"The Fox, the Alchemift, the Silent Woman, "Done by Ben Jonfon, are out-done by no man." Thus fung in rough, but panegyrick, rhimes, The wits and criticks of our author's times.

But now we bring him forth with dread and doubt,
And fear his learned focks are quite worn out.
The fubtle Alchemist grows obfolete,

And Drugger's humour fcarcely keeps him sweet.
Tq-night, if you would feaft your eyes and ears,
Go back in fancy near two hundred years;
A play of Ruffs and Farthingales review,
Old English fashions, fuch as then were new!
Drive not Tom Otter's Bulls and Bears away;
Worfe Bulls and Bears difgrace the present day.
On fair Collegiates let no critick frown!
A Ladies' Club ftill holds its rank in town.
If modern cooks, who nightly treat the pit,
Do not quite cloy and furfeit you with wit,
From the old kitchen please to pick a bit!
If once, with hearty ftomachs to regale
On old Ben Jonfon's fare, tho' fomewhat ftale,
A meal on Bobadil you deign'd to make,
Take Epicone for his and Kitely's fake!

}

OR, THE

SILENT WOMAN.

A C T I.

An apartment in Clerimont's house.

Clerimont, Boy.

Clerimont.

AVE you got the fong yet perfect I gave you, boy?

HA

Boy. Yes, Sir.

Cler. Let me hear it.

Boy. You fhall, Sir.

S ON G.

Still to be neat, ftill to be dreft,
As you were going to a feast;

Still to be powder'd, still perfum'd:
Lady, it is to be prefum'd,

Though

Though art's hid causes are not found,
All is not fweet, all is not found.
Give me a look, give me a face,

That makes fimplicity a grace;
Robes loosely flowing, hair as free:
Such fweet neglect more taketh me,
Than all th' adulteries of art;

They ftrike mine eyes, but not my heart.

Enter Truewit.

Tru. Why, here's the man that can melt away his time, and never feels it! What between his mistress abroad, high fare at home, foft lodging, fine cloaths, and his fiddle; he thinks the hours have no wings, or the day no poft-horse. Well, Sir Gallant, were you ftruck with the plague this minute, or condemn'd to any capital punishment tomorrow, you would begin then to think, and value every particle o' your time, efteem it at the true rate, and give all for't.

Cler. Why, what should a man do?

Tru. Why, nothing; or, that, which when 'tis done, is as idle: Hearken after the next horserace, or hunting-match; lay wagers; fwear upon Whitefoot's party; fpeak aloud, that my lords may hear you; vifit my ladies at night, and be able to

give 'em the character of every bowler or better o' the green. These be the things, wherein your fashionable men exercise themselves, and I for company.

Cler. Nay, if I have thy authority, I'll not leave yet. Come, the other are confiderations, when we come to have grey heads, and weak hams; we'll think on 'em then; then we'll pray and fast.

Tru. Ay, and deftine only that time of age to goodness, which our want of ability will not let us employ in evil?

Cler. Why, then 'tis time enough.

Tru. Yes, as if a man should sleep all the term, and think to effect his bufinefs the laft day. Oh, Clerimont, fee but our common disease! with what justice can we complain, that great men will not look upon us, nor be at leisure to give our affairs fuch dispatch as we expect, when we will never do it to ourselves; not hear, nor regard ourselves.

Cler. Foh, thou haft read Plutarch's Morals, now, or some such tedious fellow; and it fhews fo vilely with thee! 'Twill spoil thy wit utterly. Talk me of pins, and feathers, and ladies, and rushes, and fuch things: And leave this alone, 'till thou mak'st fermons.

Tru. Well, Sir, if it will not take, I have learned

to