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O learned Friend of Abcburch-Lane,i:

Who fets our Entrails free?

Vain is thy Art, thy Powder vain, B
Since Worms fhall eat ev'n thee.

Our Fate thou only can'ft adjourned: Lim
Some few short Years, no more!!!
Ev'n Button's Wits to Worms shall turn,
Who Maggots were before.

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*VERSES occafioned by an &c. at the End of Mr. D'URFY's Name in the Title to one of his Plays.

OVE call'd before him, t'other Day,
The Vowels, UO, I, E, A.
All Dipthongs, and all Confonants,
Either of England, or of France; ›
And all that were, or wifh'd to be,
Rank'd in the Name of Tom D'Urfy.

FIERCE is this Caufe, the Letters Spoke all,
Liquids grew rough, and Mutes turn'd vocal.
Those four proud Syllables alone

Were filent, which by Fates Decree
Chim'd in fo fmoothly, one by one,
To the fweet Name of Tom D'Urfy.

This Accident happen'd by Mr. D'Urfy's having made a Flourish there, which the Printer mistook for An &c.

N, by

N, by whom Names fubfift, declar'd,
To have no Place in this was hard;
And maintain'd 'twas but his Due
Still to keep Company with U
So hop'd to ftand no less than he
In the great Name of Tom D'Urfy.

E fhew'd, a Comma ne'er could claim
A Place in any British Name;

Yet making here a perfect Botch,

Thrufts your poor Vowel from his Notch;
Hiatus mi valde deflendus !

From which good Jupiter defend us!
Sooner I'd quit my Part in thee,
Than be no Part in Tom D'Urfy.

P protested, puff'd, and swore,
He'd not be ferv'd fo like a Beast;

He was was a Piece of Emperor,
And made up half a Pope at least.

C, vow'd, he'd frankly have releas'd
His double Share in Cæfar Caius,
For only one in Tom Durfeius.
I, Confonant and Vowel too,

To Jupiter did humbly fue,
That of his Grace he wou'd proclaim
Durfeius his true Latin Name;

For tho' without them both, 'twas clear,

Himself could ne'er be Jupiter;

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Yet they'd refign that Poft so high,
To be the Genitive, Durfei.

B and L fwore bland W.
X and Z cry'd, Px and ZS,
G fwore by G-d, it ne'er should be,
And I wou'd not lofe, not he,
An English Letter's Property,
In the great Name of Tom Durfy.

IN fhort, the reft were all in Fray,

From Cbrifterofs to Et cætera.

They, tho' but Standers-by too, mutter'd;

Dipthongs, and Tripthongs, fwore and stutter'd;
That none had so much Right to be

Part of the Name of ftuttering T

TTom

saas De Dur-fy -fg.

THEN Jove thus fpake; With Care and Pain We form'd this Name, renown'd in Rhyme; Not thine, Immortal Neufgermain !

Coft ftudious Cabalifts more Time.

Yet now, as then, you all declare,
Far hence to Egypt you'll repair,
And turn ftrange Hieroglyphicks there;
Rather than Letters longer be,
Unless i'th' Name of Tom Durfy.

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A Poet, who ufed to make Verfes ending with the laft Syllables of the Names of thofe Perfons be praised: Which Voiture turn'd against him in a Poem of the Same Kind.

WERE

Prologue for Mr. Durfy's Play.
WERE you all pleas'd, yet what, I pray,
To foreign Letters could I say?
What if the Hebrew next fhou'd aim

To turn quite backward D'Urfy's Name?
Shou'd the Greek quarrel too, by Styx, I
Cou'd ne'er bring in Pfi and Xi ;
Omicron and Omega from us
Would each hope to be O in Thomas ;
And all th' ambitious Vowels vie,
No less than Pythagorick Y,

To have a Place in Tom D'Urfy.

THEN Well-belov'd and trufty Letters!
Cons'nants and Vowels, much their betters,
WE, willing to repair this Breach,
And all that in us lies, please each;
Et cet'ra to our Aid must call,
Et cat'ra reprefents ye all;
Et cat'ra therefore, we decree,
Henceforth for ever join'd fhall be
To the great Name of Tom Durfy.

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*PROLOGUE, defign'd for Mr. Durfy's laft Play.

ROWN old in Rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard

GR

Your perfevering, unexhaufted Bard:

H3

Damnation

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Prologue for Mr. Durfy's Play.

Damnation follows Death in other Men,
But your damn'd Poet lives, and writes again.
Th' advent'rous Lover is fuccefsful ftill,
Who strives to pleafe the Fair against her Will:
Be kind, and make him in his Wishes easy,
Who in your own Despite has ftrove to please ye.
He fcorn'd to borrow from the Wits of

yore;

But ever writ, as none e'er writ before.
You modern Wits, fhou'd each Man bring his Claim,
Have defperate Debentures on your Fame;
And little wou'd be left you, I'm afraid,

If all your Debts to Greece and Rome were paid,
From his deep Fund our Author largely draws;
Nor finks his Credit lower than it was.

Tho' Plays for Honour in old Time he made,
'Tis now for better Reasons
to be paid.
Believe him, he has known the World too long,
And feen the Death of much immortal Song..
He fays, poor Poets loft, while Players won,
As Pimps grow rich, while Gallants are undone.
Tho' Tom the Poet writ with Ease and Pleasure,
The Comick Tom abounds in other Treasure.
Fame is at beft an unperforming Cheat ;
But 'tis fubftantial Happiness to eat.

Let Ease, his laft Requeft, be of your giving,
Nor force him to be damn'd to get his Living.

PROLOGUE

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