EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN UPON

HIS ROYAL HIGHNESS THE DUKE OF YORK

Coming to the Theatre, Friday, April 21, 1682.

WHEN

HEN too much plenty, luxury, and cafe, Had furfeited this ifle to a difeafe; When noifome blains did its beft parts o'erfpread, And on the reft their dire infection fhed; Our great Physician, who the nature knew Of the diftemper, and from whence it grew, Fix'd, for three kingdoms' quiet, Sir, on you: He caft his fearching eyes o'er all the frame, And finding whence before one fickness came, How once before our mifchiefs fofter'd were, Knew well your virtue, and apply'd you there: Where fo your goodness, fo your juflice fway'd, You but appear'd, and the wild plague was stay'd. When, from the filthy dunghill-faction bred, 7 New-form'd rebellion durft rear up its head, Anfwer me all: Who ftruck the monfter dead?S See, fee, the injur'd prince, and blefs his name, Think on the martyr from whofe loins he came; Think on the blood was fhed for you before, And curfe the parricides that thirit for more.

foes are yours, then of their wiles beware: Lay, lay him in your hearts, and guard him there,

Where let his wrongs your zeal for him improve;
E. wears a fword will justify your love.
With blood ftill ready for your good t' expend,
And has a heart that nc'er forgot his friend.

His duteous loyalty before you lay,
And learn of him, unmurmuring to obey.
Tain's what he 'as borne, your quiet to restore;
Repent your modnefs, and rebel no more.

No more let Boutefcus hope to lead petitions, Scriveners to be treafurers; pedlars, politicians; Nor every fool, whofe wife has tript at court, Pluck up a fpirit, and turn rebel for't.

In lands where cuckolds multiply like ours, What prince can be too jealous of their powers, Or can too often think himself alarm'd? They're mal-contents that every where go arm'd: And when the horn'd herd's together got, Nothing portends a common-wealt.. like that. Caft, caft your idols off, your gods of wood, Fre yet Philistines fatten with your blood: Renounce your priefts of Baal with amen faces, Your Wapping feats, and your Mile-end high places.

Nail all your medals on the gallows poft,

In recompence th' original was loft:

At thefe, illuftrious repentance pay,

In his kind hands your humble offerings lay:
Let royal pardon be by him implor'd,
Th' atoning brother of your anger'd lord:
He only brings a medicine fit t' affuage
A people's folly, and rouz'd monarch's rage.
An infant prince, yet labouring in the womb,
Fated with wondrous happiness to come,
He goes to fetch the mighty bleflings home:

Send all your wifhes with him, let the air
With gentle breezes waft it fafely there,
The feas, like what they'll carry, calm and fair :
Let the illuftrious mother touch our land
Mildly, as hereafter may her fon command;
While our glad monarch welcomes her to fhore,
With kind affurance fhe fhall part no more.

Be the majestic babe then fmiling born,
And all good figns of fate his birth adorn,
So live and grow, a conftant pledge to stand
Of Cæfar's love to an obedient land.

SPOKEN TO

HER ROYAL HIGHNESS,

ON HER

RETURN FROM SCOTLAND,

IN THE YEAR 1682.

ALL you, who this day's jubilee attend,

And every loyal Mufe's loyal friend, That come to treat your longing wishes here, Turn your defiring eyes, and feaft them there. Thus falling on your knees with me implore, May this poor land ne'er lofe that prefence more! But if there any in this circle be, That come fo curft to envy what they fee, From the vain fool that would be great too foon, To the dull knave that writ the last lampoon! Let fuch, as victims to that beauty's fame, Hang their vile blafted heads, and die with fhame. Our mighty blefling is at laft return'd, The joy arriv'd for which fo long we mourn'd: From whom our prefent peace we expect encreas'd,

And all our future generations bleft.

Time, have a care: bring fafe the hour of joy,
When fome bleft tongue proclaims a royal boy:
And when 'tis born, let nature's hand be ftrong;
Blefs him with days of ftrength, and make them
long;

Till charg'd with honours we behold him stand,
Three kingdoms banners waiting his command,
His father's conquering fword within his hand :
Then th' English lions in the air advance,
And with them roaring mufic to the dance,
Carry a Quo Warranto into France.

PROLOGUE

TO MRS. BEHN'S

CITY HEIRESS, 1682.

HOW wain
of
[OW vain have prov'd the labours of the stage,

Poet's may write, the mischief to impeach;
You care as little what the poets teach,
As you regard at church what parfons preach,

But where fuch follies and fuch vices reign,
What honest pen has patience to refrain?
At church, in pews, ye most devoutly fnore,
And here, got dully drunk, ye come to roar;
Ye go to church, to glout and ogle there,
And come to meet more lewd convenient here:
With equal zeal ye honour either place,
And run fo very evenly your race,
Y' improve in wit just as ye do in grace.
It must be fo; fome dæmon has poffeft
Our land, and we have never fince been bleft.
Y' have feen it all, and heard of its renown,
In reverend shape it stalk'd about the town,
Six yeomen tall attending on its frown.
Sometimes, with humble note and zealous lore,
'Twould play the apoftolic function o'er :
But heaven have mercy on us when it swore!
Whene'er it swore, to prove the oaths were true,
Out of his mouth at random halters flew
Round fome unwary neck, by magic thrown,
Though still the cunning devil fav'd its own:
For when th' enchantment could no longer last,
'The fubtle Pug, most dextrously uncaft,
Left awful form for one more feeming pious,
And in a moment vary'd to defy us;
From filken doctor, home-fpun Ananias:
Left the lewd court, and did in city fix,
Where still by its old arts it plays new tricks,
And fills the heads of fools with politicks.
This dæmon lately drew in many a guest,
To part with zealous guinea for-no feast.
Who, but the most incorrigible fops,
For ever doom'd in difmal cells, call'd fhops,
To cheat and damn themselves to get their livings,
Would lay fweet money out in fham thanksgiv-

ings?

