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Verses occafioned by an &c.
O learned Friend of Abcburcb-Lane,

Who sets our Entrails free ?
Vain is thy Aft, thy Powder vain,

Since Worms shall eat ev'n thee. To

Our Fate thou only can'ít adjournd

Some few short Years, no more!!
Ev'n Button's Wịtş, to Worms fhall turn,

Who Maggots were before. Eiu.

* 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, 7

The Vowels; U0, 1, E, A. All Dipthongs, and all Confonants, Either of England, or of France;' And all that were, or wish'd to be, Rank'd in the Name of Tom D'Urfy.

Fierce is this Cause, 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 so smoothly, one by one,

To the sweet Name of Tom D'Urfy.

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

N, by


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

E shew'd, a Comma ne'er could claim
A Place in any British Name ;
Yet making here a perfect Botch,
Thrusts your poor Vowel from his Notch ;
Hiatus mi valde deflendus !
From which good Jupiter defend us !
Sooner l’d quit my Part in thee,
Than be no Part in Tom D'Urfy.

P protested, puff'd, and swore,
He'd not be serv'd so 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 Cæjar Caius,
For only one in Tom Darfeius.

1, Consonant 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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100 Verses occafion'd by an &c.
Yet they'd resign that Poft so high,
To be the Genitive, Durfei.

B and I swore bland W-
X and Z cry'd, and 2s,
G swore by G-d, it ne'er should be,
And W wou'd not lose, not he,
An English Letter's Property,
In the great Name of Tom Durfy.

In short, the rest were all in Fray,
From Cbriftcross to Et cætera.
They, tho' but Standers-by too, mutter'd ;
Dipthongs, and Tripthongs, swore and futter'd;
That none had so much Right to be
Part of the Name of stuttering T-
T-Tom mening aas De - Dur-fy-fy.

THEN Jove thus spake ; With Care and Pain
We form'd this Name, renown'd in Rhyme ;

Not thine, * Immortal Neufgermain !
Cost studious Cabalifs more Time.

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

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* A Poet, who used to make Verses ending with the Loft Syllables of the Names of those Per fons be praised: Which Voicure turi'd against him in a Poem of tbe Same Kind,



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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 thou'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 Pfe 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-belor'd and trusty Letters!
Cons'nants and Vowels, much their betters,
WE, willing to repair this Breach,
And all that in us lies, please each ;
Et cætra to our Aid must call,
Et cat'ra represents ye all ;
Et cæt'ra therefore, we decree,
Henceforth for ever join'd shall be
To the great Name of Tom Durfy.


* PROLOGUE, dehgrid for Mr. Durfy's

last Play.

ROWN old in Rhyme, 'twere barbarous to

Your persevering, unexhausted Bard :




Prologue for Mr. Durfy's Play.
Damnation follows Death in other Men,
But your damnd Poet lives, and writes again.
Th’advent'rous Lover is fuccessful still,
Who strives to pleafe the Fair again? her Will:
Be kind, and make him in his Wishes easy,
Who in your own Despite has strove to please ye.
He scorn'd to borrow from the Wits of

yore; But ever writ, as none e'er writ before. You modern Wits, shou'd each Man bring his Claim, Have desperate Debentures on your Fame ; And little wou'd be lest you, I'm afraid, If all your

Debts to Greece and Rome were paid,
From his deep Fund our Author largely draws ;
Nor sinks his Credit lower than it was.
Tho' Plays for Honour in old Time he made,
'Tis now for better Reasons be paid.
Believe him, he has known the World too long,
And seen the Death of much immortal Song.
He says, 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 substantial Happinefs to eat.
Let Ease, his last Request,“ be of your giving,
Nur force him to be damn’d to get his Living.



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