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Damnation follows death in other men,
But your damn'd poet lives, and writes again.
Th’advent'rous lover is successful still,

Who Atrives to please the fair against her will:
Be kind, and make him in his wishes easy,
Who in your own despite has ftrove to please ye.
He scorn'd to borrow from the wits of yore,
But ever writ as none e'er writ before.
You modern wits, Mould each man bring his claim,
Have desperate debentures on your fame ;
And little would be left you, I'm afraid,
If all your debts to Greece and Rome were paid.
From his deep fund our author largely draws,
Nor finks his credit lower than it was.
Tho'plays for honour in old time he made,
'Tis now for better reasons-to be paid.
Believe him, he has known the world too long,
And seen the death of much immortal song.
He says, poor poets loft, while players won,
As pimps grow rich, while gallants are undone.
Tho' Tom the poet writ with ease and pleasure,
The coinic Tom abounds in other treasure.
Fame is at beft an unperforming cheat;

25 But 'tis fubftantial happinefs to eat. Let eafe, his last request, be of your giving, Nor force him to be damn’d to get his living.



* PROLOGUE to The Three Hours after


AUTHORS are judg’d by ftrange capricious rules;

The great ones are thought mad, the small ones.

fools: Yet sure the best are most feverely fated; For fools are only laugh'd at, wits are hated.


Blockheads with reason men of sense abhor ;

5 But fool.'gainst fool is barb'rous civil war. Why on all authors then should critics fall? Since some have writ, and shewn no wit at all. Condemn a play of theirs, and they evade it ; Cry, " Damn not us, but damn the French who

made it." By running goods these graceless owlers gain ; Theirs are the rules of France, the plots of Spain: But wit, like wine, from happier climates brought, Dash'd by these rogues, turns English common draught. They pall Moliere's and Lopez' sprightly strain, : 15 And teach dull Harlequins to grini in vain.

How Shall our author hope a gentler fate, Who dares most impudently not translate ! It had been civil in these ticklish times To fetch his fools and knaves from foreign climes. 20 Spaniards and French abufe to the world's end, But spare old England, left you hurt a friend. If any fool is by our fatire bit, Let him hiss loud, to fhew you all he's hit. Poets make characters, as salesmen cloaths : 25. We take no measure of your fops and beaus ; But here all sizes and all shapes you meet, And fit yourselves, like chaps in Monmouth-street.

GALLANTS ! look bere : this fool's cap * has an air Goodly and smart, with ears of Issachar.

30 Let no one fool ingrofs it, or confine, A common blessing ! now 'tis yours, now mine. But poets in all

had the care To keep this cap, for such as will, to wear. Qur author has it now (for every

35 Of course resign'd it to the next that writ) ; And thus upon the stage 'tis fairly thrown t; Let him that takes it, wear it as his own. • Shows a cap with cars. + Flings down the cap, and crita




A proper new BALLAD on the new Ovid's Meta

MORPHOSES, as it was intended to be translated by persons of quality.

Ye Lords and Commons, men of wit

And pleasure about town, Read this, ere you translate one bit

Of books of high renown.

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Rare imp of Phæbus, hopeful youth !

Like puppy tame, that uses To fetch and carry in his mouth

The works of all the muses.


Ah! why did he write poetry,

That hereto was fo civil ; And fell his soul for vanity

To rhyming and the devil?

A dek he had of curious work,

With glittering studs about Within the same did Sandys lurk,

Tho' Ovid lay without.




Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought,

Forth popp'd the sprite so thin,
And from the key-hole bolted out

All upright as a pin.
With whikers, band, and pantaloon,

And ruff compos'd moft duely,
This 'squire he dropp'd his pen full soon,

While as the light burnt bluely.
Ho! Master Sam, quoth Sandys' sprite,

Write on, nor let me scare ye ;
Forsooth, if rhymes fall not in right,

To Budgel seek, or Carey.
I hear the beat of Jacob's drums,

Poor Ovid finds no quarter !
See firit the merry P

In hafte without his garter.
Then lords and lordings, 'squires and knights,

Wits, witlings. prigs, and peers :
Garth at St James's, and at White's,

Beats up for volanteers.
What Fenton will not do, nor Gay,

Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,
Tom Burnet or Tom D'Urfy may,

John Dunton, Steele, or any one.




If Justice Philips' costive head

Some frigid rhymes disburses ; They shall like Perfian Tales be read,

And glad both babes and nurses.


Let Warwick's muse with Ah-t join,

And Ozel's with Lord Hervey's, Tickell and 'Addison combine,

And Pope tranllate with servis.


L- himself, that lively lord,

Who bows to every lady,
Shall join with F- in one accord,

And be like Tate and Brady.


Ye ladies too draw forth your pen ;

where can the hurt lie? Since


have brains as well as men, As witness Lady Wortley.

Now, Tonfon, lift thy forces all,

Review them, and tell nores :
For to poor Ovid shall befal
A strange metamorphosis ;

A metamorphosis more strange

Than all his books can vapour“ To what," (quoth 'squire) “ shall Ovid change?" 25

Quoth Sandys, To waje paper.

U - M B R ' A.

CLOSE to the best-known author Umbra fits,

The constant index to all Button's wits. Who's here? cries Umbra : only Johnson -- Ob! Your Nave, and exit ; but returns with Rowe : Dear Rowe, let's fit and talk of tragedies :

5 Ere long Pope enters, and to Pope he flies. Then up comes Steele: he turns upon his heel, And in a moment faftens upon Steele ;

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