I guess your minds: the miftrefs would be
And naufeous matrimony fent a packing.
The devil's in you all; mankind's a rogue;
You love the bride, but you deteft the clog.
After a year, poor spouse is left i' th' lurch,
And you, like Haynes, return to mother-church.
Or, if the name of Church comes cross
Chapels of eafe behind our scenes
you find. The playhouse is a kind of market-place ; One chaffers for a voice, another for a face: Nay, fome of you, I dare not fay how many, 25 Would buy of me a pen'worth for your penny. E'en this poor face, which with my fan I hide, Would make a shift my portion to provide, With fome small perquifites I have befide. Though for your love, perhaps, I should not
I could not hate a man that bids me fair.
What might enfue, 'tis hard for me to tell; But I was drench'd to-day for loving well, And fear the poifon that would make me fwell.
the mistress would be taken,
And nauseous matrimony fent a packing.] The incident of Lady Eafy's throwing her handkerchief over Sir Charles's head, whilft he was fleeping, feems to have been taken from the Memoirs of Baffompiere, concerning a Count d'Orgevillier and his mistress, tom. ii. p. 6. 1728. at Amfterdam. Dr. J. WARTON,
To fay, this comedy pleas'd long ago,
Is not enough to make it pafs you now.
Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit;
When few men cenfur'd, and when fewer writ.
And Jonfon, of thofe few the beft, chofe this, s
As the best model of his mafter-piece.
Subtle was got by our Albumazar,
That Alchymift by this Aftrologer;
Here he was fashion'd, and we may fuppofe
He lik'd the fashion well, who wore the clothes.
But Ben made nobly his what he did mould; 11
What was another's lead, becomes his gold:
Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns,
Yet rules that well, which he unjustly gains.
But this our age fuch authors does afford,
As make whole plays, and yet fcarce write one
Who, in this anarchy of wit, rob all,
And what's their plunder, their poffeffion call:
Who, like bold padders, fcorn by night to prey,
But rob by fun-fhine, in the face of day:
Nay fcarce the common ceremony use
Of, Stand, Sir, and deliver up your Mufe;
But knock the Poet down, and, with a grace,
Mount Pegasus before the author's face.
Faith, if you have fuch country Toms abroad, 25
'Tis time for all true men to leave that road.
Yet it were modeft, could it but be faid,
They ftrip the living, but these rob the dead ;
Dare with the mummies of the Mufes play,
And make love to them the Egyptian way; se
Or, as a rhiming author would have faid,
Join the dead living to the living dead.
Such men in Poetry may claim fome part:
They have the license, though they want the art;
And might, where theft was prais'd, for Lau-
reats ftand,
Poets, not of the head, but of the hand.
They make the benefits of others ftudying,
Much like the meals of politic Jack-Pudding,
Whose dish to challenge no man has the cou-
rage;
"Tis all his own, when once he has fpit i' the porridge.
But, gentlemen, you're all concern'd in this;
You are in fault for what they do amifs :
For they their thefts still undiscover'd think,
And durft not steal, unless you please to wink.
Perhaps, you may award by your decree,
They should refund; but that can never be.
For fhould you letters of reprifal feal,
Thefe men write that which no man elfe would fteal.
YOU faw our wife was chafte, yet throughly
And, without doubt, you're hugely edify'd;
For, like our hero, whom we fhew'd to-day,
You think no woman true, but in a play.
Love once did make a pretty kind of show: 5 Efteem and kindnefs in one breaft would grow:
But 'twas Heaven knows how many years ago.
Now fome small chat, and guinea expectation,
Gets all the pretty creatures in the nation :
In comedy your little felves you meet;
'Tis Covent Garden drawn in Bridges-street.
Smile on our author then, if he has fhown
A jolly nut-brown bastard of your own.
Ah! happy you, with ease and with delight,
Who act those follies, Poets toil to write!
The fweating Mufe does almoft leave the chace;
She puffs, and hardly keeps your Protean vices
Pinch but in one vice, away you fly
To fome new frifk of contrariety.
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