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No zealous brother there would want a ftone,
To maul us cardinals, and pelt pope Joan:
Religion, learning, wit, would be fuppreft,
Rags of the whore, and trappings of the beaft:
Scot, Suarez, Tom of Aquin, must go down,
As chief fupporters of the triple crown;
And Ariftotle's for deftruction ripe;

Some fay, he call'd the foul an organ-pipe,
Which, by fome little help of derivation,
Shall then be prov'd a pipe of inspiration.



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By Mr. TATE, 1680.

yet there be a few that take delight

In that which reasonable men should write;

To them alone we dedicate this night.
The reft may fatisfy their curious itch
With city-gazettes, or fome factious fpeech,
Or whate'er libel, for the public good,
Stirs up the fhrove-tide crew to fire and blood.
Remove your benches, you apoftate pit,
And take, above, twelve pennyworth of wit;
Go back to your dear dancing on the rope,
Or fee what's worse, the devil and the pope.
The plays that take on our corrupted stage,
Methinks, refemble the diftracted age;


Noife, madnefs, all unreasonable things,
That strike at fense, as rebels do at kings.
The ftyle of forty-one our poets write,
And you are grown to judge like forty-eight.
Such cenfures our mistaking audience make,
That 'tis almoft grown fcandalous to take.
They talk of fevers that infect the brains;
But nonfenfe is the new disease that reigns.
Weak ftomachs, with a long difeafe oppreft,
Cannot the cordials of strong wit digeft.
Therefore thin nourishment of farce ye choose,
Decoctions of a barley-water mufe:

A meal of tragedy would make ye fick,
Unless it were a very tender chick.

Some scenes in fippets would be worth our time; Thofe would go down; fome love that's poach'd rhime;

If these fhould fail

We must lie down, and, after all our coft,

Keep holiday, like watermen in froft;

While you turn players on the world's great ftage,
And a&t yourselves the farce of your own age.

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o the UNIVERSITY of OXFORD, 1681.


HE fam'd Italian mufe, whofe rhimes advance Orlando, and the Paladins of France, ecords, that, when our wit and fenfe is flown, 'is lodg'd within the circle of the moon, earthen jars, which one, who thither foar'd, et to his nofe, fnuff'd up, and was restor’d. 'hate'er the story be, the moral's true; he wit we loft in town, we find in you. ur poets their fled parts may draw from hence, nd fill their windy heads with fober sense. /hen London votes with Southwark's difagree, [ere may they find their long-loft loyalty. [ere bufy fenates, to th' old caufe inclin'd, Tay fnuff the votes their fellows left behind: our country neighbours, when their grain grows dear, Tay come, and find their last provifion here: Whereas we cannot much lament our lofs,

Vho neither carry'd back, nor brought one cross.
We look'd what reprefentatives would bring;
But they help'd us, just as they did the king.
Yet we defpair not; for we now lay forth
The Sibyls books to those who know their worth;
And tho' the firft was facrific'd before,
T'hefe volumes doubly will the price restore.
Our poet bade us hope this grace to find,
To whom by long prefcription you are kind.
He, whofe undaunted Mufe, with loyal rage,
Has never fpar'd the vices of the age,
Here finding nothing that his fpleen can raise,
Is forc'd to turn his fatire into praise.



To a TRAGEDY call'd TAMERLANE the Great.

[By Mr. SAUNDERS, 1681.]

Adies, the beardless author of this day Commends to you the fortune of his play. A woman wit has often grac'd the stage; But he's the firft boy-poet of our age. Early as is the year his fancies blow, Like young Narciffus peeping thro' the fnow. Thus Cowley bloffom'd foon, yet flourish'd longs This is as forward, and may prove as ftrong. Youth with the fair fhould always favour find, Or we are damn'd diffemblers of our kind. What's all this love they put into our parts? 'Tis but the pit-a-pat of two young hearts. Should hag and grey-beard make fuch tender moan, Faith, you'd e'en truft them to themselves alone, And cry, Let's go, here's nothing to be done. Since Love's our bufinefs, as 'tis your delight, The young, who beft can practise, beft can write. What tho' he be not come to his full power, He's mending and improving every hour. You fly fhe-jockies of the box and pit, Are pleas'd to find a hot unbroken wit: By management he may in time be made, But there's no hopes of an old batter'd jade; Faint and unnerv'd he runs into a fweat, And always fails you at the fecond heat.


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