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wars

But what with pleasure heav'n itself surveys,
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate ,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little senate laws,
What bosom bears not in his country's cause :
Who sees him a&t , but envies ev'ry deed ?
Who hears him groan , and does not wish to bleed
Ev'n when proud Cæsar ʼmidst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp

of
Ignobly vain , and impotently great,
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state ;
As her dead father's rev'rend image paft,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast;
The triumph ceas'd, tears gush'd from ev'ry eye ;
The world's great victor pass’d unheeded by';
Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd ,
And honour'd Cæsar's less than Cato's sword.

Britons, attend: be worth like this approv'd,
And show, you have the virtue to be mov’d.
With honeft scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdu'd:
Your scene precariously subsists too long
On French transation, and Italian fong.
Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage,
Be justly warm’d with your native rage:
Such plays alone should win a British car,
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear,

EPILOGUE

TO

Mr. RO W E'S

JANE SHORE,

DESIGNED FOR Mrs. OLDFIELD.

PR

PRODIGIOUS

RODI ous this! the frail-one of our play
From her own sex should mercy find to-day!
You might have held the pretty head aside,
Peep'd in your fans, been serious, thus, and cry'd:
The play may pass--but that strange creature, Shore,
I can't-indeed now Iro hate a whore-
Just as a block-head rubs his thoughtless skull,
And thanks his stars he was not born a fool;
So from a sister finner you shall hear :
» How strangely you expose yourself, my dear ? «
But let me die , all raillery apart,
Our sex are still forgiving at their heart;
And, did nor wicked custom so contrive,
We'd be the best, good-natur'd things alive.

There are , 'tis true, who tell another tale,
That virtuous ladies envy while they rail ;
Such rage without betrays the fire within ;
In some clofé corner of the soul , they fin ;
Still hoarding up, most scandaloufly nice,

Amidst their virtues a reserve of vice.
The godly dime, who fleshly failings damns ,
Scolds with her maids, or with her chaplain crams.
Would you enjoy soft nights and solid dinners!
Faith, gallants, board with saints, and bed with sinners.

Well, if our author in the wife offends,
He has a husband that will make amends :
He draws him gentie , tender, and forgiving,
And sure such kind good creatures may be living.
In days of old, they pardon'd breach of vows,
Stern Cato's self was no relentless spouse:
Plus-Plutarch, what's his name, that writes his life?
Tells us, that Cato dearly lov'd his wife:
Yet if a friend, a night or so, should need her,
He'd recommend her as a special breeder,
To lend a wife , few here would scruple make,
But, pray, which of you all would take her back:
Tho' with the Stoic chief our stage may ring,
The Stoic husband was the glorious thing.
The man had courage, was a sage, 'tis true,
And lov'd his country, but what's that to you?
Those strange examples ne’er were made to fit ye,
But the kind cuckold might instruct the city :
There , many an honest man may copy Cato,
Who nc'er saw naked sword, or look'd in Plato,

If, after all, you think it a disgrace , That Edward's Miss thus perks it in your face; To see a piece of failing flesh and blood, In all the rest fo impudently good ; Faith, let the modeft matrons of the town Come here in couds, and stare the strumpet do the

M A CER:

A

CHARACTER.

W

HEN simple Macer , now of high renown, First fought a Poet's fortune in the town, 'Twas all th' ambition his high soul could feel, To wear red stockings , and to dine with STEEL, Some ends of verse his betters might afford, And gave the harmless fellow a good word. Set up with thele , he ventur’d on the town, And with a borrow'd play, out-did poor

CROWN. There he stop'd short, nor since has writ a tittle ; But has the wit to make the most of little : Like ftunted hide-bound trees, that just have got Sufficient sap at once to bear and rot. Now he begs verse, and what he gets commends , Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends.

So some coarse country wench , almost decay'd, Trudges to town, and first turns chambermaid ; Aukward and supple, each devoir to pay ; She flatters her good lady twice a day; Thought wondrous honest, tho' of mean degree, And ftrangely lik'd for her fimplicity :

In a translated suit , then tries the town,
With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own:
But jutt endur'd the winter she began,
And in four months a batter'd Harridan.
Now nothing left, but wither’d, pale , and shrunk ;
To bawd for others, and go shares with punk.

TO

Mr. JOHN MOORE,

AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED

WORM-POWDER.

How much, egregious Moore, are we

Deceiv'd by shews and forms! Whare'er we think , whate'er we see,

All Humankind are Worms,

_Man is a very Vorm by bith,

Vile , réptile , weak , and vain! A while he crawls upon the ea.th

Then shrinks to earth a ain.

That Woman is a Worm, we find

E'er since our Grandame's evil ;
She first convers'd with her own kind,

That ancicat worm, the Devil.

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