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What tho' no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet fhall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be dreft,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There fhall the morn her earliest tears beftow, 65
There the first roses of the year fhall blow ;
While Angels with their filver wings o'erfhade
The ground now facred by thy reliques made.

So peaceful refts without a stone a name, 69 What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not, To whom related, or by whom begot;

A heap of duft alone remains of thee,

'Tis all thou art, and all the proud fhall be! 74 Poets themselves muft fall like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose foul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays; Then from his clofing eyes thy form shall part, And the laft pang fhall tear thee from his heart, Life's idle business at one gafp be o'er,

The Mufe forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

PROLOGUE

ΤΟ

Mr. ADDISON'S Tragedy

O F

CATO.

O wake the foul by tender ftrokes of art,

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To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold: For this the Tragic Muse first trod the ftage, 5 Commanding tears to stream thro' ev'ry age; Tyrants no more their favage nature kept, And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept. Our author fhuns by vulgar fprings to move The hero's glory, or the virgin's love; In pitying Love, we but our weakness show,

IQ

Here tears shall flow from a more gen'rous caufe,
Such tears as Patriots shed for dying Laws:

He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rife, 15
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confefs'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was:
No common object to your fight difplays,
But what with pleasure Heav'n itself surveys, 20
A brave man struggling in the ftorms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling ftate.

25

While Cato gives his little Senate laws,
What bofom beats not in his Country's cause?
Who fees him act, but envies ev'ry deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev'n when proud Cæfar 'midft triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain and impotently great,

Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in ftate; 30
As her dead Father's rev'rend image past,

The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercaft;

NOTES.

VER. 20. But what with pleafure] This alludes to a famous paffage of Seneca, which Mr. Addifon afterwards ufed as a motte. to his play, when it was printed.

35

The Triumph ceas'd, tears gufh'd from ev'ry eye;
The World's great Victor pafs'd unheeded by;
Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Cæfar's lefs than Cato's sword.
Britons, attend: be worth like this approv'd,
And show, you have the virtue to be mov'd.
With honeft fcorn the first fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning arts fromGreece, whom she subdu'd;
Your scene precariously subfifts too long

On French tranflation, and Italian song.
Dare to have fenfe yourselves; affert the stage,

* Be justly warm'd with your own native rage:
Such Plays alone should win a British ear,
As Cato's felf had not difdain'd to hear.

NOTES.

4I

45

VER. 37. Britons, attend :] Mr. Pope had written it arife, in the spirit of Poetry, and Lberty; but Mr. Addifon frighten'd at fo daring an expreffion, which, he thought, fquinted at rebellion, would have it alter'd, in the fpirit of Profe and Politics, to attend.

VER. 46. As Cato's felf, etc.] This alludes to that famous story of his going into the Theatre, and immediately coming out again,

EPILOGUE

то

Mr. Rowe's JANE SHORE.

PR

Defign'd for Mrs, OLDFIELD.

Rodigious this! the Frail-one of our Play From her own Sex fhould mercy find to-day! You might have held the pretty head afide, Peep'd in your fans, been ferious, thus, and cry'd, The Play may pafs--but that ftrange creature, Shore, I can't--indeed now--I fo hate a whore-

Juft as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull,
And thanks his ftars he was not born a fool;
So from a fifter finner you fhall hear,
"How ftrangely you expofe yourself, my dear?"
But let me die, all raillery apart,

Our fex are still forgiving at their heart;
And, did not wicked cuftom fo contrive,

We'd be the beft, good-natur'd things alive.

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