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From loftieft numbers, or from humbleft profe,
As each confpir'd, the artlefs ftructures rofe.
Thus one great labour of their work was o'er,
They found a fable, and they fought no more.
Careless were they of action, place, or time,
Whofe only toil was dialogue and rhyme.
"Rules which the rigid Stagyrite devis'd,
"Our fathers knew not, or, if known, defpis'd."
Whilft, fide by fide, were mingled in the fcene,
A laughing Ruftic, and a weeping Queen.
Space was obedient to the boundless piece,
That op'd in Mexico, and clos'd in Greece.
Then thick with plots the crowded tale was fown,
'Till the divided bofom felt for none;

"They fear'd no cenfures of a frowning Pit,
"That judg'd as loosely as the Authors writ."
But we, who posted in Time's tardy rear,
Before a learn'd Tribunal now appear;
With anxious art a fable muft defign,
Where probality and intereft join;

Where time, and place, and action, all agree
To violate no facred unity.

And thus each candid Critic must confefs
The labour greater, and indulgence lefs:
When fuch the task, the wonder is to meet,
Not many pieces bad, but one complete.
Nor let prefumptuous Poets fondly claim
From rules exemption, by great Shakespear's name;
Though comets move with wild eccentric force,
Yet humbler planets keep their ftated courfe.
But now, a Bard, who touch'd your hearts before,
Again falutes you from a neighbouring shore.
Fir'd by the applaufe you gave his early lays,
He stands again a candidate for praife;
Nor from your former favour dares foresee
To worthlefs ftrains a partial destiny.
But if his virgin palm was fairly won,
And this next courfe with equal vigour's run,
Now join to bind his fresher laurels on.
He fears no jaundic'd rival's envious breath,

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The hands which twin'd, will ftill preserve the wreath.

EPILOGUE

E PIL LOGUE

TO THE LAW OF

LOMBARD Y.

WRITTEN BY THE

AUTHOR.

Spoken by Mifs YOUNGE.

F all the Gothic laws I ever heard,

Fall the Gothic Laws was fure the moft abfurd;

What! could the monfters mean to make us die,
But for a little harmless gallantry?

Where fuch a barbarous cuftom now in fashion,
Good Lord! it would unpeople half the nation.
Scaffolds on Scaffolds now the streets would fill,
As fign-pofts did, before the Paving-Bill.
Were British law-makers fuch rigorous churls,
They'd hardly leave a head to wear falfe curls.
Befides, what champion now would rifque his life,
To gain what moft men fhudder at a wife.
Inftead of armed knights, at trumpet's fummons,
Commend me to our Proctors, and the Commons.
There, though we lose our husbands and our fame,
We get our portion, and a maiden name;
And it her fortune, and her charms remain,
Then Mifs may wed-and be divorc❜d again.

Yet, though thefe frolicks have of late been common,
Lay not the blame entirely on weak Woman.
'The carelefs mate his rival recommends,
We find him 'midst his own obliging friends.
Some fwain, who fwears he lives but in our eyes,
And plies us with fuch cunning flatteries,
That fpoufe neglecting us, and lover wooing,
One ftrives, and t'other leads us, to our ruin.
So, if weak ladies chance to go aftray,

Their Lords, methinks, are more in fault than they:
The goal of marriage reach'd, the men lie down,
Like weary racers when the prize is won;

Mere catching us alone, their care engages;
The acts they spread, but never mind the cages.

The

The married gamefter more delight can find
In "Seven's the main," than all dear woman-kind.
Acteon wedded, to our voice prefers

The fweeter mufic of his yelping curs ;
While the dull fot, who his fix bottles boafts,
Thinks women good for nothing-but for toasts.
Thus flighted for the glass, the hound, the die,
Our pride steps in, and to revenge we fly;
One obvious method only can preferve us,
Strive, by your own attentions, to deserve us,
And now, as formerly, be fure you'll prove,
Contempt will meet contempt, as love meets love.

PROL LO OGUE

то THE

SCHOOL FOR SCANDA L.

School for Scandal!-Tell me, I beseech you,

A Needs there a school, this modish art to teach you?

No need of leffons now-the knowing think-
We might as well be taught to eat and drink:
Caus'd by a dearth of scandal, fhould the vapours
Diftrefs our fair-ones, let them read the papers;
Their powerful mixtures fuch disorders hit,
Crave what they will, there's quantum fufficit.

