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Yet in a filbert I have often known
Maggots survive, when all the kernel 's gone.
This simile shall ftand in thy defence,
'Gainst those dull rogues who now and then write sense.
Thy style 's the same, whatever be thy theme,
As fome digestions turn all meat to phlegm :
They lye, dear Ned, who say thy brain is barren,
Where deep conceits, like maggots, breed in carrion.
Thy stumbling founder'd jade can trot as high

any other Pegasus can fly:
So the dull eel moves nimbler in the mud,
Than all the swift-finn'd racers of the flood.

As skilful divers to the bottom fall
Sooner than those who cannot'swim at all;
So in this way of writing, without thinking,
Thou hast a strange alacrity in finking.
Thou writ'st below ev’n thy own natural parts,
And with acquird dulness and new arts
Of study'd nonsense, tak’st kind readers hearts.
Therefore, dear Ned, at my advice, forbear
Such loud complaints 'gainst Critics to prefer,
Since thou art turn'd an arrant libeler;
Thou sett'st thy name to what thyself doft write;
Did ever libel yet so fharply bite ?

то TO THE SAME. ON HIS PLAYS.

TI

'HOU damn’d Antipodes to common-sense,

Thou foil to Flecknoe, pr’ythee tell from whence Does all this mighty stock of dulness fpring ? Is it thy own, or həft it from Snow-hill, Assisted by some ballad-making quill ? No, they fly higher yet, thy plays are fuch, I'd swear they were translated out of Dutch. Fain would I know what diet thou dost keep, If thou dost always, or dost never sleep? Sure hasty-pudding is thy chiefest dish, With bullock's liver, or fome stinking fish : Garbage, ox-cheeks, and tripes, do feast thy brain, Which nobly pays this tribute back again. With daisy-roots thy dwarfish Muse is fed, A giant's body with a pigmy's head. Canst thou not find, among thy numerous race Of kindred, one to tell thee that thy plays Are laught at by the pit, box, galleries, nay, stage? Think on 't a while, and thou wilt quickly find Thy body made for labour, not thy mind, No other use of paper thou shouldīt make Than carrying loads and reams upon thy back. Carry vast burdens till thy shoulders shrink, But curst be he that gives thee pen and ink : Such dangerous weapons should be kept from fools, As nurses from their children keep edg'd tools :

For

For thy dull fancy a muckinder is fit
To wipe the Nabberings of thy snotty wit:
And though 'tis late, if justice could be found,
Thy plays like blind-born puppies should be drown'd.
For were it not that we respect afford
Unto the son of an heroic lord,
Thine in the ducking-stool should take her feat,
Dreft like herself in a great chair of ftate;
Where like a Muse of quality the'd die,
And thou thyself thalt make her elegy,
In the same strain thou writ'ft thy comedy.

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TO SIR THOMAS ST. SERF,

ON

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Printing his Play called “TARUGO'S WILES,"

1668.

ΤΑ

ARUGO gave us wonder and delight,

When he oblig'd the world by candle-light : But now he's ventur’d on the face of day, T'oblige and serve his friends a nobler way ; Make all our old men wits, ftatefmen, the young : And teach ev'n Englishmen the English tongue.

James, on those reign all peaceful stars did smile, Did but attempt th’uniting of our isle. What kings, and Nature, only could design, Shall be accomplish'd by this work of thine.

For,

For, who is such a Cockney in his heart,
Proud of the plenty of the fouthern part,
To fcorn that union, by which we may
Boast 'twas his countryman that writ this play?

Phoebus himself, indulgent to my Muse,
Has to the country sent this kind excuse ;
Fair Northern Lafs, it is not through neglect
I court thee at a distance, but respect ;
I cannot act, my passion is so great,
But I'll make up in light what wants in heat;
On thee I will bestow my longest days,
And crown thy fons with everlasting bays :
My beams that reach thee shall employ their powers
To ripen souls of men, not fruits or flowers.
Let warmer climes my fading favours boast,
Poets and stars shine brighteft in the frost.

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EPILOGUE TO MOLIERE'S TARTUFFE,

Translated by Mr. M E D B U R N E.

Spoken by TARTUFFE.

MANY have been the vain attempts of wit,

Against the ftill-prevailing hypocrite :
Once, and but once, a poet got the day,
And vanquilh'd Busy in a puppet-play ;
And Bufy, raillying, arm’d with zeal and rage,
Possess'd the pulpit, and pull'd down the stage.
To laugh at English knaves is dangerous then,
While English fools will think them honest men:

But

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But sure no zealous brother can deny us Free leave with this our Monsieur Ananias : A man may say, without being call'd an Atheist, There are damn drogues among the French and Papist, That fix salvation to short band and hair, That belch and snuffle to prolong a prayer ; That use " enjoy the Creature,” to express Plain whoring, gluttony, and drunkenness ; And, in a decent way, perform them too As well, nay better far, perhaps, thạn you Whose fleshly failings are but fornication, We godly phrafe it "gospel-propagation,” Just as rebellion was call'd reformation. Zeal stands but sentry at the gate of fin, Whilst all that have the word pass freely in : Silent, and in the dark, for fear of spies, We march, and take Damnation by surprize. There's not a roaring blade in all this town Çan go so far tow'rds hell for half a crown As I for six-pence, for I know the way; For want of guides, men are too apt to stray : Therefore give ear to what I shall advise, Let every marry'd man that 's grave and wife Take a Tartuffe of known ability, To teach and to increase his family; Who shall so settle lasting reformation, First get his son, then give him education.

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