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Thou art not hers : Give me that eager kiss.
Ungrateful! have I lost Morat for this ?
Will you ?-before my face?-poor helpless I
See all, and have my hell before I die !

[Sinks down. Emp. With thy last breath thou hast thy crimes

confest: Farewell; and take, what thou ne'er gav'st me,rest.But you, my son, receive it better here :

[Giving him INDAMORA's hand. The just rewards of love and honour wear. Receive the mistress, you so long have served ; Receive the crown, your loyalty preserved. Take you the reins, while I from cares remove, And sleep within the chariot which I drove.

[Exeunt. EPILOGUE.

A pretty task! and so I told the fool,
Who needs would undertake to please by rule:
He thought, that if his characters were good,
The scenes entire, and freed from noise and blood;
The action great, yet circumscribed by time,
The words not forced, but sliding into rhyme,
The passions raised, and calm by just degrees,
As tides are swell’d, and then retire to seas;
He thought, in hitting these, his business done,
Though he, perhaps, has fail'd in every one :
But, after all, a poet must confess,
His art's like physic, but a happy guess.
Your pleasure on your fancy must depend:
The lady's pleased, just as she likes her friend.
No song ! no dance! no show ! he fears you'll say :
You love all naked beauties, but a play.
He much mistakes your methods to delight;
And, like the French, abhors our target-fight:
But those damn’d dogs can ne'er be in the right.
True English hate your Monsieur's paltry arts,
For you are all silk-weavers in your hearts. *
Bold Britons, at a brave Bear-Garden fray,
Are roused, and, clattering sticks, cry, Play, play, play!
Meantime, your filthy foreigner will stare,
And mutters to himself,—Ha! gens

And, gad, 'tis well he mutters; well for him;
Our butchers else would tear him limb from limb.
'Tis true, the time may come, your sons may be
Infected with this French civility :
But this, in after ages will be done:
Our poet writes an hundred years too soon.
This age comes on too slow, or he too fast:
And early springs are subject to a blast!

* Enemies, namely, like the English silk-weavers to the manufactures of France.

+ Alluding to the prize-fighting with broad-swords at the Bear-Garden : an amusement sufficiently degrading, yet more manly, and less brutal than that of boxing, as now practised. We have found, in the lowest deep, a lower still.

Who would excel, when few can make a test
Betwixt indifferent writing and the best ?
For favours, cheap and common, who would strive,
Which, like abandon'd prostitutes, you give ?
Yet, scatter'd here and there, I some behold,
Who can discern the tinsel from the gold :
To these he writes; and if by them allow'd,
'Tis their prerogative to rule the crowd.
For he more fears, like a presuming man,
Their votes who cannot judge, than theirs who can.

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