All Hearts fall a leaping wherever she comes,
And beat day and night, like my Lord Craven's Drums.

IV.

I dare not permit her to come to Whitehall, For fhe'd out-fhine the Ladies, Paint, Jewels, and all ; If a Lord should but whifper his Love in the Croud, She'd fell him a Bargain, and laugh out aloud; Then the Queen over-hearing what Berty did fay, Would fend Mr. Roper to take her away.

V.

But to thefe that have had my dear Befs in their Arms She's gentle, and knows how to foften her Charms; And to every Beauty can add a new Grace, Having learn'd how to lifp, and to trip in her Pace; And with Head on one fide, and a languishing Eye, To kill Us by Looking, as if she wou'd die.

PHYL

SONG.

Hyllis, the Faireft of Love's Foes,
Though fiercer than a Dragon,

Phyllis, that fcorn'd the powder'd Beaus,
What has the now to brag on?

So long she kept her Legs fo close,
'Till they have scarce a Rag on.

Compell'd through Want, this wretched Maid
Did fad Complaints begin;
Which furly Strephon hearing, faid,

It was both Shame and Sin,

To pity fuch a lazy Jade,

As will neither Play nor Spin.

On TY BURN.

H Tyburn! coud'st thou Reason and Dispute;

How often woud'st thou change the Felon's Doom, And trufs fome ftern Chief-Justice in his room?

Then fhould thy fturdy Pofts support the Laws, No Promife, Frown, nor popular Applause, Shou'd fway the Bench to favour a bad Cause. Nor Scarlet Gown, fwell'd with Poetick Fury, Scare a falfe Verdi& from a trembling Jury. Juftice, with fteady Hand and even Scales, Should ftand upright, as if fuftain'd by Hales. Yet ftill, in Matters doubtful to decide, A little bearing tow'rds the milder fide.

1

EPILOGUE.
Written by a Perfon of Honour.

O

UR-Poet, fomething doubtful of his Fate,
Made choice of me to be his Advocate;
Relying on my Knowledge in the Laws:
And I as boldly undertook the Cause.
I left my Client yonder in a Rant
Against the Envious and the Ignorant,
Who are, he says, his only Enemies:
But he contemns their Malice, and defies
The sharpeft of his Cenfurers to fay
Where there is one grofs Fault in all his Play.
The Language is fo fitted to each Part,
The Plot according to the Rules of Art:
And twenty other things he bid me tell you:
But I cry'd, E'en go do't your felf for Nelly.
Reafon with Judges, urg'd in the Defence
Of those they would condemn, is Infolence.
I therefore wave the Merits of his Play,
And think it fit to plead this fafer way.
If, when too many in the Purchase share,
Robbing's not worth the Danger nor the Care;
The Men of Business muft, in Policy,
Cherifh a little harmless Poetry,

All Wit would elfe grow up to Knavery.

M

Wit is a Bird of Mufick, or of Prey;
Mounting, she strikes at all things in her Way;
But if this Bird-lime once but touch her Wings,
On the next Bufh fhe fits her down and Sings.
I have but one Word more: Tell me, I pray,
What you will get by damning of our Play?
A whipp'd Phanatick, who does not recant,
Is by his Brethren call'd a suff'ring Saint:
And by your Hands fhou'd this poor Poet die,
Before he does renounce his Poetry,

His Death muft needs confirm the Party more,
Than all his Scribbling Life could do before.
Where so much Zeal does in a Sect appear,
'Tis to no purpose, 'faith, to be fevere.
But t'other Day I heard this rhyming Fop
Say Criticks were the Whips, and he the Top:
For as a Top fpins beft the more you bafte her,
So, ev'ry Lash you give, he writes the fafter.

ERE lyes little

He that beer lay filent or quiet before.

a Yard deep and more,

Her Head always working, her Tongue always prating,

And the Pulfe of her Heart continually beating,
To the utmost Extreams of Loving and Hating.
Her Reason and Humour were always at Strife;
And yet the perform'd all the Duties of Life:
An excellent Friend, and a pretty good Wife.
So indulgent a Lover, that no Man cou'd fay
Whether Patty or Minta did Rule or Obey ;

For the Government chang'd some ten times a day.
At the Hour of her Birth, fome lucky Star gave her
Wir and Beauty enough to have lafted for ever;
But Fortune, ftill froward when Nature is kind,
A narrow Eftate maliciously join'd,

To a vaft Genius, and a noble Mind,

w

Her Body was built of that fuperfine Clay, That is apt to grow brittle for want of Allay: And, when, without fhew, it was apt to decay, It began by degrees to moulder away.

Her Soul, then, too bufie on fome Foreign Affair, Of its own pretty Dwelling took fo little Care, That the Tenement fell for want of Repair.

Far be from hence the Fool, or the Knave, But let all that pretend to be Witty or Brave, Whether generous Friend, or amorous Slave, Contribute fome Tears to water her Grave.

TH

To PHYLLIS: A SONG.

Hough, Phyllis, your prevailing Charms;
Have forc'd me from my Celia's Arms,
That kind Defence against all Pow'rs,
But those refiftlefs Eyes of yours;
Think not your Conqueft to maintain
By Rigour, and unjust Disdain.

In vain, Fair Nymph, in vain you strive,
For Love does feldom Hope furvive;
My Heart may languifh for a time,
Whilft all your Glories, in their Prime,
Can juftifie fuch Cruelty,

By the fame Force that conquer'd me.
When Age shall come, at whofe Commandy
Thofe Troops of Beauties muft Disband;
A Tyrant's Strength once took away,
What Slave fo dull as to obey?

A

A PROLOGUE, Spoken at the Opening of the Duke's New Play-House in DORSET-GARDEN.

'T

IS not in this as in the former Age,

When Wit alone fuffic'd t' adorn the Stage; When things well faid an Audience could invite, Without the Hope of fuch a gaudy Sight: What with your Fathers took, would take with you, If Wit had ftill the Charm of being New: Had not Enjoyment dull'd your Appetite, She in her homely Drefs would yet delight; Such ftately Theatres we need not raife, Our Old Houfe would put off our dulleft Plays. You, Gallants, know a fresh Wench of Sixteen, May drive the Trade in honest Bombarine; And never want good Custom, fhould the lye In a Back-room, two or three Stories high: But fuch a Beauty as has long been known, Though not decay'd, but to Perfection grown, Muft, if the think to thrive in this lewd Town, Wear Points, lac'd Petticoats, and a rich Gown; Her Lodgings too muft with her Dress agree, Be hung with Damask, or with Tapestry; Have China, Cabinets, and a great Glafs, To ftrike Refpect into an am'rous Afs. Without the help of Stratagems and Arts, An old Acquaintance cannot touch your Hearts. Methinks 'tis hard our Authors fhould fubmit So tamely to their Predecessors Wit,

Since, I am fure, among you there are few

Would grant your Grand-fathers had more than you.
But hold! I in this Buliness may proceed too far,
And raise a Storm against our Theatre;

And then what would the wife Adventurers fay,
Who are in a much greater Fright to Day,
Than ever Poet was about his Play:

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