Dare with the mummies of the Muses play,
And make love to them the Egyptian way;
Or, as a rhyming author would have said,
Join the dead living to the living dead.
Such men in poetry may claim some part,
They have the licence, though they want the art;
And might, where theft is praised, for laureats stand,
Poets not of the head, but of the hand:

They make the benefits of other's studying,
Much like the meals of politic Jack-pudding,
Whose dish to challenge no man has the courage;
'Tis all his own when once he' has spit in' the' por-
ridge.

But, Gentlemen, you're all concern'd in this,
You are in fault for what they do amiss;
For they their thefts still undiscover'd think,
And durst not steal, unless you please to wink.
Perhaps you may award, by your decree,
They should refund; but that can never be;
For should you letters of reprisal seal,
These men write that which no man else would steal.

ΤΟ

THE PILGRIM.

BY BEAUMONT AND FLETCHER.

REVIVED FOR OUR AUTHOR'S BENEFIT. 1700.

How wretched is the fate of those who write! Brought muzzled to the stage for fear they bite; Where, like Tom Dove, they stand the common foe, Lugg'd by the critic, baited by the beau.

Yet worse, their brother poets damn the play,
And roar the loudest, though they never pay.
The fops are proud of scandal, for they cry,
At every lewd, low character- That's I.'
He who writes letters to himself, would swear
The world forgot him if he was not there.
What should a poet do? 'tis hard for one
To pleasure all the fools that would be shown;
And yet not two in ten will pass the Town.
Most coxcombs are not of the laughing kind;
More goes to make a fop than fops can find.
Quack Maurus, though he never took degrees
In either of our Universities,

Yet to be shown by some kind wit he looks,
Because he play'd the fool, and writ three books;
But if he would be worth a poet's pen,

He must be more a fool, and write again;
For all the former fustian stuff he wrote
Was dead-born doggrel, or is quite forgot.
His Man of Uz, stripp'd of his Hebrew robe,
Is just the proverb, and as poor as Job!'

One would have thought he could no longer jog;
But Arthur was a level, Job's a bog:
There, though he crept, yet still he kept in sight;
But here he founders in, and sinks downright.
Had he prepared us, and been dull by rule,
Tobit had first been turn'd to ridicule;
But our bold Briton, without fear or awe,
O'erleaps at once the whole Apocrypha,
Invades the Psalms with rhymes, and leaves no

room

For any Vandal-Hopkins yet to come.
But when, if, after all, this godly geer
Is not so senseless as it would appear;

Our mountebank has laid a deeper train,
His cant, like Merry-Andrew's noble vein,
Cat-calls the sects to draw them in again.
At leisure hours in epic song he deals,
Writes to the rumbling of his coach's wheels;
Prescribes in haste, and seldom kills by rule,
But rides triumphant between stool and stool.
Well, let him go; 'tis yet too early day
To get himself a place in farce or play.
We know not by what name we should arraign him,
For no one category can contain him;
A pedant, canting preacher, and a quack,
Are load enough to break one ass's back:
At last grown wanton, he presumed to write,
Traduced two kings, their kindness to requite;
One made the doctor, and one dubb'd the knight.

FOR THE WOMEN,

WHEN THEY ACTED AT THE OLD THEATRE IN
LINCOLN'S INn fields.

WERE none of you, Gallants, e'er driven so hard,
As when the poor kind soul was under guard,
And could not do 't at home, in some by-street
To take a lodging, and in private meet?
Such is our case, we can't appoint our house
The lover's old and wonted rendezvous,
But hither to this trusty nook remove ;
The worse the lodging is, the more the love :
For much good pastime, many a dear sweet hug
Is stolen in garrets, on the humble rug.

Here's good accommodation in the pit;
The grave demurely in the midst may sit,
And so the hot Burgundian on the side
Ply vizard mask, and o'er the benches stride:
Here are convenient upper-boxes, too,
For those that make the most triumphant show ;
All that keep coaches must not sit below.
There, Gallants, you betwixt the acts retire,
And at dull plays have something to admire;
We, who look up, can your addresses mark,
And see the creatures coupled in the ark :
So we expect the lovers, braves, and wits,
The gaudy house with scenes will serve for Cits.

EPILOGUES.

SPOKEN AT THE

OPENING OF THE NEW HOUSE,

MARCH 26, 1674.

THOUGH What our prologue said was sadly true,
Yet, Gentlemen, our homely house is new;
A charm that seldom fails with-wicked you.
A country lip may have the velvet touch;
Though she's no lady, you may think her such:
A strong imagination may do much.

But you, loud Sirs, who through your curls look big,
Critics in plume and white Vallancy wig,
Who lolling on our foremost benches sit,
And still charge first, the true forlorn of wit;
Whose favours, like the sun, warm where you roll,
Yet you, like him, have neither heat nor soul;
So may your hats your foretops never press,
Untouch'd your ribbons, sacred be your dress;
So may you slowly to old age advance,
And have the' excuse of youth for ignorance;
So may Fop-corner full of noise remain,
And drive far off the dull attentive train;
So may your midnight scowerings happy prove,
And morning batteries force your way to love;