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To wake the foul by tender strokes of art,

To raise the genius, and to mend the heart;
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:
For this the Tragic Muse first trod the stage,
Commanding tears to stream through every age;
Tyrants no more their favage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our author fhuns by vulgar fprings to move
The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;
In pitying Love, we but our weakness show,
And wild Ambition well deferves its woe.
Here tears shall flow from a more generous cause,
Such tears as Patriots shed for dying Laws:
He bids your breasts with ancient ardour rife,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confefs'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was :
No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys,

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A brave

A brave man ftruggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little Senate laws,
What bofom beats not in his Country's caufe?
Who fees him act, but envies every deed?

Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev'n when proud Cæfar 'midft triumphal cars,

pomp of wars,

The spoils of nations, and the
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,

Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state;
As her dead father's reverend image past,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercaft;
The triumph ceas'd, tears gufh'd from every eye;
The world's great Victor pass'd unheeded by ;
Her last 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 fhow, you have the virtue to be mov'd.
With honeft fcorn the firft fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdued ;
Your scene precariously subsists too long

On French translation, and Italian fong.

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Dare to have sense yourselves; affert the stage,
Be justly warm'd with your own native rage:

Such plays alone should win a British ear,
As Cato's felf had not difdain'd to hear.

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VOL. I.

M

EPI

EPILOGUE

то

MR. ROWE'S JANE SHORE.

DESIGNED FOR MRS. OLDFIELD.

PRODIGIOUS this! the Frail-one of our Play

From her own fex fhould mercy find to-day!
You might have held the pretty head afide,
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-I fo hate a whore !-

Just as a blockhead 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 ftill forgiving at their heart;
And, did not wicked cuftom fo 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 fome close corner of the foul, they fin;
Still hoarding up, moft fcandaloufly nice,
Amidft their virtues a reserve of vice.
The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns,

Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.

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Would

Would

you enjoy foft nights, and folid dinners?

Faith, gallants, board with faints, 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 so, should need her,
He'd recommend her as a fpecial breeder.
To lend a wife, few here would fcruple make,
But, pray, which of you all would take her back?
Though with the Stoic Chief our Stage may ring,
The Stoic Husband was the glorious thing.
The man had courage, was a fage, '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 honeft man may copy Cato,
Who ne'er faw naked fword, or look'd in Plato.
If, after all, you think it a difgrace,
That Edward's Mifs thus perks it in your face;
To fee a piece of failing flesh and blood,

In all the rest fo impudently good;

Faith let the modeft Matrons of the town

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Come here in crowds, and ftare the ftrumpet down. 50

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SAY,

my

heart command,

AY, lovely youth, that doft
Can Phaon's eyes forget his Sappho's hand?
Muft then her name the wretched writer prove,
To thy remembrance loft, as to thy love?
Afk not the cause that I new numbers chufe,
The lute neglected, and the Lyric Muse;
Love taught my tears in fadder notes to flow,
And tun'd my heart to Elegies of woe.

I burn, I burn, as when through ripen'd corn
By driving winds the spreading flames are borne.
Phaon to Ætna's scorching fields retires,
While I confume with more than Ætra's fires!

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ECQUID, ut infpecta eft ftudiofae littera dextrae,

Protinus eft oculis cognita noftra tuis?

An, nifi legiffes auctoris nomina Sapphûs,
Hoc breve nefcires unde movetur opus?
Forfitan et quare mea fint alterna requiras

Carmina, cum lyricis fim magis apta modis.
Flendus amor meus eft: elegeïa flebile carmen ;
Non facit ad lacrymas barbitos ulla meas.
Uror, ut, indomitis ignem exercentibus Euris,
Fertilis accenfis meffibus ardet ager.
Arva Phaon celebrat diverfa Typhoïdos Ætnae,
Me calor Ætnaeo non minor igne coquit.

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No

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