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Soft B-s and rough C-s, adieu !
Earl Warwick, make your moan; The lively Hk and you
May knock up whores alone.
To drink and droll be Rowe allow'd
Till the third watchman's toll; Let Jervas gratis paint, and Frowde?
Save threepence and his soul.
Farewell Arbuthnot's raillery
learned sot; And Garth, the best good Christian he,
Although he knows it not.
Lintot, farewell! thy bard must go;
Farewell, unhappy Tonson ! Heaven gives thee for thy loss of Rowe 8
Lean Philips and fat Johnson.
Why should I stay? Both parties rage;
My vixen mistress squalls; The wits in envious feuds engage;
And Homer (damn him !) calls.
2 Philip Frowde, author of the tragedies of the Fall of Saguntum, and Philotas.
8 When George I. made Rowe one of the land surveyors of the port of London.
4 Ambrose Philips, and Charles Johnson the dramatist.
The love of arts lies cold and dead
In Halifax's urn;
Has yet the grace to mourn.
My friends, by turns, my friends confound,
Betray, and are betray'd :
And B-116 is a jade.
Why make I friendships with the great,
When I no favour seek?
I need but once a week.
Still idle, with a busy air,
Deep whimseys to contrive; The gayest valetudinaire,
Most thinking rake alive.
Solicitous for others' ends,
Though fond of dear repose; Careless or drowsy with my friends,
And frolic with my foes.
Luxurious lobster-nights, farewell
For sober, studious days! And Burlington's delicious meal,
For salads, tarts, and pease!
6 Eustace Budgell.
Adieu to all but Gay alone,
Whose soul, sincere and free,
And so may starve with me.
PROLOGUE, DESIGNED FOR MR. D’URFEY'S
GROWN old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard
your damn’d poet lives and writes again.
He says, poor poets lost, while players won,
PROLOGUE TO THE “THREE HOURS AFTER
AUTHORS are judg'd by strange capricious rules : The great ones are thought mad, the small ones
fools : Yet sure the best are most severely fated ; For fools are only laugh'd at, wits are hated. Blockheads with reason men of sense abhor; But fool 'gainst fool, is barbarous civil war. Why on all others then should critics fall ? Since some have writ, and shown no wit at all. Condemn a play of theirs, and they evade it ; Cry, “ Damn not us, but damn the French, who
made it.” By running goods these graceless owlers gain ; Theirs are the rules of France, the plots of Spain. But wit, like wine, from happier climates brought, Dash'd by these rogues, turns English common
1 See Memoir prefixed to these volumes, p. lxi.
draught. They pall Moliere's and Lopez' sprightly strain, And teach dull harlequins to grin in vain.
How shall our author hope a gentler fate, Who dares most impudently not translate ? It had been civil, in these ticklish times, To fetch his fools and knaves from foreign climes. Spaniards and French abuse to the world's end, But spare old England, lest you hurt a friend. If
any fool is by our satire bit, Let him hiss loud, to show you all he's hit. Poets make characters, as salesmen clothes ; We take no measure of your fops and beaux; But here all sizes and all shapes you meet, And fit yourselves like chaps in Monmouth Street.
Gallants, look here ! this fool's cap2 has an air,
had the care
2 Shows a cap with ears. 8 Flings down the cap, and exito