Prologue Spoken before the University of Oxford. 1683.
Hen Greece o'erwhelm'd in the wide Deluge lay,
WH And all the Land was one continu'd Sea,
The Mufes Hill fecure, and lofty stood,
Above the vain Attempts of th' infulting Flood
There good Deucalion first faluted Land,
Put in his Boat, and touch'd the happy Strand.
So when wild Faction all our Land alarm'd,
Our Land by the prevailing Jugglers charm'd,
When pregnant with dire Seeds the Clouds did rife,
Prefaging civil Tempests in our Skies,
Here God-like Charles did a fafe Harbour win,
Here laugh'd at all the Threats of daring Sin,
And fhunn'd the popular Deluge as it came rolling in.
With you no perjur'd Bog-trotters were found,
With Meal-Tub-Plots and Armies under Ground,
Rogues, that wou'd damn theinfelves for Half a Crown:
Rogues, that for one poor Draught of Middling-Beer
Wou'd hang a Parish, and for Tripe, a Shire.
'Tis true, fome few you had; but Traytors come
Here to receive, not to deferve their Doom.
So Paradife the Serpent gain'd at firft,
Enter'd the bleft Abodes, but ftrait he was accurft.
This is your Happiness.
But we are ftill alarm'd with fenfelefs Noife;
Guild-hall Elections, and leud frantick Cries.
Tir'd with dull Managers of duller Plots,
And free-born Slaves, and Magna Charta Sots.
Oh! wou'd the Town a Pattern take from you,
Whom the worst Times ftill found to Cæfar true,
Difcords wou'd ceafe, ill-natur'd Jars retiré,
And ev'ry Mufe in Charles's Praife confpire.
Peace, with her Train, wou'd guard out Halcyon Shore,
And Britain envy Saturn's Age no more.
WOT with more Grief the Whiggish Herd beheld Their Plots difcover'd, their Intriegues reveal'd, And all their godly Villanies run down,
Than now we feel to leave your happy Town.
Now muft our Tribe, fince we depart from you,
Shake Hands with Learning, and bid Wit Adieu :
With Dogg'rel Rhimes the ftupid Rout appeafe,
And murder English perfectly to pleafe.
So fome, to get an Alms, a Lameness feign,
And by pretended Halting Pity gain.
When to fome Town our strolling Troops repair,
Leave's to be granted by the worthy Mayor:
He with his num'rous Train first takes his Seat,
Below his Scarlet Brethren fill the Pit.
Then ev'n our Women muít lefs gay appear,
Leave Painting off, left they fhou'd feem more Fair
Than the pale Daughter of the Rev'rend Mayor.
If we, in Acting, as our Part requires,
Swear by the Gods, and all the heav'nly Fires,
The Sot pricks up a wond'rous Pair of Ears,
My Zeal no longer fuch Profaneness bears,
Twelvepence for ev'ry Oath your Hero fwears.
Wit here, triumphant, bears an ample Sway,
And the bright Metal fhines without Allay;
Nothing is here condemn'd for being Good,
Nor talk we Nonfenfe to be understood.
But tho' your Learning the whole Ifle infpires,
Your Townfmen warm not by the neighb'ring Fires;
Born in the happy Place, where Wit does rule,
They keep their nat❜ral Right of being Dull.
So the rude Nations, where with greatest Light
The reveal'd Truth was firft expos'd to Sight,
By no Rewards, no Miracles reclaim'd,
Wou'd ev'n in Spite of Providence, be damn'd.
Howe'er our Courtiers do their Fate difpofe,
Dullness the Charter is they'll never lose.
A Catch. By Mr. T. Brown.
ET the Woman be damn'd, (a mod'rate Fate)
Or die an old Maid, as grey as a Cat,
That her Lover refufes for Want of Eftare.
Let her that fets Man, like a Beast, to be sold,
And above metal'd Flesh loves a Lump of dead Gold,
Look green when she's young, and be pox'd when he's old.
III.
But let thofe that are wife contemn the dull Store ;
Wives chofe by their Weight, will be weighty no more;
If for Gold they will wed, for the fame they will whore.
A Panegyrick upon Coll. George Walker.
After the Manner of the Irish.
UR Gracious King gave him five thousand Pound
And out of the Rebels Lands, when they are found,
He promifes him a thousand Pounds by th' Year,
Which, in fhort Time, will unquestionably appear.
Likewife, he promises him the Dean'ry of Londonderry,
When that the Dean of Londonderry will die;
But if the Dean of Londonderry will not die,
He promifes him the Bishoprick of Londonderry.
More of his valiant Deeds and Worth what need we then
[to cry-ah, Since Walter George has made Amends for Walter Obadiah?
To Mr. D'Urfey, upon his incomparable Ballads, call'd by him Lyrick Odes.
Hou Cur, half French, half English Breed,
Thou Mungrel of Parnaffus,
To think tall Lines, run up to Seed,
Should ever tamely pass us.
Thou write Pindaricks, and be damn'd !
Write Epigrams for Cutlers;
None with thy Lyricks can be fhamm'd
But Chamber-Maids and Butlers.
In t'other World expect dry Blows;
No Tears can wath thy Stains out;
Horace will pluck thee by the Nose,
And Pindar bear thy Brains out.
On Flowers in a Lady's Bofom.
Ehold the promis'd Land, where Pleasure flows!
See how the Milk-white Hills do gently rife,
And beat the filken Skies!
Behold the Valley fpread with Flow'rs below!
Other Difcov'ries, Fate, let me not share;
IfI find out, may I inhabit there.
The happy Flow'rs, how they allure my Senfe!
The fairer Soil gives 'em the noble Hew;
Her Breath perfumes 'em too:
Rooted i'th' Heart, they feem to fpring from thence.
Tell, tell me why, thou fruitful Virgin-Breaft,
Why should fo good a Soil lie un poffeft?
Surely fome Champion, in the Caufe of Love,
more weary with the Sight,
Than vanquifh'd quite,
While the foft God took Pity from Above,
And thinking to reward his Service well,
Bid him grow there, where he fo nobly fell.
So when the longing Cytherea found
The murder'd Boy, who long deceiv'd her Eyes,
Under a Flow'r Difguife,
And pluck'd the curious Posey from the Ground,
Fair Cytherea's Bosom look'd like this;
So blush'd Adonis in the Seat of Blifs.
F what thou afferts, dear Thomas, be true,
It is to get rid of fuch Chap-Men as you,
That I, and my Brethren, have learned to brew.
Whatever Ingredients we put in the Vat,
Whether Dogs-Turd or Honey, no Matter for that;
For all our Defign's but to poifon a Rat.
He that dies by bad Wine, and not by the Halter,
Departs without Chime of Hopkins's Pfalter,
And that you well know is no Matter of Laughter.
Berebrosios sadaasa
To Mr. HENRY PURCEL.
Long did dark Ignorance our int o'er spread,
Our Mufick and our Poetry lay dead:
But the dull Malice of a barbarous Age
Fell moft fevere on David's facred Page;
To wound the Senfe, and quench his Heav'n-born Fire,
Three vile Tranflators lewdly did confpire,
In holy Dogg'rel, and low chiming Profe,
The King and Poet they, at once, depofe.
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