Once, and but once, à Poet got the Day,
And vanquish'd Bufie in a Puppet- Play;
But Bufie rallying, arm'd with Zeal, and Rage,
Poffeft the Pulpit, and pull'd down the Stage.
To laugh at English Knaves is dang❜rous then,
While English Fools will think them honeft Men:
But fure no zealous Brother can deny us
Free leave with this our Monfieur Ananias.
A Man may fay, without being call'd an Atheist,
There are fuch Rogues among the French and Papists,
That fix Salvation to fhort Band and Hair,
That belch and fnuffle to prolong a Pray'r;
That ufe (enjoy the Creature) to express
Plain Whoring, Gluttony, and Drunkenness;
And, in a decent way, perform them too
As well, nay better far, perhaps, than you:
Whofe fleshly Failings are but Fornication,
We Godly phrase it, Gofpel-Propagation,
Just as Rebellion was call'd Reformation.
Zeal ftands but Cent'ry at the Gate of Sin,
Whilft all that have the Word pass freely in.
Silent, and in the dark, for fear of Spies,
We march, and take Damnation by furprize.
There's not a roaring Blade in all this Town
Can go
fo far tow'rds Hell for half a Crown,
As I for Six-pence, for I know the way;
For want of Guides Men are too apt to ftray:
Therefore give Ear to what I fhall advise,
Let ev'ry marry'd Man, that's Grave and Wife,
Take a Tartuff, of known Ability,
To teach and to encrease his Family,
Who fhall fo fettle lafting Reformation,
Firft get his Son, then give him Education.
EPILOGUE upon the Reviving of BEN. JOHNSON'S Play, call'd, Every Man in his Humour.
By the fame Hand.
Ntreaty fhall not ferve, nor Violence,
To make me speak in fuch a Play's defence.
A Play, where Wit and Humour do agree
To break all practis'd Laws of Comedy:
The Scene (what more abfurd) in England lyes,
No Gods defcend, nor dancing Devils rife;
No Captive Prince from unknown Country brought,
No Battle, nay there's fcarce a Duel fought;
And fomething yet more sharply might be faid;
But I confider the poor Author's dead;
Let that be his Excufe-----Now for our own,
Why, ------Faith, in my Opinion, we need none.
The Parts were fitted well; but fome will fay,
Pox on 'em Rogues, what made 'em chufe this Play!
I do not doubt but you will credit me,
It was not Choice, but meer Neceffity;
To all our writing Friends, in Town, we sent,
But not a Wit durft venture out in Lent;
Have patience but 'till Easter Term, and then
You shall have Jigg, and Hobby-horse agen.
Here's Mr. Matthew, our Domestick Wit,
Does promife one of the ten Plays h'as writ;
But fince great Bribes weigh nothing with the Juft,
Know, we have Merits, and to them we truft :
When any Fafts, or Holy-days, defer
The publick Labours of the Theatre,
We ride not forth, although the Day be fair,
On ambling Tit to take the Suburb Air,
But with our Authors meet, and spend that time
To make up Quarrels between Senfe and Rhyme."
Wednesdays and Fridays conftantly we fate,
"Till, after many a long and free Debate,
For divers weighty Reasons 'twas thought fit,
Unruly Sense shou'd ftill to Rhyme submit.
This the moft wholesome Law we ever made,
So ftrictly in this Epilogue obey'd,
Sure no Man here will ever dare to break.
Enter Johnson's Ghost.
Hold, and give way, for 1 my self will speak;
Can you encourage fo much Infolence,
And add new Faults still to the great Offence
Your Ancestors so rafhly did commit
Against the mighty Pow'rs of Art and Wit?
When they condemn'd those noble Works of mine,
Sejanus, and my best lov'd Catiline:
Repent, or on your guilty Heads fhall fall
The Curse of many a rhyming Paftoral:
The three bold Beauchamps fhall revive again,
And with the London-Prentice Conquer Spain.
All the dull Follies of the former Age
Shall find Applaufe on this corrupted Stage.
But if you pay the great Arrears of Praise,
So long fince due to my much-injur'd Plays,
From all paft Crimes I first will fet you free,
And then inspire some one to Write like me.
KNOTTING.
By the fame Hand.
T Noon, in a Sunfhiny Day,
The brighter Lady of the May,
Young Chloris innocent and gay,
Sate Knotting in a Shade:
Each flender Finger play'd its part,
With fuch Activity and Art,
As wou'd inflame a youthful Heart,
And warm the most decay'd.
Her Fav'rite Swain by chance came by,
He faw no Anger in her Eye;
Yet when the bashful Boy drew nigh,
She wou'd have feem'd afraid.
She let her Ivory Needle fall,
And hurl'd away the twifted Ball:
But ftraight gave Strephon fuch a Call,
As wou'd have rais'd the dead.
Dear gentle Youth, is't none but thee?
With Innocence I dare be free;
By fo much Truth and Modesty
No Nymph was e'er betray'd.
Come lean thy Head upon my Lap;
While thy fmooth Cheeks I ftroke and clap,
Thou may'ft fecurely take a Nap.
Which he, poor Fool, obey'd.
She faw him yawn, and heard him fnore,
And found him fast asleep all o're.
She figh'd and cou'd endure no more,
But ftarting up the faid,
Such Virtue fhall rewarded be:
For this thy dull Fidelity,
I'll truft thee with my Flocks, not me,
Purfue thy grazing Trade;
Go milk thy Goats, and fhear thy Sheep,
And watch all Night thy Flocks to keep;
Thou shalt no more be lull'd afleep
By me mistaken Maid,
A SONG to CHLORIS from the BLIND ARCHER.
H Chloris, 'tis time to disarm your bright Eyes,
And my by thofe terrible Glances;
We live in an Age that's more civil and wife,
Than to follow the Rules of Romances.
When once your round Bubbies begin but to pout, They'll allow you no long time of Courting, And you'll find it a very hard Task to hold out, For all Maidens are mortal at Fourteen.
SON
Written fome Time fince.
M with Phyllis and Chloris in every Song; [long
Ethinks the poor Town has been troubled too
By Fools, who, at once, can both love and despair, And will never leave calling them Cruel and Fair. Which justly provokes me, in Rhyme, to express The Truth that I know of bonny Black Befs.
This Befs of my Heart, this Befs of my Soul, Has a Skin white as Milk, and Hair black as a Coal, She's plump, yet, with ease, you may fpan her round Wafte,
But her round fwelling Thighs can scarce be embrac'd. Her Belly is foft, not a Word of the reft,
But I know what I think when I drink to the Beft.
The Plowman and 'Squire, the erranter Clown,
At home the fubdu'd in her Paragon Gown;
But now fhe adorns the Boxes and Pit,
And the proudest Town Gallants are forc'd to fubmit g
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