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Intended to have been spoken by the Lady
HEN. MAR. WENTWORTH, when
CALISTO was acted at Court.
S Jupiter I made my court in vain ;
I'll now affume my native shape again.
I'm weary to be so unkindly us’d,
And would not be a God to be refus'd.
Staté grows uneasy when it hinders love;
A glorious burden, which the wise remove.
Now as a nymph I need not sue, nor try
The force of any lightning but the eye.
Beauty and youth more than a God command ;
No Jove could e'er the force of these withstand.
'Tis here that sov'reign power admits dispute ;
Beauty sometimes is justly absolute.
Our sulfen Cato's, whatsoe'er they say,
Ev'n while they frown and dictate laws, obey.
You, mighty Sir 2, our bonds more eafy make,
And gracefully, what all must suffer, take :
Above those forms the grave affect to wear ;
For 'tis not to be wise to be severe.
True wisdom may some gallantry admit,
And soften business with the charms of wit.
These, peaceful triumphs with your cares you bought,
And from the midst of fighting nations brought,
You only hear it thunder from afar,
And fit in peace the arbiter of war :
Peace, the loath'd manna, which hot brains despise.
You knew its worth, and made it early prize :
And in its happy leisure fit and see
The promises of more felicity :
Two glorious 3 nymphs of your own godlike line,
Whofe morning rays like noontide strike and shine:
Whom you to fappliant monarchs shall dispofe,
To bind your friends, and to disarm your foes.
Those nauseous harlequins in farce may pass ;
But there goes more to a substantial afs':
Something of man must be expos'd to view,
That, gallants, they may more resemble you.
Sir Fopling is a fool so nicely writ,
The ladies would mistake him for a wit ;
And, when he fings, talks loud, and cocks, would cry,
I vow, methinks, he's pretty company.
So brisk, fo gay, so travellid, fo refind,
As he took pains to graff upon his kind.
3 The Duke of York's two daughters, Mary and Ann.
True fops help nature's work, and go to school,
To file and finish God Almighty's fool.
Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call;
He's knight o'th' fhire, and represents ye all.
From each he meets he culls whate'er he can ;
Legion's his name, a people in a man.
His bulky folly gathers as it goes, ;
And, rolling o'er you, like a snow-ball grows.
His various modes from various fathers follow ;
One taught the toss, and one the new French wallow.
His sword-knot this, his cravat that design'd;
And this, the yard-long snake he twirls behind.
From one the sacred periwig he gain’d,
Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat prophan'd.
Another's diving bow he did adore,
Which with a log casts all the hair before,
Till he with full decorum brings it back,
And rises with a water-spaniel fhake.
As for his songs, the ladies dear delight,
These sure he took from most of
who write. Yet ev'ry man is safe from what he fear'd; For no one fool is hunted from the herd.
OU'VE seen a pair of faithful lovers die :
care ; for most of
'Twas a just judgment on their constancy.
For, heaven be thank'd, we live in such an age,
When no man dies for love, but on the stage:
And e’en those martyrs are but rare in plays;
A cursed sign how much true faith decays.
Love is no more a violent desire;
'Tis a mere metaphor, a painted fire.
In all our sex, the name examin'd well,
'Tis pride to gain, and vanity to tell.
In woman, 'tis of subtle intreft made:
Curse on the punk that made it first a trade!
She first did wit’s prerogative remove,
And made a fool presume to prate of love.
Let honour and preferment go for gold;
But glorious beauty is not to be sold:
Or, if it be, 'tis at a rate so high,
That nothing but adoring it should buy.
Yet the rich cullies may their boafting spare;
They purchase but sophisticated ware.
'Tis prodigality that buys deceit,
Where both the giver and the taker cheat.
Men but refine on the old half-crown way;
And women fight, like Swiffers, for their pay.
Eaven save ye, gallants, and this hopeful age;
Y'are welcome to the downfal of the stage: The fools have labour'd long in their vocation; And vice, the manufacture of the nation, O’erstocks the town so much, and thrives so well, That fops and knaves grow drugs, and will not sell, In vain our wares on theatres are shown, When each has a plantation of his own. His cause ne'er fails; for whatsoe’er he spends, There's still God's plenty for himself and friends. Should mea be rated by poetic rules, Lord! what a poll would there be rais'd from fools! Mean time poor wit prohibited muft lie, As if 'twere made some French commodity, Fools you will have, and rais’d at vast expence; And yet, as soon as seen, they give offence. Time was, when none would cry, That oaf was me; But now you strive about your pedigree. Bauble and cap no sooner are thrown down, But there's a muss of more than half the town. Each one will challenge a child's part at least; A sign the family is well increast. Of foreign cattle there's no longer need, When we're fupply'd so fast with English breed. Well! flourish, countrymen, drink, swear, and roar; Let ev'ry free-born subject keep his whore,