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Our author, young and grateful in his nature,
Vows, that from him no nymph deserves a fatire:
Nor will he ever draw-I mean his rhyme-
Against the sweet partaker of his crime.
Nor is he yet fo bold an undertaker,

To call men fools; 'tis railing at their Maker.
Befides, he fears to fplit upon that shelf;
He's young enough to be a fop himself:
And, if his praise can bring you all a-bed,
He fwears fuch hopeful youth no nation ever bred.
Your nurfes, we prefume, in fuch a case,

Your father chofe, because he lik'd the face;
And, often, they fupply'd your mother's place.
The dry nurse was your mother's ancient maid,
Who knew fome former flip fhe ne'er betray'd.
Betwixt them both, for milk and fugar-candy,
Your fucking-bottles were well ftor'd with brandy.
Your father, to initiate your discourse,

Meant to have taught you firft to fwear and curfe,
But was prevented by each careful nurse.

For, leaving dad and mam, as names too common,
They taught you certain parts of man and woman..
I pass your schools; for there when first you came,
You would be fure to learn the Latin name.
In colleges you fcorn'd the art of thinking,

But learn'd all moods and figures of good drinking:
'Thence come to town, you practise play, to know
The virtues of the high dice, and the low.
Each thinks himfelf a fharper moft profound:
He cheats by pence; is cheated by the pound.




With these perfections, and what else he gleans,
The fpark fets up for love behind our scenes ;
Hot in pursuit of princeffes and queens.

There, if they know their man, with cunning carriag
Twenty to one but it concludes in marriage.

He hires fome homely room, love's fruits to gather, And garret-high rebels against his father:

But he once dead

Brings her in triumph, with her portion, down,
A toilet, dreffing-box, and half a crown.

Some marry first, and then they fall to fcowering,
Which is, refining marriage into whoring.
Our women batten well on their good-nature;
All they can rap and rend for the dear creature.
But while abroad fo liberal the dolt is,

Poor spouse at home as ragged as a colt is.
Laft, fome there are, who take their first degrees
Of lewdness in our middle galleries.

The doughty bullies enter bloody drunk,
Invade and grubble one another's punk:
They caterwaul, and make a dismal rout,
Call fons of whores, and ftrike, but ne'er lug out:
Thus while for paltry punk they roar and ftickle,.
They make it bawdier than a conventicle..





INCE faction ebbs, and rogues grow out of fashion,


Their penny-fcribes take care t' inform the nation, How well men thrive in this or that plantation:

How Penfylvania's air agrees with Quakers,
And Carolina's with Affociators:

Both ev❜n too good for madmen and for traitors.

Truth is, our land with faints is fo run o'er,
And every age produces fuch a store,

That now there's need of two New-Englands more.

What's this, you'll fay, to us and our vocation?
Only thus much, that we have left our station,
And made this theatre our new plantation.

The factious natives never could agree;
But aiming, as they call'd it, to be free,
Those play-house Whigs fet up for property.
Some fay, they no obedience paid of late;
But would new fears and jealoufies create;
Till topfy-turvy they had turn'd the state.

Plain fenfe, without the talent of foretelling,

Might guefs 'twould end in downright knocks and quelling:

For feldom comes there better of rebelling.

*At the opening of their Theatre, 1683.


When men will, needlefsly, their freedom barter
For lawless power, fometimes they catch a Tartar;
There's a damn'd word that rhymes to this, call'd

But, fince the victory with us remains,

You fhall be call'd to twelve in all our gains;
If you'll not think us faucy for our pains.

Old men fhall have good old plays to delight them:
And you, fair ladies and gallants, that flight them,
We'll treat with good new plays; if our new wits can
write them.

We'll take no blundering verse, no fustian tumor,
No dribbling love, from this or that presumer;
No dull fat fool shamm❜d on the stage for humour.
For, faith, fome of them fuch vile ftuff have made,
As none but fools or fairies ever play'd;
But 'twas, as fhopmen fay, to force a trade.

We 've given you Tragedies, all sense defying,
And finging men, in woful metre dying;
This 'tis when heavy lubbers will be flying.

All these difafters we well hope to weather;
We bring you none of our old lumber hither:
Whig poets and Whig sheriffs may hang together.




NEW minifters, when firft they get in place,

Must have a care to please; and that's our cafe: Some laws for public welfare we defign,

If you, the power fupreme, will please to join:
There are a fort of prattlers in the pit,

Who either have, or who pretend to wit:
Thefe noify firs fo loud their parts rehearse,
That oft the play is filenc'd by the farce.
Let fuch be dumb, this penalty to fhun,
Each to be thought my lady's eldest fon.
But ftay: methinks some vizard mask I fee,
Caft out her lure from the mid gallery:
About her all the fluttering fparks are rang'd;
The noife continues though the scene is chang'd:
Now growling, fputtering, wauling, such a clutter,
'Tis juft like pufs defendant in a gutter:

Fine love, no doubt; but ere two days are o'er ye,
The furgeon will be told a woful ftory.

Let vizard mask her naked face expose,
On pain of being thought to want a nofe:
Then for your lacqueys, and your train befide,
By whate'er name or title dignify'd,

They roar fo loud, you'd think behind the stairs
Tom Dove, and all the brotherhood of bears:
They 're grown a nuifance, beyond all difafters;
We've none fo great but their unpaying mafters.


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