EPILOGUE, Intended to have been Spoken by the Lady Henr. Mar. Wentworth, when Califto was acted at Court.

S Jupiter I made my Court in vain;

I'll now affume my Native shape again.
I'm weary to be fo unkindly us'd,
And would not be a God to be refus'd.
State grows uneafy when it hinders Love;
A glorious Burden, which the wife remove.
Now as a Nymph I need not fue, nor try
The force of any lightning but the Eye.
Beauty and Youth more than a God command;
No Jove could e'er the force of these withstand.
'Tis here that Sov'reign Power admits dispute;
Beauty fometimes is juftly abfolute.

Our fullen Cato's, whatfoe'er they say,
Even while they frown and dictate Laws, obey.
You, mighty Sir, our bonds more easy make,
And gracefully, what all muft fuffer, take:
Above those forms the Grave affect to wear;
For 'tis not to be wife to be severe.
True wisdom may some gallantry admit,
And foften business with the charms of wit.

These peaceful Triumphs with your Cares you bought,
And from the midft of fighting Nations brought.

You only hear it thunder from afar,

And fit in Peace the Arbiter of War:

Peace, the loath'd Manna, which hot Brains despise.
You knew its worth, and made it early prize:

*A Mafque by Mr. Crown, 1675.

M 2

And

And in its happy leisure fit and fee

The promises of more felicity:

Two glorious Nymphs of your own Godlike line,
Whose Morning Rays like Noontide strike and shine;
Whom you to fuppliant Monarchs shall dispose,
To bind your Friends, and to disfarm your Foes.

EPILOGUE to the MAN of MODE, or Sir FOPLING FLUTTER.

(By Sir G. ET HEREGE. 1676. )

OST modern Wits fuch monftrous Fools have shown,

MOST

They feem not of Heav'n's making, but their own.
Those naufeous Harlequins in Farce may pass;
But there goes more to a fubftantial Afs:
Something of Man muft be exposed to view,
That, Gallants, they may more resemble
Sir Fopling is a Fool fo nicely writ,

The Ladies wou'd mistake him for a Wit;

you.

And, when he fings, talks loud, and cocks, wou'd cry,
I vow, methinks, he's pretty Company;

So brifk, fo gay, so travell'd, fo refin'd,
As he took pains to graff upon his kind.

True Fops help Nature's Work, and go to School,
To file and finish God Almighty's Fool.

Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him can call;
He's Knight o' th' Shire, and represents ye all.
From each he meets he culls whate'er he can ;
Legion's his Name, a People in a Man.
His bulky Folly gathers as it goes,

And, rolling, o'er you, like a Snow-ball grows.

His various Modes from various Fathers follow;
One taught the tofs, and one the new French wallow.
His Sword-Knot this, his Cravat that defign'd;
And this, the yard-long Snake he twirls behind.
From one the facred Periwig he gain'd,

Which Wind ne'er blew, nor touch of Hat prophan'd,
Another's diving Bow he did adore,

Which with a Shog cafts all the Hair before,
'Till he with full Decorum brings it back,
And rifes with a Water-Spaniel fhake.
As for his Songs (the Ladies dear delight)
These sure he took from most of you who write.
Yet ev'ry Man is fafe from what he fear'd ;.
For no one Fool is hunted from the Herd.

EPILOGUE to MITHRIDATES King of PONT US.

(By Mr. N. LEE. 1678.)

'Ou've seen a pair of faithful Lovers die :

You're

And much you care; for most of you will cry,
'Twas a juft Judgment on their Conftancy.
For, Heav'n be thank'd, we live in fuch an Age,
When no Man dies for Love, but on the Stage:
And e'en thofe Martyrs are but rare in Plays;
A cursed Sign how much true Faith decays.
Loye is no more a violent Defire

'Tis a meer Metaphor, a painted Fire.
In all our Sex, the Name examin'd well,
'Tis Pride to gain, and Vanity to tell.
In Woman, 'tis of fubtle Int'reft made :.
Curfe on the Punk that made it first a Trade!

She first did Wit's Prerogative remove,

And made a Fool presume to prate of Love.

Let Honour and Preferment

go

for Gold;

But glorious Beauty is not to be fold:
Or, if it be, 'tis at a rate so high,

That nothing but adoring it fhou'd buy.
Yet the rich Cullies may their boasting spare
They purchafe but fophifticated Ware.
'Tis Prodigality that buys deceit,

Where both the Giver and the Taker cheat.
Men but refine on the old Half-Crown way;
And Women fight, like Swiffers, for their pay.

PROLOGUE to CESAR BORGIA. (By Mr. N. LEE. 1680.)

TH

H' anhappy Man, who once has trail'd a Pen,
Lives not to please himself, but other Men;
Is always drudging, wastes his Life and Blood,
Yet only eats and drinks what you think good.
What praise foe'er the Poetry deferve,

Yet ev'ry Fool can bid the Poet starve.
That fumbling Letcher to Revenge is bent,
Because he thinks himself or Whore is meant:
Name but a Cuckold, all the City fwarms;
From Leadenhall to Ludgate is in Arms :
Were there no fear of Antichrift or France,
In the bleft time poor Poets live by Chance.
Either you come not here, or, as you grace
Some old Acquaintance, drop into the place,
Careless and qualmish with a yawning Face :

You

You fleep o'er Wit, and by my troth you may;
Most of your Talents lie another way.
You love to hear of fome prodigious Tale,
The Bell that toll'd alone, or Irish Whale.
News is your Food, and you enough provide,
Both for your felves, and all the World befide.
One Theatre there is of vaft Resort,
Which whilome of Requests was called The Court;
But now the great Exchange of News 'tis hight,
And full of Hum and Buz from Noon 'till Night.
Up Stairs and down you run, as for a race,
And each Man wears three Nations in his face.
So big you look, though Claret you retrench,
'That, arm'd with bottled Ale, you huff the French.
But all your Entertainment ftill is fed

By Villains in your own dull Island bred.
Wou'd you return to us, we dare engage
To fhew you better Rogues upon the Stage.
You know no Poison but plain Ratsbane here;
Death's more refined, and better bred elsewhere.
They have a civil way in Italy

By smelling a Perfume to make you die;

A Trick wou'd make you lay your Snuff-box by.
Murder's a Trade, so known and practis'd there,
That 'tis infallible as is the Chair.

}

But, mark their Feaft, you shall behold fuch pranks; The Pope fays Grace, but 'tis the Dev'l gives thanks.