"Lord!" cries my Lady Wormwood, (who loves tattle, And puts much falt and pepper in her prattle) Juft ris'n at noon, all night at cards, when threshing Strong tea and fcandal-bless me, how refreshing! "Give me the papers, Lifp-how bold and free! (lips) "Laft night Lord L. (fips) was caught with Lady D. "For aching heads, what charming fal valatile! (fips). "If Mrs. B. will still continue flirting,

"We hope she'll draw, or we'll undraw, the curtain."Fine, fatire, pox! in public all abufe it;

"But, by ourselves, (sips) our praise we can't refuse it. "Now, Lifp, read you there, at that dash and star-” "Yes, Ma'am-A certain Lord had beft beware, "Who lives not twenty miles from Grosvenor-fquare:

"For

"For fhould he Lady W. find willing

"Wormwood is bitter."-"Oh! that's me-the villain!
"Throw it behind the fire, and never more
"Let that vile paper come within my door."
Thus at our friends we laugh, who feel the dart;
To reach our feelings, we ourselves must fmart.
Is our young Bard fo young, to think that he
Can ftop the full fpring-tide of calumny ?
Knows he the world fo little, and its trade ?—
Alas! the devil's fooner rais'd than laid.

So ftrong, so swift the monster, there's no gagging;
Cut Scandal's head off-ftill the tongue is wagging.
Proud of your fmiles, once lavishly beftow'd,
Again our young Don Quixote takes the road;
To fhew his gratitude, he draws his pen,
And feeks this hydra, Scandal, in its den ;-
From his fell gripe the frighted fair to fave-
Though he should fall, th' attempt must please the brave.
For your applaufe, all perils he would through;
He'll fight-that's write-a cavaliero true,
Till ev'ry drop of blood-that's ink-is fpilt for you.

PROLOGUE.

TH E

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TO

TI M E S.

Spoken by Mr. KING.

O glow with ardour, and attempt with zeal
The reformation of the public weal,

Are the high duty of the Comic Mufe;

And tho' keen Attic Salt allowed to use,
To feafon Precept, and with Art to tickle

The fores fhe means to wash with sharpest pickle,
Yet not the rofy, pulpited Divine,

Nor lank-hair'd Methodist with rueful whine,
Is more intent to root out Vice and Folly,
And make ye all lead lives difcreet and holy.-
Yet why to clear the field were all their toil,

If weeds o'erfpread not the luxuriant foil ?

Congreve

Congreve or Weftley, Whitfield or Moliere,
In vain might prompt the laugh, or bribe the tear,
If no man felt, or in himself, or neighbour,
Some failing to call forth the zealot's labour ;-
If no fair dame defcrib'd, 'midft her acquaintance,
Some few who might be mended by repentance,

Loofe as the buxom air, the Youth from College
Comes fraught with all Newmarket's hopeful knowledge;
In hafte to spend the Eftate, not yet his own,
Completes his ruin ere his beard is grown;
And when to foreign climes he spreads the fail,
'Tis not to enlarge his mind, but 'scape a jail.
Then blefs the Poet, happy the Divine,
When Folly gives the Ton from Fashion's Shrine!
But whilft the Priest and Satirist reprove
Thofe vices which provoke the wrath of Jove,
Our Author, like the patient Angler fitting
To catch fmall fry, for humbler palates fitting,
Has ferv'd a Meal, not feafon'd high with crimes-
Tafle it, and if approved, applaud The TIMES.

EPILOGUE.

TO THE SAME.

Spoken by Mifs FARREN.

WHILE grave-paced Tragedy, with Oh's and Starts!

Flies at high game, to move and mend your hearts,

We merrier folks with fpirits blithe and jolly,

Juft perch upon fome little fprig of folly;
For, in this age, fo pious, chafte, and grave,
To rail at vice, muft furely be to rave!

Yet thanks to here and there a modish fool,
The Comic Mufe may glean fome ridicule.
Jews will be Jews, if dupes can yet be found,
And if one frail one's left on English ground,
She'll find a Phaeton and pair of ponies
To elope for all men are not Macaronies:-
Thofe precious Dears, at leaft, would make her wait→→
'Twould be fo vulgar, not to be too late.

Our fex-but fhall I charge the weaker kind? Or can thofe fail to ftray, whofe guides are blind!

Let

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