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EPISTLE the SEVENTH.

A

LETTER to Sir GEORGE ETHEREDGE.

who live in chill degree,

T

O you
As map informs, of fifty-three,
And do not much for cold atone,
By bringing thither fifty-one,
Methinks all climes fhould be alike,
From tropic e'en to pole artique ;
Since
you have fuch a conftitution
As no where fuffers diminution.
You can be old in grave debate,
And young in love-affairs of state ;
And both to wives and husbands fhow

The vigor of a plenipo.

Like mighty miffioner you come
"Ad Partes Infidelium."
A work of wond'rous merit fure,
So far to go, fo much t'endure;
And all to preach to German dame,
Where found of Cupid never came.
Lefs had you done, had you been fent
As far as Drake or Pinto went,

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For cloves or nutmegs to the line-a,

Or e'en for oranges to China.

That had indeed been charity;
Where love-fick ladies helpless lie,
Chapt, and for want of liquor dry.
But you have made your zeal appear
Within the circle of the Bear.
What region of the earth's fo dull,
That is not of your labors full?
Triptolemus (fo fung the Nine)
Strew'd plenty from his cart divine.
But spite of all these fable-makers,
He never fow'd on Almain acres :
No, that was left by fate's decree,

To be perform'd and fung by thee.
Thou break'ft thro forms with as much ease

As the French king thro articles.
In grand affairs thy days are spent,
In waging weighty compliment,
With fuch as monarchs represent.
They, whom fuch vaft fatigues attend,
Want fome foft minutes to unbend,
To fhew the world that now and then
Great minifters ar mortal men.

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Then Rhenish rummers walk the round
In bumpers ev'ry king is crown'd ¿

Befides three holy mitred Hectors,
And the whole college of Electors.
No health of potentate is funk,
That pays to make his envoy drunk,
Thefe Dutch delights, I mention'd laft,
Suit not, I know, your English taste :
For wine to leave a whore or play
Was ne'er your excellency's way.
Nor need this title give offence,
For here you were your excellence,
For gaming, writing, fpeaking, keeping,
His excellence for all but fleeping.
Now if you tope in form, and treat,
'Tis the four fauce to the fweet meat,
The fine you pay for being great.
Nay, here's a harder impofition,
Which is indeed the court's petition,
That fetting worldly pomp afide,
Which poet has at font deny'd,
You would be pleas'd in humble way
To write a trifle call'd a Play.
This truly is a degradation,

But would oblige the crown and nation
Next to your wife negotiation.

If you pretend, as well you may,
Your high degree, your friends will fay,
The duke St. Aignon made a play.
If Gallic wit convince you fcarce,
His grace of Bucks has made a farce,
And you, whofe comic wit is terfe all,
Can hardly fall below Rehearfal.
Then finish what have began;
you
But fcribble fafter if

you can:

For yet no George,
George, to our discerning,
Has writ without a ten years warning.

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EPISTLE the EIGHTH.

то

Mr. SOUTHERN E,

ΟΝ HIS

COMEDY call'd, The WIVES EXCUSE.

SUR

URE there's a fate in plays, and 'tis in vain To write, while these malignant planets reign. Some very foolish influence rules the pit, Not always kind to fenfe, or just to wit: And whilft it lafts, let buffoonry fucceed, To make us laugh; for never was more need. Farce, in itself, is of a nafty fcent; But the gain fmells not of the excrement. The Spanish nymph, a wit and beauty too, With all her charms, bore but a fingle show: But let a monster Mufcovite appear,

He draws a crowded audience round the year.
May be thou haft not pleas'd the box and pit ;
Yet those who blame thy tale applaud thy wit:
So Terence plotted, but fo Terence writ.
Like his thy thoughts are true, thy language clean;
E'en lewdness is made moral in thy fcene.

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