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And, mixing with buffoons and pimps prophane,
Tainted the Stage, for fome small snip of gain.
For they, like harlots, under bawds profest,
Took all th' ungodly pains, and got the leaft.
Thus did the thriving malady prevail,
The court its head, the Poets but the tail.
The fin was of our native growth, 'tis true;
The fcandal of the fin was wholly new.
Miffes they were, but modeftly conceal'd;
White-hall the naked Venus firft reveal'd.
Who ftanding as at Cyprus, in her fhrine,
The ftrumpet was ador'd with rites divine.
Ere this, if faints had any fecret motion,
Twas chamber-practice all, and clofe devotion.
I pafs the peccadillos of their time;
Nothing but open lewdness was a crime.
A monarch's blood was venial to the nation,
Compar'd with one foul act of fornication.
Now, they would filence us, and shut the door,
That let in all the bare-fac'd vice before.
As for reforming us, which fome pretend,
That work in England is without an end :

Well may we change, but we shall never mend.

Yet, if you can but bear the prefent Stage,
We hope much better of the coming age.
What would you say, if we should first begin
To ftop the trade of love behind the scene:
Where actreffes make bold with married men?
For while abroad. fo prodigal the dolt is,
Poor spoufe at home as ragged as a colt is.

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In short, we'll grow as moral as we can,
Save here and there a woman or a man:
But neither you, nor we, with all our pains,
Can make clean work; there will be fome remains,
While you have still your Oats, and we our Hains.

EPIGRAM,

On the Dutchefs of PORTSMOUTH'S Picture.

URE we do live by Cleopatra's age,

SURE

Since Sunderland does govern now the stage:

She of Septimius had nothing made,

Pompey alone had been by her betray'd.

Were the a poet, fhe would furely boast,

That all the world for pearls had well been loft.

EPITAPH.

Intended for Mr. DRYDEN'S Wife.

ERE lies wife here let her lie!

HERE

my

Now the 's at reft, and fo am I.

DESCRIPTION of old JACOB TONSON*.

WITH

ITH leering look, bull-fac'd, and freckled fair, With two left-legs, with Judas-colour'd hair, And frowzy pores that taint the ambient air.

* On Tonfon's refufing to give Dryden the price he afked for his Virgil, the Poet fent him the above; and added, "Tell the dog, that he who wrote them, can "write more." The money was paid.

VERSES TO MR. DRYDEN.

To the unknown AUTHOR of ABSALOM and ACHITOPHEL.

TAKE it as earnest of a faith renew'd,

Your theme is vaft, your verse divinely good :
Where, though the Nine their beautecus ftrokes repeat,
And the turn'd lines on golden anvils beat,
It looks as if they ftrook them at a heat.
So all ferenely great, fo juft refin'd,
Like angels love to human feed inclin'd,
It starts a giant, and exalts the kind.
'Tis fpirit feen, whofe fiery atoms roll,
So brightly fierce, each syllable's a foul.
'Tis miniature of man, but he 's all heart;

'Tis what the world would be, but wants the art;
To whom ev'n the fanaticks altars raise,
Bow in their own despite, and grin your praise;
As if a Milton from the dead arofe,

Fil'd off the ruft, and the right party chose.
Nor, Sir, be fhock'd at what the gloomy fay;

Turn not your feet too inward, nor too fplay.
'Tis gracious all, and great: Pufh on your theme;
Lean your griev'd head on David's diadem.

David, that rebel Ifrael's envy mov'd;
David, by God and all good men belov'd,

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The

The beauties of your Abfalom excel :

But more the charms of charming Annabel :

Of Annabel, than May's first morn more bright,
Chearful as fummer's noon, and chafte as winter's night.
Of Annabel, the Mufes dearest theme;

Of Annabel, the angel of my dream.
Thus let a broken eloquence attend,

And to your mafter-piece thefe fhadows fend.

**

*

NAT. LEE.

Mr Duke's verfes to Mr Dryden may be feen in the volume of his Poems.

To the concealed AUTHOR of ABSALOM and ACHITOPHEL.

HAIL, heaven-born Mufe! hail, every facred page!

The glory of our ifle and of our age.

Th' infpiring fun to Albion draws more nigh, The north at length teems with a work, to vie With Homer's flame and Virgil's majesty. While Pindus' lofty heights our poet fought, (His ravish'd mind with vaft ideas fraught) Our language fail'd beneath his rifing thought. This checks not his attempt; for Maro's mines ' He drains of all their gold, t' adorn his lines : Through each of which the Mantuan Genius fhines. The rock obey'd the powerful Hebrew guide, Her finty breast diffolv'd into a tide : Thus on our ftubborn language he prevails, And makes the Helicon in which he fails;

The dialect, as well as fenfe, invents,

And, with his poem, a new fpeech prefents.

Hail then, thou matchlefs Bard, thou great unknown,
That give your country fame, yet shun your own!
In vain; for every where your praise you find,
And, not to meet it, you must fhun mankind.
Your loyal theme each loyal reader draws,
And ev'n the factious give your verfe applause,
Whofe lightning ftrikes to ground their idol cause :
The caufe for whofe dear fake they drank a flood
Of civil gore, nor fper'd the royal blood;

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The caufe, whofe growth to crush, our prelates wrote In vain, almoft in vain our heroes fought;

Yet by one flab of your keen fatire dies:

Before your facred lines their shatter'd Dagon lies.
Oh! if unworthy we appear to know

The fire, to whom this lovely birth we owe :
Deny'd our ready homage to exprefs,

And can at beft but thankful be by guess;
This hope remains: May David's godlike mind,
(For him 'twas wrote) the unknown author find ;
And, having found, shower equal favours down
On wit fo vaft, as could oblige a crown.

N. TATE.

Upon the AUTHOR of the MEDAL.

NCE more our awful poet arms, t'engage

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The threatening hydra-faction of the age; Once more prepares his dreadful pen to wield, And every Mufe attends him to the field.

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