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Who, to provoke revenge, rides round the fire,
And, with a civil congé, does retire :
But guiltless blood to ground must never fall;
There's Antichrist behind, to pay for all.
The punk of Babylon in pomp appears,
A lewd old gentleman of seventy years :
Whose age in vain our mercy would implore;
For few take pity on an old caft-whore.
The devil, who brought him to the same takes part;
Sits cheek by jowl, in black, to cheer his heart;
Like thief and parson in a Tyburn-cart.
The word is given, and with a loud huzza
The mitred moppet from his chair they draw:
On the Nain corpse contending nations fall:
Alas! what's one poor pope among them all!
He burns; now all true hearts your triumphs ring:
And next, for fashion, cry, God save the king!
A needful cry in midst of such alarms,
When forty thousand men are up in arms.
But after he's once saved, to make amends,
In each succeeding health they damn his friends:
So God begins, but still the devil ends.
What if some one, inspir'd with zeal, should call,
Come, let's go cry, God save him at Whitehall?
His best friends would not like this over-care,
Or think him e'er the safer for this prayer.
Five praying faints are by an act allow'd;
But not the whole church-militant in crowd.
Yet, should heaven all the true petitions drain
Of Presbyterians, who would kings maintain,
Of forty thousand, five would scarce remain.


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Virgin poet was serv'd up to-day,

Who, till this hour, ne'er cackled for a play.
He's neither yet a Whig nor Tory-boy:
But, like a girl whom several would enjoy,
Begs leave to make the best of his own natural toy.
Were I to play my

callow author's

game, The king's house would instruct me by the name. There's loyalty to one; I wish no more: A commonwealth sounds like a common whore Let husband or gallant be what they will, One part of woman is true Tory still. If any factious fpirit should rebel, Our sex, with ease, can every rising quell.. Then, as you hope we should your failings hide, An honest jury for our play provide. Whigs at their poets never take offence; They save dull culprits, who have murder'd sense. Though nonsense is a nauseous heavy mass, The vehicle call's Faction makes it pass. Faction in play 's the commonwealth-man's bribe; The leaden farthing of the canting tribe: Though void in payment laws and statutes make it, The neighbourhood, that knows the man, will take it, 'Tis faction buys the votes of half the pit; Their's is the pension-parliament of wit,


In city-clubs their venom let them vent;
For there 'tis fafe, in its own element.
Here, where their madness can have no pretence,
Let them forget themselves an hour of sense.
In one poor isle, why should two, factions be?
Small difference in


vices I can see: In drink and drabs both sides too well agree. Would there were more preferments in the land: If places fell, the party could not stand: of this damn'd grievance every Whig complains: They grunt like hogs till they have got their grains. Mean time


see what trade our plots advance;
We send each year good money into France;
And they that know what merchandize we need,
Send o'er true Protestants to mend our breed.


OUR play 's a parallel: the Holy League

Begot our Covenant: Guisards got the Whig: Whate'er our hot-brain'd sheriffs did advance Was, like our fashions, first produc'd in France; And, when worn-out, well scourg'd, and banish'd there; Sent over, like their godly beggars, here. Could the fame trick, twice play'd, our nation gull? It looks as if the devil were grown dull, Or serv'd us up, in scorn, his broken meat, And thought we were not worth a better cheat.



*The fulsome Covenant, one would think in reason,
Had given us all our bellies full of treason:
And yet, the name but chang’d, our nafty nation
Chaws its own excrement, th’ Association.
'Tis true we have not learn'd their poisoning way,
For that's a mode but newly come in play;
Besides, your drug's uncertain to prevail;

your true Protestant can never fail,
With that compendious instrument a fail.
Go on; and bite, e'en though the hook lies bare;
Twice in one age expel the lawful heirt:
Once more decide religion by the sword;
And purchase for us a new tyrant lord.
Pray for your king ; but yet your purses spare:
Make him not two-pence richer by your prayer.
To shew


love him much, chastise him more;
And make him very great, and very poor.
Push him to wars, but still no pence advance;
Let him lose England, to recover France.
Cry freedom up with popular noisy votes:
And get enough to cut each other's throats.
Lop all the rights that fence your monarch's throne;
For fear of too much power, pray leave him none.
A noife was made of arbitrary fway;
But, in revenge, you Whigs have found a way,
An arbitrary duty now to pay.
Let his own servants turn, to save their stake;
Glean from his plenty, and his wants forsake.
But let fome Judas near his person ftay,
To swallow the last sop, and then betray.



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Make London independent of the crown:
A realm apart; the kingdom of the town.
Let ignoramus juries find no traitors :
And ignoramus poets fcribble satires.
And, that your meaning none may fail to scan,
Do what in coffee-houses you began;
Pull down the master, and set

the man.






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UCH time and trouble this poor play has cost;

And, faith, I doubted once the cause was loft.
Yet no one man was meant; nor great nor small;
Our poets, like frank gamefters, threw at all.
**They took no single aim-
But, like bold boys, true to their prince and hearty,
Huzza'd, and fir'd broadsides at the whole
Duels are crimes; but, when the cause is right,
In battle every man is bound to fight.
For what should hinder me to sell my

Dear as I could, if once my hand were in?
Se defendendo never was a sin.
"Tis a fine world, my masters, right or wrong,
The Whigs must talk, and Tories hold their tongue.
They must do all they can
But we, forsooth, muft bear a christian mind;
And fight, like boys, with one hand ty'd behind.
Nay, and when one boy's down, 'twere wondrous nice,
To cry box fair, and give him time to rise.



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