But after he's once fav'd, to make amends,
In each fucceeding health they damn his friends:
So God begins, but ftill the devil ends.

What if fome one, infpir'd with zeal, should call,
Come, let's go cry, God fave him at Whitehall?
His best friends would not like this over-care,
Or think him ere the safer for this prayer.
Five praying faints are by an act allow'd;
But not the whole church-militant in croud.
Yet, should heaven all the true petitions drain.
Of Presbyterians, who would kings maintain,
Of forty thoufand, five would fcarce remain.

}

EPILOGUE to the fame.

A Virgin poet was ferv'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 nat'ral toy.
Were I to play my callow author's game,

The king's houfe would inftruct me by the name.
There's loyalty to one; I wish no more:

A commonwealth founds like a common whore:

Let husband or gallant be what they will,
One part of woman is true Tory still.
If any factious fpirit fhould rebel,

Our fex, with ease, can ev'ry rifing quell.

Then, as you hope we should

your failings hide, An honeft jury for our play provide.

Whigs at their poets never take offence;

They fave dull culprits, who have murder'd sense.
Thỏ nonfenfe is a naufeous heavy mass,

The vehicle call'd Faction makes it pafs.

Faction in play's the commonwealth-man's bribe;
The leaden farthing of the canting tribe:
Tho 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 fense.
In one poor ifle, why fhould two factions be?
Small diff'rence in your vices I can fee:
In drink and drabs both fides too well agree.
Would there were more preferments in the land:
If places fell, the party could not ftand:

Of this damn'd grievance ev'ry Whig complains; They grunt like hogs till they have got their grains, Mean time you see what trade our plots advance; We fend each year good money into France; And they that know what merchandize we need, Send o'er true Proteftants to mend our breed.

SPOKEN by Mr. HAR T,

At the Acting of the SILENT WOMAN.

HAT Greece, when learning flourish'd,

WHA only knew,

Athenian judges, you this day renew.

Here too are annual rites to Pallas done,
And here poetic prizes loft or won.
Methinks I fee you; crown'd with olives, fit,
And ftrike a facred horror from the pit.
A day of doom is this of your decree,
Where even the beft are but by mercy

free:

A day, which none but Jonfon durft have wish'd

to fee.

'Here they, who long have known the useful stage, 'Come to be taught themfelves to teach the age. As your commiffioners our poets go,

To cultivate the virtue which you fow;
In your Lyceum first themselves refin'd,
And delegated thence to human-kind.
But as ambaffadors, when long from home,
For new inftructions to their princes come;
So poets, who your precepts have forgot,
Return, and beg they may be better taught:
Follies and faults elfewhere by them are shown,
But by your manners they correct their own.
Th'illiterate writer, emperic-like, applies
To minds difeas'd, unfafe, chance, remedies :
The learned in fchools, where knowlege first
began,

Studies with care the anatomy of man;

Sees virtue, vice, and paffions in their caufe,
And fame from science, not from fortune, draws.
So Poetry, which is in Oxford made

An art, in London only is a trade.

There haughty dunces, whofe unlearned pen

Could ne'er fpell grammar, would be reading men. Such build their poems the Lucretian way;

So many huddled atoms make a play;

And if they hit in order by some chance,
They call that nature, which is ignorance.
To fuch a fame let mere town-wits afpire,
And their gay nonsense their own cits admire.
Our poet, could he find forgiveness here,
Would wish it rather than a plaudit there.
He owns no crown from those Prætorian bands,
But knows that right is in the senate's hands,
Not impudent enough to hope your praise,
Low at the Muses feet his wreath he lays,
And, where he took it up, refigns his bays.
Kings make their poets whom themselves think fit,
But 'tis your fuffrage makes authentic wit.

}

EPIL OG U E,

SPOKEN BY THE SAME.

Opoor Dutch peafant, wing'd with all his fear
Flies with more hafte, when the French
arms draw near,

Than we with our poetic train come down,
For refuge hither, from th' infected town: