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Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move,
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;
In pitying love we but our weakness show,
And wild ambition well deserves its woe.
Here tears shall flow from a more gen'rous cause,
Such tears as patriots (hed for dying laws:
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rise,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confess’d in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was;
No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure heav'n itself surveys;
A brave man ftruggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state!
While Cato gives his little senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his countrey's cause?
Who sees him act, but envies ev'ry deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev'n when proud Cæfar 'inidft triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state;
As her dead father's rev'rend image palt,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast,
The triumph ceas'd-Tears gulh'd from ev'ry eye;
The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by;
Her last good man dejected Rome ador’d,
And honour'd Casar's less than Cato's sword.
Britains attend; Be worth like this approv'd,
And show, you have the virtue to be mov'd.
With honelt fcorn the first fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdu'd;
Our scene precariously subsists too long
On French translation, and Italian song.
Dare to have sense your felves; affert the stage,
Be juftly warm'd with your own native rage,
Such plays alone should please a British ear,
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.
Rodigious this! the frail one of our play
From her own sex should mercy find to day!
You might have held the pretty head aside,
Peep'd in your fans, been serious, thus, and cry'd,
The play may pass--but that strange creature, Shore,
I can't-indeed now I so hate a whore
Just as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull,
And thanks his stars he was not born a fool;
So from a fifter finner you shall hear,
“ How Arangely you expose your self my dear?
But let me die, all raillery apart,
Our sex are still forgiving at their heart;
And did not wicked custom so contrive,
We'd be the best good natur'd things alive.
There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale,
That virtuous ladies envy while they rail;
Such rage without betrays the fire within ;
In some close corner of the foul, they fin:
Still hoarding up, moft fcandalously nice,
Amidft their virtues, a reserve of vice.
The godly dame who fleshly failings damns,
Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams,
Wou'd you enjoy soft nights and solid dinners?
Faith, gallants, board with saints, and bed with sinners.
Well, if our author in the wife offends, He has a husband that will make amends. He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving; And sure such kind good creatures may be living. In days of old they pardon'd breach of vows, Stern Cato's self was no relentless spouse: Plx-Plutarch, what's his name that writes his life? Tells us, that Cato dearly lov'd his wife. Yet if a friend a night, or so, Thould need her, He'd recommend her as a special breeder,
To lend a wife, few here would scruple make,
But pray which of you all would take her back?
Tho' with the Stoick Chief our stage may ring,
The Stoick Husband was the glorious thing.
The man had courage, was a fage, 'tis true,
And lov'd his country but what's that to you?
Those strange examples ne'er were made to fit ye,
But the kind cuckold might inftru& the city :
There, many an honest man may copy Cato,
Who ne'er faw naked sword, or look’d in Plato.
If, after all, you think it a disgrace,
That Edward's Miss thus perks it in your face,
To see a piece of failing flesh and blo
In all the rest so impudently good;
Faith, let the modeft matrons of the town
Come here in crowds, and stare the strumpet down.