Befides three holy mitred Hectors, That pays to make his envoy drunk. This truly is a degradation, But would oblige the crown and nation Next to your wife negotiation. 4 If you pretend, as well you may, His grace of Bucks has made a farce, And you, whofe comic wit is terfe all, For yet no George, to our discerning, EPISTLE the EIGHTH. то Mr. SOUTHERN E, Ο Ν HIS COMEDY call'd, The WIVES EXCUSE. URE there's a fate in plays, and 'tis in vain SUR To write, while thefe 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 fhow: But let a monster Muscovite 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. } The hearers may for want of Nokes repine; But reft fecure, the readers will be thine. With fuch good manners, as the Wife did use, The standard of thy ftyle let Etherege be; EPISTLE the NINTH. то HENRY HIGDEN, Efq; ON HIS Tranflation of the Tenth Satire of JUVENAL. HE Grecian wits, who Satire first began, Were pleasant Pasquins on the life of man ; At mighty villains, who the state opprest, They durft not rail, perhaps; they lash'd, at least, And turn'd them out of office with a jest. No fool could peep abroad, but ready stand The drolls to clap a bauble in his hand. Wife legislators never yet could draw A fop within the reach of common law; For posture, dress, grimace and affectation, Tho foes to fenfe, are harmless to the nation. Our laft redress is dint of verse to try, And Satire is our court of Chancery. This way took Horace to reform an age, Not bad enough to need an author's rage. But yours, who liv'd in more degenerate times, Was forc'd to faften deep, and worry crimes. Yet you, my friend, have temper'd him fo well, You make him smile in spite of all his zeal : |