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But after he's once fav'd, to make amends,
In each fucceeding health they damn his friends:
So God begins, but ftill the devil ends.

What if some one, infpir'd with zeal, should call,
Come, let's go cry, God fave him at Whitehall?
His best friends would not like this over-care,
Or think him ere the fafer for this

prayer.
Five praying faints are by an act allow'd;
But not the whole church-militant in croud.
Yet, should heaven all the true petitions drain
Of Presbyterians, who would kings maintain,
Of forty thousand, five would fcarce remain.

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A Virgin poet was ferv'd up to-day,

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Who, till this hour, ne'er cackled for a play.

He's neither yet a Whig nor Tory-boy;

But, like a girl, whom several would enjoy,

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Begs leave to make the best of his own natʼral toy.
Were I to play my callow author's game,
The king's house would instruct me by the name.
There's loyalty to one; I wish no more::

A commonwealth founds like a common whore.

Let husband or gallant be what they will,
One part of woman is true Tory ftill.
If any factious fpirit fhould rebel,

Our fex, with ease, can ev'ry rising quell.

Then, as you hope we should your failings hide,
An honeft jury for our play provide.

Whigs at their poets never take offence;
They fave dull culprits, who have murder'd sense.
Tho nonsense is a naufeous heavy mass,

The vehicle call'd Faction makes it pass.
Faction in play's the commonwealth-man's bribe;
The leaden farthing of the canting tribe:
Tho void in payment laws and statutes make it,
The neighbourhood, that knows the man, will
take it.

'Tis faction buys the votes of half the pit;
Their's is the penfion-parliament of wit.
In city-clubs their venom let them vent;
For there 'tis fafe, in its own element.
Here, where their madness can have no pretence,
Let them forget themfelves an hour of sense,
In one poor ifle, why should two factions be?
Small diff'rence in your vices I can see :
In drink and drabs both fides too well agree.
Would there were more preferments in the land:
If places fell, the party could not ftand:

Of this damn'd grievance ev'ry Whig complains; They grunt like hogs till they have got their grains, Mean time you see what trade our plots advance; We send each year good money into France; And they that know what merchandize we need, Send o'er true Proteftants to mend our breed.

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3

то тн Е

UNIVERSITY of OXFORD,

SPOKEN by Mr. HART,

At the Acting of the SILENT WOMAN.

WHA

HAT Greece, when learning flourish'd, only knew,

Athenian judges, you this day renew.

Here too are annual rites to Pallas done,
And here poetic prizes loft or won.
Methinks I fee you, crown'd with olives, fit,
And strike a facred horror from the pit.
A day of doom is this of your decree,
Where even the best are but by mercy free:

A day, which none but Jonfon durft have with'd
to fee.

Here they, who long have known the useful stage,
Come to be taught themselves to teach the
age.
As your commiffioners our poets go,
To cultivate the virtue which you fow;
In your Lycæum first themselves refin'd,
And delegated thence to human-kind.
But as ambaffadors, when long from home,
For new inftructions to their princes come;
who your precepts have forgot,
Return, and beg they may be better taught:
Follies and faults elsewhere by them are shown,
But by your manners they correct their own.
Th'illiterate writer, emperic-like, applies

So poets,

To minds difeas'd, unfafe, chance, remedies : The learned in fchools, where knowlege first began,

Studies with care the anatomy of man;

Sees virtue, vice, and paffions in their caufe,

And fame from science, not from fortune, draws. So Poetry, which is in Oxford made

An art, in London only is a trade.

There haughty dunces, whofe unlearned pen Could ne'er fpell grammar, would be reading men. Such build their poems the Lucretian way;

So many huddled atoms make a play;

I

And

And if they hit in order by fome chance,
They call that nature, which is ignorance.
To fuch a fame let mere town-wits aspire,
And their gay nonfenfe their own cits admire.
Our poet, could he find forgiveness here,
Would wish it rather than a plaudit there.
He owns no crown from thofe Prætorian bands,
But knows that right is in the fenate's hands,
Not impudent enough to hope your praise,
Low at the Muses feet his wreath he lays,
And, where he took it up, refigns his bays.
Kings make their poets whom themselves think fit,
But 'tis your fuffrage makes authentic wit.

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EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY THE SAME.

Opoor Dutch peafant, wing'd with all his fear
Flies with more hafte, when the French
arms draw near,

Than we with our poetic train come down,
For refuge hither, from th' infected town:

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