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A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
35 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 honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom the subdued ; Your scene precariously subsists too long On French translation, and Italian song. Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage; Be justly warm'd with your own native rage : Such plays alone should win a British ear,
45 As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.
E PIL OG U E
MR. ROWE’S JANE SHORE.
DESIGNED FOR MRS. OLDFIELD.
From her own fex should mercy find to-day!
15 That virtuous ladies envy while they rail; Such rage without betrays the fire within ; In some close corner of the soul, they sin; Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice, Amidst their virtues a reserve of vice. The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns, Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.
you enjoy soft nights, and solid dinners ? Faith, gallants, board with faints, and bed with finners.
Well, if our Author in the Wife offends, 25 He has a Husband that will make amends : He draws him gentle, 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 :
30 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 special breeder. To lend a wife, few here would fcruple make, 35 But, pray, which of you all would take her back: Though with the Stoic Chief our Stage may rings 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?
4.0 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 ne'er faw naked fword, or look'd in Plato. If, after all, you think it a disgrace,
45 That Edward's Mifs thus perks it in your face; To see a piece of failing flesh and blood, In all the reft so impudently good; Faith let the modeft Matrons of the town Come here in crowds, and stare the strumpet down. 50
SAY, lovely youth, that doft my
heart' command, Can Phaon's eyes forget his Sappho's hand ? Muft then her name the wretched writer prové, To thy remembrance loft, as to thy love? Ask not the cause that I new numbers chuse,
5 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 consume with more than Ætra's fires !
ECQUID, ut inspecta eft ftudiofae littera dextrae,
Protinus est oculis cognita noftra tuis ? An, nisi legiffes auctoris nomina Sapphus,
Hoc breve nescires 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.
Fertilis accensis messibus ardet ager.
Me calor Ætnaeo non minor igne coquit.
No more my soul a charm in music finds,
you with ivy wreathe your flowing hair, 25
Nec mihi, difpofitis quae jungam carmina nervis,
Proveniunt; vacuae carmina mentis opus. Nec me Pyrrhiades Methymniadesve puellae,
Nec me Lesbiadum caetera turba juvant. Vilis Anactorie, vilis mihi candida Cydno :
Non oculis grata est Atthis, ut ante, meis, Atque aliae centum, quas non sine crimine amavi :
Improbe, multarum quod fuit, un habes.
O facies oculis infidiofa meis!
Accedant capiti cornua ; Bacchus eris.