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Mark if the fools, or men of fenfe, rejoice;
Whether the applause be only found or voice.
When our fop gallants, or our city folly
Clap over-loud, it makes us melancholy:
We doubt that scene which does their wonder

raife,

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And, for their ignorance, contemn their praise. Judge then, if we who act, and they who

write,

Should not be proud of giving you delight.
London likes grofly; but this nicer pit
Examines, fathoms all the depths of wit;
The ready finger lays on every blot;

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Knows what should justly please, and what fhould not.

Nature herself lies open to your view;

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You judge by her, what draught of her is true, Where outlines falfe, and colours feem too

faint,

Where bunglers dawb, and where true poets paint.

But, by the facred genius of this place,

By every Muse, by each domeftic grace,

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Be kind to wit, which but endeavours well, And, where you judge, prefumes not to excel, Our poets hither for adoption come,

As nations fued to be made free of Rome: 30 Not in the fuffragating tribes to stand,

But in

your utmost, last, provincial band,

If his ambition may thofe hopes pursue,

Who with religion loves your arts and you,
Oxford to him a dearer name shall be,

Than his own mother-university.

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Thebes did his green, unknowing, youth engage;

He chooses Athens in his riper age.

PROLOGUE

ΤΟ

ALBION AND ALBANIUS.

FULL twenty years ftage

and more, our labouring

Has loft, on this incorrigible age:

Our poets, the John Ketches of the nation,
Have feem'd to lash ye, even to excoriation; 4
But ftill no fign remains; which plainly notes,
You bore like heroes, or you bribed like Oates.
What can we do, when mimicking a fop,
Like beating nut-trees, makes a larger crop?
'Faith, we'll e'en fpare our pains! and, to con-
tent you,

Will fairly leave you what your Maker meant

you.

Satire was once your phyfic, wit

your food;

10

One nourish'd not, and t'other drew no blood:
We now prescribe, like doctors in defpair,
The diet your weak appetites can bear.
Since hearty beef and mutton will not do, 15
Here's julep-dance, ptifan of fong and show:

Give you ftrong fenfe, the liquour is too heady; You're come to farce,-that's affes milk,-already.

Some hopeful youths there are, of callow wit, Who one day may be men, if heaven think fit; Sound may ferve fuch, ere they to fenfe are grown,

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Like leading-strings, till they can walk alone. But yet, to keep our friends in countenance, know,

The wife Italians firft invented show;

Thence into France the noble pageant paft: 25 'Tis England's credit to be cozen'd last. Freedom and zeal have chous'd you o'er and

o'er ;

Pray give us leave to bubble you once more
You never were fo cheaply fool'd before:
We bring you change, to humour your dif-

eafe;

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Change for the worse has ever used to please: Then, 'tis the mode of France; without whose

rules,

None must presume to fet up here for fools. In France, the oldeft man is always young, Sees operas daily, learns the tunes fo long, Till foot, hand, head, keep time with every fong:

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Each fings his part, echoing from pit and box, With his hoarfe voice, half harmony, half pox.

Le plus grand roi du monde is always ringing, They show themselves good fubjects by their finging:

On that condition, fet up every throat;

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You whigs may fing, for you have chang'd your

note.

Cits and citeffes, raise a joyful strain, "Tis a good omen to begin a reign; Voices may help your charter to restoring, And get by finging, what you loft by roaring.

45.

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