METHINKS I hear some powdered critics say, Damn it! this wife reform'd, has spoil'd the play! The coxcomb should have drawn her more in fashion;

Have gratified her softer inclination;

Have tipt her a gallant, and clinch'd the provo

cation.

But there our bard stopt short; for 'twere uncivil
T' have made a modern belle all o'er a devil!
He hop'd, in honour of the sex, the age
Would bear one mended woman-on the stage.
From whence you see by common sense's rules
Wives might be govern'd, were not husbands
fools.

Whate'er by Nature dames are prone to do,
They seldom stray but when they govern you;
When the wild wife perceives her deary tame,
No wonder then she plays him all the game.
But men of sense meet rarely that disaster;
Women take pride where merit is their master:
Nay, she that with a weak man wisely lives,
Will seem t'obey the due commands he gives!
Happy obedience is no more a wonder,
When men are men, and keep them kindly under:

But modern consorts are such high-bred creatures,

They think a husband's power degrades their features;

That nothing more proclaims a reigning beauty, Than that she never was reproached with duty; And that the greatest blessing Heaven e'er sent, Is in a spouse incurious and content.

To give such dames a different cast of thought, By calling home the mind, these scenes were wrought.

If with a hand too rude the task is done,
We hope the scheme by Lady Grace laid down
Will all such freedom with the sex atone;
That virtue there unsoil'd by modish art,
Throws out attractions for a Manly's heart.

You, you, then, ladies, whose unquestioned lives

Give you the foremost fame of happy wives,
Protect, for its attempt, this helpless play,
Nor leave it to the vulgar taste a prey;
Appear the frequent champions of its cause;
Direct the crowd, and give yourselves applause.

2 M

VOL. III.

THE

BY

Now luck for us, and a kind hearty pit ; For he who pleases never fails of wit. Honour is yours,

And you, like kings at city treats, bestow it;
The writer kneels, and is bid rise a poet:

But you are fickle sovereigns, to our sorrow;
You dub to-day, and hang a man to-morrow;
You cry the same sense up and down again,
Just like brass money once a-year in Spain:
Take you i' the mood, whate'er base metal come,
You coin as fast as groats at Birmingham;
Though 'tis no more like sense in ancient plays,
Than Rome's religion's like St Peter's days:
In short, so swift your judgments turn and wind,
You cast our fleetest wits a mile behind.
'Twere well your judgments but in plays did

range,

But even your follies and debauches change
With such a whirl, the poets of your age
Are tired, and cannot score them on the stage,
Unless each vice in short-hand they indite,
Even as notch'd 'prentices whole sermons write.
The heavy Hollanders no vices know,
But what they us'd a hundred years ago;

curse,

They change for better, and we change for worse;
They take up our old trade of conquering,
And we are taking theirs, to dance and sing.
Our fathers did, for change, to France repair,
And they, for change, will try our English air.
As children, when they throw one toy away,
Strait a more foolish gewgaw comes in play;
So we, grown penitent, on serious thinking,
Leave whoring, and devoutly fall to drinking.
Scowring the watch grows out-of-fashion wit:
Now we set up for tilting in the pit,
Where 'tis agreed by bullies, chicken-hearted,
To fright the ladies first, and then be parted.
A fair attempt has twice or thrice been made
To hire night-murderers, and make death a trade.
When murder's out, what vice can we advance?
Unless the new-found pois'ning trick of France:

grow.

By way of thanks, we'll send them o'er our Plot.

SCENE I.

ALPHONSO and PEDRO meet, with Soldiers on each side, Drums, &c.

Alph. Stand! give the word.

Ped. The queen of Arragon.

Alph. Pedro?-how goes the night?
Ped. She wears apace.

Alph. Then welcome day-light. We shall have warm work on't:

The Moor will 'gage

His utmost forces on this next assault,
To win a queen and kingdom.

Ped. Pox o' this lion way of wooing though! Is the queen stirring yet?

Alph. She has not been a-bed, but in her chapel

All night devoutly watch'd, and brib'd the saints With vows for her deliverance.

Ped. Oh, Alphonso,

I fear they come too late her father's crimes Sit heavy on her, and weigh down her prayers. A crown usurp'd, a lawful king depos'd,

In bondage held, debarr'd the common light; His children murdered, and his friends destroyed, What can we less expect than what we feel? And what we fear will follow.

Alph. Heaven avert it.

Ped. Then Heaven must not be Heaven. Judge the event

By what has pass'd. The usurper joy'd not long His ill-got crown. 'Tis true, he died in peace, (Unriddle that, ye powers,) but left his daughter, Our present queen, engaged, upon his death-bed, To marry with young Bertran, whose cursed father

Had helped to make him great.

Hence you well know this fatal war arose, Because the Moor Abdallah, with whose troops The usurper gained the kingdom, was refused, And, as an infidel, his love despised.

Alph. Well, we are soldiers, Pedro, and, like lawyers,

Plead for our pay.

Ped. A good cause would do well though; It gives my sword an edge. You see this Bertran Has now three times been beaten by the Moors; What hope we have is in young Torrismond, Your brother's son.

Alph. He's a successful warrior, And has the soldier's hearts. Upon the skirts Of Arragon our squadron'd troops he rallies: Our watchmen from the towers with longing eyes Expect his swift arrival.

Ped. It must be swift, or it will come too late. Alph. No more-Duke Bertran.

heads,

And bid their dying patient think of Heaven. Our walls are thinly manned; our best men slain; The rest, an heartless number, spent with watching,

And harassed out with duty.

Bert. Good night all then.

Ped. Nay, for my part, 'tis but a single life I have to lose: I'll plant my colours down In the mid-breach, and by them fix my foot; Say a short soldier's prayer, to spare the trouble Of my few friends above, and then expect The next fair bullet.

Alph. Never was known a night of such dis

traction;

Noise so confused and dreadful; jostling crowds, That run, and know not whither; torches gliding Like meteors, by each other in the streets.

Ped. I met a reverend, fat, old gouty friar, With a paunch swoll'n so high, his double chin Might rest upon't; a true son of the church; Fresh colour'd, and well thriven on his trade,Came puffing with his greasy bald-pate choir, And fumbling o'er his beads, in such an agony, He told them false for fear: about his neck There hung a wench, the label of his function, Whom he shook off, i'faith, methought, unkindly. It seems the holy stallion durst not score Another sin before he left the world.