But what with pleasure heav'n itself furveys,
A brave man ftruggling in the ftorms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little fenate laws,
What bofom bears not in his country's cause ?
Who fees him act, but envies ev'ry deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed
Ev'n when proud Cæfar 'midft triumphal cars
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state;
As her dead father's rev'rend image past,
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 laft good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Cæfar's lefs than Cato's fword.
Britons, attend: be worth like this approv'd,
And show, you have the virtue to be mov'd.
With honeft fcorn the first fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdu'da
Your fcene precariously subfifts too long
On French translation, and Italian fong.
Dare to have sense yourselves; affert the stage,
Be juftly warm'd with your native rage:
Such plays alone should win a British ear
As Cato's felf had not difdain'd to hear,
DESIGNED FOR Mrs. OLDFIELD.
RODIGIOUS this! the frail-one of our play From her own fex should mercy find to-day! You might have held the pretty head aside,
Peep'd in your fans, been ferious, thus, and cry'd: The play may pafs-but that ftrange creature, Shore, 1 can't- indeed now -I fo hate a whore
Just as a block-head rubs his thoughtless skull,
And thanks his ftars he was not born a fool;
So from a fifter finner you shall hear :
» How ftrangely you expose yourself, my dear? « But let me die, all raillery apart,
Our fex are still forgiving at their heart;
And, did not wicked cuftom fo contrive,
We'd be the beft, 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 fome clofé corner of the foul,
they fin
Still hoarding up, most scandaloufly nice,
Amidft their virtues a referve of vice.
The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns,
Scolds with her maids, or with her chaplain crams.
Would you enjoy foft nights and solid dinners?
Faith, gallants, board with saints, and bed with finners.
Well, if our author in the wife offends,
He has a husband that will make amends:
He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving,
And fure fuch kind good creatures may be living.
In days of old, they pardon'd breach of vows,
Stern Cato's self was no relentless spouse:
Plu-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 fo, 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 ftage 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 inftruct the city:
There, many an honest man may copy Cato,
Who ne'er faw naked sword, or look'd in Plato.
If, after all, you think it a difgrace,
That Edward's Mifs thus perks it in
To fee 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 crouds, and ftare the ftrumpet do m
HEN fimple Macer, now of high renown, First fought a Peet's fortune in the town, 'Twas all th' ambition his high foul could feel, To wear red ftockings, and to dine with STEEL. Some ends of verfe his betters might afford, And gave the harmless fellow a good word. Set up with thefe, he ventur'd on the town, And with a borrow'd play, out-did poor CROWN. There he ftop'd short, nor fince has writ a tittle; But has the wit to make the most of little : Like ftunted hide-bound trees, that just have got Sufficient fap at once to bear and rot.
Now he begs verfe, and what he gets commends, Not of the wits his foes, but fools his friends.
So fome coarfe country wench, almost decay'd, Trudges to town, and firft turns chambermaid; Aukward and supple, each devoir to pay ; She flatters her good lady twice a day; Thought wondrous honeft, tho' of mean degree, And ftrangely lik'd for her fimplicity :
In a tranflated fuit, then tries the town,
With borrow'd pins, and patches not her own:
But just 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.
AUTHOR OF THE CELEBRATED
WORM-POWDER.
How much, egregious Moore, are we
Deceiv'd by shews and forms!
Whate'er we think, whate'er we fee,
All Humankind are Worms.
Man is a very Worm by bith,
Vile, reptile, weak, and vain!
A while he crawls upon the earth,
Then shrinks to earth again.
That Woman is a Worm, we find
E'er fince our Grandame's evil;
She first convers'd with her own kind,
That ancient worm, the Devil.
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