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Prologue Spoken before the University of Oxford.



7 Hen Greece o'erwhelm'd in the wide Deluge lay,

And all the Land was one continu'd Sea, The Muses Hill fecure, and lofty stood, Above the vain Attempts of th' insulting Flood There good Deucalion first faluted Land, Put in his Boat, and touch'd the happy Strand. So when wild Faction all our Land alarm'd, Our Land by the prevailing Jugglers charmid, when pregnant with dire Seeds the Clouds did rise, Presaging civil Tempests in our Skies, Here God-like Charles did a safe Harbour win, Here laugh'd at all the Threats of daring Sin, And shunn’d the popular Deluge as it came rolling in. With you no perjur'd Bog-trotters were found, With Meal-Tub-Plots and Armies under Ground, Rogues, that wou'd damn theinfelves for Half a Crown: Rogues, that for one poor Draught of Middling-Beer Wou'd hang a Parish, and for Tripe, a Shire. 'Tis true, some few you bad ; but Traytors come Here to receive, not to deserve their Doom. So Paradise the Serpent gain'd at first, Enter'd the blest Abodes, but ftrait he was accurft.

This is your Happiness. But we are still alarm'd with senseless Noise ; Guild-hall Elections, and leud frantick Cries. Tir'd with dull Managers of duller Plots, And frec-born Slaves, and Magne Charta Sots. Oh! wou'd the Town a Pattern take from you, Whom the worst Times still found to Cæfar true, Discords wou'd cease, ill-natur'd Jars retirė, And ev'ry Muse in Charles's Praife conspire. Peace, with her Train, wou'd guard out Halcyon Shore, And Britain envy Salern's Age no more.



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OT with more Grief the Whiggish Herd beheld

Their Plots discover'd, their Intriegues reveal'd,
And all their godly Villanies run down,
Than now we feel to leave your happy Town.
Now must our Tribe, since we depart from you,
Shake Hands with Learning, and bid wit Adieu :
With Dogg'rel Rhimes the stupid Rout appease,
And murder English perfectly to please.
So some, to get an Alms, a Lameness feign,
And by pretended Halting Pity gain.

When to fome Town our strolling Troops repair,
Leave's to be granted by the worthy Mayor :
He with his num'rous Train first cakes his Seat,
Below his Scarlet Brethren fill the Pit.
Then ev’n our Women must less gay appear,
Leave Painting off, left they shou'd seem more Fair
Than the pale Daughter of the Revorend Mayor,
If we, in Acting, as our Part requires,
Swear by the Gods, and all the heav'nly Fires,
The Sot pricks up a wond'rous Pair of Ears,
My Zeal no longer such Profaneness bears,
Twelvepence for ev'ry Oath your Hero (wears.

Wit here, triumphant, bears an ample Sway,
And the bright Metal fhines without Allay;
Nothing is here condemn'd for being Good,
Nor talk we Nonfenfe to be understood.
But tho' your Learning the whole Ifle inspires,
Your Townsmen warm not by the neighb'ring Fires ;
Born in the happy Place, where Wit does rule,
They keep their nat'ral Right of being Dull.
So the rude Nations, where with greatest Light
The reveald Truth was first expos'd to Sight,
By no Rewards, no Miracles reclaim'd,
Wou'd ev'n in Spice of Providence, be damn’d.



Howe'er our Courtiers do their Fate dispose,
Dullness the Charter is they'll never lose..


A Catch. By Mr. T. Brown.


ET the Woman be damn'd, (a mod'rate Fate)

Or die an old Maid, as grey as a Cary
That her Lover refuses for Want of Estate.

II. Let her that sets Man, like a Beast, to le fold, And above metald Flesh loves a Lump of dead Gold, Look green when she's young, and be pox'd when she's old.

III. But let those that are wise contemn the dull Store; Wives chose by their Weight, will be weighty no more ; If for Gold chey will wed, for the same they will whore.

A Panegyrick upon Coll. George Walker.

After the Manner of the Irish. OS

UR Gracious King gave him five thousand Pound;

And out of the Rebels Lands, when they are found, He promises him a thousand Pounds by th' Year, Which, in short Time, will unquestionably appear. Likewise, he promises him the Dean'ry of Londonderry, When that the Dean of Londonderry will die; But if the Dean of Londonderry will not die, He promises him the Bishoprick of Londonderry. More of his valiant Deeds and Worth what need we then

[to cry-ah, Since Walter George hag made Amends for Walter Obadiah


To Mr. D'Urfey, upon his incomparable Ballads,

call'd by him Lyrick Odes.





Hou Cur, half French, half English Breed,

Thou Mungrel of Parnasus,
To think tall Lines, run up to Seed,
Should ever tamely pass us.

Thou write Pindaricks, and be damnid !

Write Epigrams for Cutlers;
None with thy Lyricks can be fhamm'd
But Chamber-Maids and Butlers.

In t'other World expect dry Blows;

No Tears can wall thy Stains out ;
Horace will pluck thee by the Nose,

And Pindar bear thy Brains out.

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On Flowers in a Lady's Bosom.


Ehold the promis'd Land, where Pleasure fows!
See how the Milk-white Hills de gently rise,

And beat the filken Skies!
Behold the Valley spread with Flow’rs below!
Other Discov’ries, Fate, let me not share ;
If I find out, may I inhabit there.
The happy Flow'rs, how they allure my Sense!
The fairer Soil gives 'em the noble Hew;

Her Breath perfumes 'em too :
Rooted i'th' Heart, they seem to spring from thence.
Tell, tell me why, thou fruitful Virgin-Breast,
Why should so good a Soil lie un poslest?
Surely some Champion, in ibe Cause of Love,


Has languish'd here more weary with the Sight,

Than vanquish'd quite,
While the soft God cook Pity from Above,
And thinking to reward his Service well,
Bid him grow there, where he so nobly fell.
So when the longing Cytherea found
The murder'd Boy, who long deceiv'd her Eyes,

Under a Flow'r Disguise,
And pluck'd the curious Posey from the Ground,
Fair Cytherea's Bosom look'd like this,
So blush'd Adonis in the Seat of Bliss.


The London Vintners Answer to Mr. Brown.

F what thou asserts, dear Thomas, be true,
That I, and my Brethren, have learned to brew.
Whatever Ingredients we put in the Vat,
Whether Dogs-Turd or Honey, no Matter for that;
For all our Design's but to poison a Rat.
He that dies by bad Wine, and not by the Halter,
Departs without Chime of Hopkins's Psalter,
And that you well know is no Matter of Laughter.

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Ong did dark Ignorance our Ine o'er-fpread,

Our Musick and our Poetry lay dead :
But the dull Malice of a barbarous Age
Fell most severe on David's sacred Page;
To wound the Sense, and quench his Heav'n-born Fire,
Three vile Translators lewdly did conspire,
In holy Dogg'rel, and low chiming Prose,
The King and Poet they, at once, depose.


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