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PROLOGUE

TO THE UNIVERSITY OF OXFORD, 1713.

:

WHAT Kings henceforth fhall reign, what states be

Is fix'd at length by Anna's juft decree;

Whofe brows the Mufe's facred wreath fhall fit
Is left to you the arbiters of wit.

With beating hearts the rival poets wait

Till you Athenians fhall decide their fate,

Secure when to thefe learned feats they come
Of equal judgment and impartial doom.

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Poor is the player's fame, whose whole renown Is but the praife of a capricious town, While with mock majesty and fancy'd pow'r He ftruts in robes, the monarch of an hour! Oft' wide of nature must he act a part,

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Make love in tropes, în bombast break his heart,
In turn and fimile refigh his breath,

And rhyme and quibble in the pangs of death.
We bluth when plays like thefe receive applaufe,
And laugh in fecret at the tears we caufe,
With honeft fcorn our own fuccefs dildain,
A worthlefs honour and inglorious gain.
No trifling scenes at Oxford fhail
appear;
Well what we blush to act may you to hear.
To you our fam'd our ftandard plays we bring,
The work of poets whom you taught to fing:

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Tho' crown'd with fame they dare not think it due,
Nor take the laurel till beftow'd by you.

Great Cato's felf, the glory of the ftage!
Who charms, corrects, exalts, and fires, the age,
Begs here he may be try'd by Roman laws;
To you, O Fathers! he fubmits his caufe:
He refts not in the people's gen'ral voice
Till you the fenate have confirm'd his choice.
Fine is the fecret, delicate the art,
To wind the paffions and command the heart!
For fancy'd ills to force our tears to flow,
And make the gen'rous foul in love with wo,
To raife the fhades of heroes to our view,
Rebuild fall'n empires and old time renew,
How hard the task! how rare the godlike rage!
None fhould prefume to dictate for the stage
But fuch as boast a great extensive mind,
Enrich'd by Nature and by Art refin'd,

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Who from the ancient ftores their knowledge bring,

And tafted early of the Mufe's fpring.

May none pretend upon her throne to fit
But fuch as fprung from you are born to wit:
Chofen by the mob their lawless claim we flight;
Your's is the old hereditary right.

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COLIN AND LUCY,

A BALLAD.

OF Leinster, fam'd for maidens fair,
Bright Lucy was the grace,
Nor e'er did Liffy's limpid stream
Reflect so sweet a face;

Till luckless love and pining care
Impair'd her rofy hue,

Her coral lips and damask cheeks,
And eyes of gloffy blue.

Oh! have you feen a lily pale
When beating rains defcend?

So droop'd the flow-confuming maid,
Her life now near its end.

By Lucy warn'd, of flatt'ring fwains
Take heed, ye eafy Fair!

Of vengeance due to broken vows,
Ye perjur'd Swains! beware,

Three times all in the dead of night
A bell was heard to ring,
And fhrieking at her window thrice
The raven flapp'd his wing.

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Too well the lovelorn maiden knew
The folemn boding found,

And thus in dying words bespoke

The virgins weeping round:

"I hear a voice you cannot hear "Which fays I must not stay;

"I fee a hand you cannot fee Which beckons me away:

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"By a falfe heart and broken vows

"In early youth I die.

"Was I to blame because his bride

"Was thrice as rich as I?

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"Ah, Colin! give not her thy vows,

"Vows due to me alone;

"Nor thou, fond Maid! receive his kifs,

"Nor think him all thy own.

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"To-morrow in the church to wed

"Impatient both prepare;

"But know, fond Maid! and know, falfe Man!

"That Lucy will be there.

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"Then bear my corfe, my Comrades! bear,

"This bridegroom blithe to meet,

"He in his wedding-trim so gay,

"I in

my windingsheet."

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She fpoke; fhe dy'd. Her corfe was borne

The bridegroom blithe to meet,

He in his wedding-trim fo gay,

She in her windingsheet.

Then what were perjur'd Colin's thoughts?

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From the vain bride, ah! bride no more!

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One mould with her, beneath one fod,
For ever he remains.

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Oft' at this grave the conftant hind

And plighted maid are feen;
With garlands grey and trueloveknots
They deck the facred green.

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