Yet in a filbert I have often known

Maggots furvive, when all the kernel 's gone.
This fimile fhall ftand in thy defence,

'Gainst those dull rogues who now and then write sense.
Thy ftyle 's the fame, whatever be thy theme,
As fome digestions turn all meat to phlegm :

They fye, dear Ned, who say thy brain is barren, Where deep conceits, like maggots, breed in carrion. Thy ftumbling founder'd jade can trot as high

other Pegafus can fly :

So the dull eel moves nimbler in the mud,
Than all the fwift-finn'd racers of the flood.
As fkilful divers to the bottom fall
Sooner than those who cannot fwim at all;
So in this way of writing, without thinking,
Thou haft a strange alacrity in finking.
Thou writ'ft below ev'n thy own natural parts,
And with acquir'd dulnefs and new arts
Of study'd nonfenfe, tak'ft 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 fett'ft thy name to what thy felf dost write;
Did ever libel yet so sharply bite?

ΤΟ

TO THE SAME. ON HIS PLAYS.

'HOU damn'd Antipodes to common-sense,

ΤΗ

Thou foil to Flecknoe, pr'ythee tell from whence
Does all this mighty stock of dulness spring ?
Is it thy own, or haft it from Snow-hill,
Affifted by fome ballad-making quill?
No, they fly higher yet, thy plays are fuch,
I'd fwear they were tranflated out of Dutch.
Fain would I know what diet thou dost keep,
If thou dost always, or doft never fleep?
Sure hafty-pudding is thy chiefeft 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 daify-roots thy dwarfish Mufe is fed,
A giant's body with a pigmy's head.

Canft 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 ufe of paper thou shouldft make
Than carrying loads and reams upon thy back.
Carry vast burdens till thy shoulders shrink,
But curft be he that gives thee pen and ink :
Such dangerous weapons should be kept from fools,
As nurfes from their children keep edg'd tools:

For

For thy dull fancy a muckinder is fit

To wipe the flabberings of thy fnotty wit:

And though 'tis late, if justice could be found,

Thy plays like blind-born puppies fhould be drown'd. For were it not that we refpect afford

Unto the fon of an heroic tord,

Thine in the ducking-stool should take her feat,

Dreft like herself in a great chair of ftate;
Where like a Mufe of quality the'd die,
And thou thyself fhalt make her elegy,
In the fame strain thou writ'ft thy comedy.

TO SIR THOMAS ST. SERF,

ON THE

Printing his Play called "TARUGO'S WILES,"

1668.

ARUGO gave us wonder and delight,

ΤΑ

When he oblig❜d the world by candle-light :

But now he's ventur'd on the face of day,
T'oblige and ferve his friends a nobler way ;
Make all our old men wits, ftatefmen, the young :
And teach ev'n Englishmen the English tongue.
James, on whofe reign all peaceful stars did fmile,
Did but attempt th' uniting of our ifle.
What kings, and Nature, only could defign,
Shall be accomplish'd by this work of thine.

For,

For, who is fuch a Cockney in his heart,
Proud of the plenty of the fouthern part,
To fcorn that union, by which we may
Boaft 'twas his countryman that writ this play?
Phoebus himself, indulgent to my Mufe,
Has to the country sent this kind excuse;
Fair Northern Lafs, it is not through neglect
I court thee at a diftance, but refpect;
I cannot act, my paffion is fo 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 fhall employ their powers
To ripen fouls of men, not fruits or flowers.
Let warmer climes my fading favours boast,
Poets and stars shine brighteft in the froft.

EPILOGUE TO MOLIERE'S TARTUFFE,

Tranflated by Mr. MED BURNE.
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 vanquish'd Bufy in a puppet-play;
And Bufy, raillying, arm'd with zeal and rage,
Poffefs'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

But fure no zealous brother can deny us

Free leave with this our Monfieur Ananias:

A man may fay, without being call'd an Atheist,
There are damn'd rogues among the French and Papist,
That fix falvation to fhort band and hair,

That belch and fnuffle to prolong a prayer ;
That ufe" enjoy the Creature," to exprefs
Plain whoring, gluttony, and drunkenness;
And, in a decent way, perform them too
As well, nay better far, perhaps, than you.
Whofe fleshly failings are but fornication,
We godly phrafe it "gofpel-propagation,"
Juft as rebellion was call'd reformation.
Zeal ftands but fentry at the gate of fin,
Whilft 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
Can go fo far tow'rds hell for half a crown
As I for fix-pence, for I know the way;
For want of guides, men are too apt to ftray:
Therefore give ear to what I fhall 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 fhall fo fettle lafting reformation,
Firft get his fon, then give him education.

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