Sham plots you may have paid for o'er and o'er;
But who e'er paid for a fham treat before?
Had you not better fent your offerings all
Hither to us, than Sequeftrators' Hall?

I being your steward, juftice had been done ye;
I could have entertain'd you worth your money.

THE SIXTEENTH ODE

OF THE

SECOND BOOK OF HORACE.

IN ftorms when clouds the moon do hide,

And no kind stars the pilot guide, Shew me at fea the boldeft there, Who does not with for quiet here. For quiet, friend, the foldier fights, Bears weary marches, fleepless nights, For this feeds hard, and lodges cold; Which can't be bought with hills of gold. Since wealth and power too weak we find, To quell the tumults of the mind; Or from the monarch's roofs of state Drive thence the cares that round him wait: Happy the man with little bleft, Of what his father left poffeft;

No bafe defires corrupt his head,
No fears disturb him in his bed.
What then in life, which foon muft end,
Can all our vain defigns intend?
From fhore to fhore why fhould we run,
When none his tiresome self can fhun?
For baneful care will still prevail,
And overtake us under fail,

'Twill dodge the great man's train behind,
Out-run the roe, out-fly the wind.
If then thy foul rejoice to-day,
Drive far to-morrow's cares away.
In laughter let them all be drown'd:
No perfect good is to be found.
One mortal feels Fate's fudden blow,
Another's lingering death comes flow;
And what of life they take from thee,
The gods may give to punish me.
Thy portion is a wealthy stock,
A fertile glebe, a fruitful flock,
Horfes and chariots for thy ease,
Rich robes to deck and make thee please.
For me, a little cell I chufe,

Fit for my mind, fit for my Muse,
Which foft content does beft adorn,
Shunning the knaves and fools I fcorn.

Her cruelty all ease denies ;

With fome fad dream I start,
All drown'd in tears I find my eyes,
And breaking feel my heart.
Then rifing, through the path I rove,
That leads me where fhe dwells,
Where to the fenfelefs waves my love
Its mournful ftory tells:
With fighs I dew and kifs the door,

Till morning bids depart;
Then vent ten thousand fighs and more:
Alas! 'twill break my heart!

But, Sylvia, when this conqueft's won, And I am dead and cold,

Renounce the cruel deed you've done,
Nor glory when 'tis told;

For every lovely generous maid
Will take my injur'd part,
And curfe thee, Sylvia, I'm afraid,
For breaking my poor heart.

Therefore all you who have male iffue born
Under the starving fign of Capricorn,
Prevent the malice of their stars in time,
And warn them early from the fin of rhyme:
Tell them how Spenfer ftarv'd, how Cowley
mourn'd,

How Butler's faith and service was return'd
And if fuch warning they refuse to take,
This last experiment, O parents make!
With hands behind them fee th' offender ty'd,
The parish whip and beadle by his fide;
Then lead him to fome ftall that does expofe
The authors he loves moft; there rub his nofe,
Till, like a fpaniel lafh'd to know command,

He by the due correction understand, he land;

Till he against his nature learn to strive,
And get the knack of dulnefs how to thrive.

bays?

Tis plain they ne'er were of the first creation, But came by meer equivocal generation? Like rats in fhips, without coition bred, As hated too as they are, and unfed. Nature their fpecies fure muft needs difown, Scarce knowing Poets, lefs by Poets known. Yet this poor thing, fo fcorn'd and fet at nought, Ye all pretend to, and would fain be thought. Difabled wafting Whore masters are not Prouder to own the brats they never got, Than fumbling, itching rhymers of the town Tadopt fome bafe-born fong that's not their

THE BEGINNING OF

A PASTORAL

ON THE

DEATH OF HIS LATE MAJESTY.

WHAT

WHAT horror's this that dwells upon the plain, And thus disturbs the fhepherds' peaceful reign? A difmal found breaks through the yielding air, Forewarning us fome dreadful storm is near. The bleating flocks in wild confusion stray, The early larks forfake their wandering way, And ceafe to welcome-in the new-born day. Each nymph poffeft with a diftracted fear, Disorder'd hangs her loofe difhevel'd hair. Difeafes with her ftrong convulfions reign, And deities, not known before to pain, Arc now with apoplectic feizures flain. Hence flow our forrows, hence increase our fears, Each humble plant does drop her filver tears. Ye tender lambs, ftray not so fast away, To weep and mourn let us together stay : O'er all the universe let it be spread, That now the shepherd of the flock is dead. The royal Pan, that fhepherd of the sheep, He, who to leave his flock did dying weep, Is gone, ah gone! ne'er to return from Death's eternal fleep!

}

Begin, Damela, let thy numbers fly Aloft where the foft milky way does lie; Mopfus, who Daphnis to the stars did fing, Shall join with you, and thither waft our king. Play gently on your reeds a mournful ftrain, And tell in notes, through all th' Arcadian plain, The royal Pan, the fhepherd of the sheep, He, who to leave his flock did dying weep, Is gone, ah gone! ne'er to return from Death's eternal fleep!

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