An ape his own dear image will embrace; 16 An ugly beau adores a hatchet face:

So, fome of you, on pure inftinct of nature, Are led, by kind, to admire your fellow crea

ture.

In fear of which, our house has sent this day, To infure our new-built veffel, call'd a play; 21 No fooner nam'd, than one cries out,-Thefe ftagers

Come in good time, to make more work for

wagers.

The town divides, if it will take or no ;

The courtiers bet, the cits, the merchants too; A fign they have but little elfe to do.

26

Bets, at the first, were fool-traps; where the

wife,

Like spiders, lay in ambush for the flies:

But now they're grown a common trade for for

all,

And actions by the new-book rife and fall;
Wits, cheats, and fops, are free of wager-hall.
One policy as far as Lyons carries;
Another, nearer home, fets up for Paris.
Our bets, at laft, would even to Rome extend,
But that the pope has prov'd our trusty friend.
Indeed, it were a bargain worth our money, 36
Could we infure another Ottoboni.

Among the reft there are a sharping fet,

yet against us bet.

Sure heaven itself is at a lofs to know

40

If these would have their prayers be heard, or

no:

For, in great stakes, we piously suppose,
Men pray but very faintly they may lofe.

Leave off these wagers; for, in conscience fpeaking,

The city needs not your new tricks for break

ing:

45

And if you gallants lofe, to all appearing, You'll want an equipage for volunteering; While thus, no spark of honour left within When you should draw the fword, you draw the guinea.

ye,

EPILOGUE

ΤΟ

HENRY II.

[BY MR. MOUNTFORT, 1693.]

SPOKEN BY MRS. BRACEGIRDLE.

THUS you the fad catastrophe have seen,
Occafion'd by a mistress and a queen.

Queen Eleanor the proud was French, they fay;

But English manufacture got the day.

Jane Clifford was her name, as books aver:
Fair Rofamond was but her Nom de

Now tell me, gallants, would you lead

guerre.

5

your life With fuch a mistress, or with fuch a wife? If one must be your choice, which d'ye approve, The curtain lecture, or the curtain love?

Would

10

ye be godly with perpetual ftrife, Still drudging on with homely Joan your wife; Or take your pleasure in a wicked way, Like honest whoring Harry in the play?

I guess your minds: the mistress would be taken,

15

And naufeous matrimony fent a packing.
The devil's in you all; mankind's a rogue ;
You love the bride, but you deteft the clog.
After a year, poor spouse is left i' th' lurch,
And you, like Haynes, return to mother-church.
Or, if the name of Church comes crofs your

mind,

21

Chapels of eafe behind our scenes you find..
The playhouse is a kind of market-place;
One chaffers for a voice, another for a face :
Nay, fome of you, I dare not fay how many, 25
Would buy of me a pen'worth for your penny.
E'en this poor face, which with my fan I hide,
Would make a fhift my portion to provide,
With fome small perquifites I have beside.
Though for your love, perhaps, I should not

care,

I could not hate a man that bids me fair. What might enfue, 'tis hard for me to tell; But I was drench'd to-day for loving well, And fear the poison that would make me fwell.

Ver. 15.

the mistress would be taken, And naufeous matrimony fent a packing.]

30

The incident of Lady Eafy's throwing her handkerchief over Sir Charles's head, whilft he was fleeping, feems to have been taken from the Memoirs of Balompiere, concerning a Count d'Orgevillier and his mistress, tom. ii. p. 6. 1728. at Amfterdam. Dr. J. WARTON.

PROLOGUE

ΤΟ

ALBUMAZAR.

To fay, this comedy pleas'd long ago,
Is not enough to make it pafs you now.
Yet, gentlemen, your ancestors had wit;
When few men cenfur'd, and when fewer writ.
And Jonfon, of thofe few the beft, chofe this, s
As the best model of his mafter-piece.

Subtle was got by our Albumazar,

That Alchymift by this Aftrologer;

Here he was fashion'd, and we may suppose
He lik'd the fashion well, who wore the clothes.
But Ben made nobly his what he did mould; 11
What was another's lead, becomes his gold:
Like an unrighteous conqueror he reigns,
Yet rules that well, which he unjustly gains.
But this our age fuch authors does afford,
As make whole plays, and yet fcarce write one

word:

Who, in this anarchy of wit, rob all,

And what's their plunder, their poffeffion call:

15