We damfels Ay, to save our reputation :
So they, their valour show; we, our discretion.
To lands of monsters and fierce beasts they go :
We to those islands where rich husbands grow :
Though they're no monsters, we may make them fo.
If they're of English growth, they 'll bear 't with

patience : But fave us from a spouse of Oroonoko's nations ! Then bless your stars, you happy London wives, Who love at large, each day, yet keep your lives : Nor envy poor Imoinda's doating blindness, Who thought her husband kill'd her out of kindness. Death with a husband ne'er had shewn such charms, Had she once died within a lover's arms. Her error was from ignorance proceeding : Poor foul! she wanted some of our town-breeding ! Forgive this Indian's fondness of her spouse ; Their law no christian liberty allows : Alas! they make a conscience of their vows ! If virtue in a heathen be a fault; Then damn the heathen school where she was taught. She might have learn’d to cuckold, jilt, and ham, Had Covent-Garden been in Surinam.

PRO.

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HUSBAND HIS OWN CUCKOLD.
A COMEDY, WRITTEN BY MR. J. DRYDEN, JUN.
This year has been remarkable two ways,

For blooming poets, and for blafted plays :
We've been by much appearing plenty mock’d,
At once both tantaliz'd and over-stock’d.
Our authors too, by their success of late,
Begin to think third-days are out of date.
What can the caufe be, that our plays won't keep
Unless they have a rot some years like sheep?
For our parts, we confess, we ’re quite asham’d,
To read such weekly bills of poets damn'd.
Each parith knows 'tis but a mournful cafe
When christenings fall, and funerals increase.
Thus ’tis, and thus 'twill be when we are dead,
There will be writers which will ne'er be read.
Why will you be such wits, and write such things?
You're willing to be wasps, but want the stings.
Let not your spleen provoke you to that height,
'Odslife

you

don't know what you do, firs, when you write. You 'll find that Pegasus has tricks, when try'd, Though you make nothing on 't, but up and ride ; Ladies and all, l'faith, now get aftride.

Cona

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Contriving characters, and scenes, and plots,
Is grown as common now, as knitting knots :
With the same ease, and negligence of thought,
The charming play is writ, and fringe is wrought.
Though this be frightful, yet we're more afraid,
When ladies leave, that beaux will take the trade :
Thus far 'tis well enough, if here 'twould stop,
But should they write, we must e'en shut up shop.
How shall we make this mode of writing sink ?
A mode, said I ? 'ris a disease, I think,
A stubborn tetter that is not cur'd with ink.
For still it spreads, 'till each th' infection takes,
And seizes ten, for one that it forsakes.
Our play to-day is sprung from none of thefe ;
Nor should you damn it, though it does not please,
Since born without the bounds of your four seas.
For if you grant no favour as 'tis new,
Yet a

as a stranger, there is something due :
From Rome (to try its fate) this play was sent ;
Start not at Rome! for there's no popery meant ;
Though there the poet may his dwelling chuse,
Yet still he knows his country claims his Muse.
Hither an offering his first-born he fends,
Whose good, or ill success, on you depends.
Yet he has hope fome kindness may be shown,
As due to greater merit than his own,
And begs the fire may for the son atone.
There's his last refuge, if the play don't take,
Yet spare young Dryden for his father's fake.

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HER

ERE's a young fellow here-an actor-Powell

One whose person, perhaps, you all may know well;
And he has writ a play---this very play
Which you are all come here to see, to-day;
And so, it being an usual thing, to speak
Something or other, for the author's fake,
Before the play (in hopes to make it take)
I’m come, being his friend and fellow-player,
To say what (if you please) you ’re like to hear.
First know, that favour which I'd fain have shown,
I ask not for, in his name, but my own ;
For, without vanity, I'm better known.
Mean time then, let me beg you would forbear
Your cat-calls, and the inftruments of war.

For mercy, mercy, at your feet we fall,

Before your roaring gods destroy us all!
I'll speak with words sweet as distilling honey,
With words---as if I meant to borrow money;

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Fair,

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Fair, gentle sirs, most soft alluring beaux,
Think 'tis a lady, that for pity sues.
Bright ladies---but to gain the ladies

grace,
I think I need no more than fhew my face.
Next then, you authors, be not you severe ;
Why, what a fwarm of scribblers have we here !
One, two, three, four, five, fix, feven, eight, nine, ten,
All in one row, and brothers of the pen.
All would be poets; well, your favour's due
To this day's author, for he's one of you.
Among the few which are of noted fame,
I'm lạfe; for I myself am one of them.
You've seen me smoak at Will's among the wits
I'm witty too, as they are---that's by fits.
Now, you, our city friends, who hither come
By three o'clock, to make sure elbow-room :
While spouse, tuckt-up, does in her pattens trudge it,
With handkerchief of prog, like trull with budget,
And here, by turns, you eat plumb-cake and judge it;
Pray be you kind, let me your grace importune,
Or else---egad, I'll tell you your

fortune. Well now, I have but one thing more to say, And that's in reference to our third day; An odd request---may be you ’ll think it fo; Pray come, whether you like the play or no : And if you'll stay, we shall be glad to see you, If not---leave your half-crowns, and peace be wi' you!

all

PRO.

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