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The Priesthood with Trumpers and Drums made a

(Noise, To side his Groans, and extinguish his Cries. Thus our fierce modern Heroes; those fews of the Pit, When to damn a poor Author's Attempt, they think fit, With Car-calls so dreadful the House they alarm, Left the Wit of the Play should their Fury difarm ; Howe'er, they may pass with the rest of the Nation, Tho' their Malice I blame, I commend their Discretion, For 'cis but convenient, you'll readily own, That the Beast should perform whac the Man would

(difown.

A Paftoral on the Death of Queen MARY. SHE'S H E's gone! the brightest Nymph that bless'd the !

(Green, No more the Beauty of her Eyes is seen. Who can from Grief's Extremities refrain, Or in due Bounds the swelling Tide contain ? Who can behold this dismal Scene pass by With an unmov'd and unrelenting Eye ? London ! thou Pride and Glory of our Ille, Tho' in thy Bosom both the Indies smile ; Oh! ne'er forget that unauspicious Day, Which thy best Treasure rudely snatch'd away. Thy busy Change be for a Seafon dumb, No sawcy Mirth within thy Mansions come ; Let all thy Sons in mourning Weeds appear ; Each Face Thew Sorrow, and each Eye a Tear, T'express their Duty, let all Hearts combine, And on this black, this fad Occafion join.

Mourn, drooping Britain, mourn from Shore to Shore, Thy best belov'd MARIA is no more.

Ye beauteous Virgins, that in moving Strains Were used to sing her Vertues on the Plains :

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Ye Shepherds too, who out of pious Care,
Taught ev'ry Tree MARIA's Name to wear;
Your rural Sports and Garlands lay aside,
This is no Time for ornamental Pride ;
But bring, oh! bring the Treasures of your Fields,
That short-liv'd Wealth which unbid Nature yields.
The mourning Hyacinth infcrib'd with Woe,
The beauteous Lillies that in Valleys grow,
And all the Flowers that scatter'd up

and down,
Or humble Mead or lofty Mountains crown ;
Then gently throw them all upon her Herfe;
To these join lasting Bays and living Verse.

Mourn, drooping Britain, mourn from Shore to shore, Tly best belov'd MARIA is no more.

Ye dauntless Hearts, that for your country's Good All Dangers scorn, and wade thro' Seas of Blood, In heavy Silence march around her Tomb, And then lament your own and England's Doom : For Death has by this single Stroke done more Than when (ten Thousand Nain) he stalks in Gore. Ye penfive Matrons, who by Fortune Croft, In foreign Fields have dear Relations lofty Now give a free and open Vent to Grief, Banish all Hopes, and think of no Relief; That bounteous Princes, who so justly knew What was to blooming Worth and Merit duc;Who as she lov'd on Valour still to smile, Ne'er fail'd to recompense the Soldier's Toil; Is now (malicious Fate wou'd have it fo) Hurry'd, alas ! to the dark Shades below.

Mourn, drooping Britain, mourn from Shore to Shore,
Thy best belov’d MARIA is no more.

Ye miter'd Heads, and likewise you that wait
Upon the Altar in a lower Stare,
Bewail the Loss of so divine a Prize,
And open all the Sluices of your Eyes.
Rome's gaudy Ponsps her Mind could ne'er allure ;
Firm to her Word, and in her Faith secure.
The sacred Scriptures were her daily Care,
Her only Exercise and Food, was Prayer.

Where

Where cali we now so great a Pattern find ?
Where can we meet so bright, so pure a Mind?

Morern, drooping Britain, mourn from Shore to Shore,
Thy best belov'd MARIA is no more.

But tho' proud Fate bas done her utmost Spite,
And buryd all her Hopes in endless Night ;
Tho'rav'nous Death has seiz'd the richest Prey
That ever did a regal Scepter sway ;
Her Name shall live, and still continue fair,
Fragrant as rich Arabia's Spices are :
While Allion in triumphant State shall reign
Queen of the Ises, and Goddess of the Main.
While Silver Thames in wanton Folds shall play,
And Tribute to the British Ocean pay :
White haughty Lewis Thall remain abhorr’d,
And William be by all the World ador'd.
Our grateful Tongues her Vertue shall proclaim
Thro' all the distant Provinces of Fame :
Still in our Hearts shall.chaft MARIA reign,
Tho' dead, her Station there she shall maintain.
Then Shepherds leave at last your mournful Lays,
And turn your Songs of Grief to Songs of Praise.

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Prologue to a: Mufick Speech in the Theatre at

Oxford.

7 Ell! for a careful provident Bawd, fay l;

Give me my Mother-University..
Bless us ! how neatly has the rank'd you here,
Where drawn in Love's Batralia, you appear
The Black, the Brown, the Fair, and the not Pair.
I must confess the Cafe is alter'd now,
From what your narrow fulsome Box could show.
A Musick-Room, a fitter Name 'cwould prove,
Call it a Stove, a Bathing-Tub of Love,

}

Where

Where sweating Scholar faints, and knows not why,
And melting Tallow-Chandler drips hard by,
And all this Heat from Love, or else July.
But now you're welcome hither, in this Row
Painting does in its full Perfection show,
Streter above you, Ladies here below.
Did not such Malice in your Beauties reign,
We get might hope a Golden Age again :
When Nature taught her untold Tale of Love,
And Pallion from a ragged Gown could move.
Bit now those Days are gone, and faucy Art,
Mimick of Nature, acts the nolleft Parc.
E'en Passion is successful in this Age,
Unless set off by Love's high Equipage.
The ruffing Pantaloon declares the Flame,
And the well-ty'd Cravat-string wins the Dame.
Plain Lovers, like plain Linnen, e'er cashier'd,
In whose Behalf no Point has e'er a ppear'd :
What Hopes then have unhappy we to please,
Whom niggard Stars madé not fo vain as these ?
Alas! we hate your gentle stinking Water,
Loath distillid Oils, but those of Mother Nature.
This knew our lates, and plac'd us in a Town
Where Beauty is so thin, fo rarely fown;
The Nymphs o'th' Fleece, and the three Gates go

(down.
Like homely Peasants us'd to wholesome Meat,
When Love invites us to your splendid Treat;
We'll and

gaze, and make no hearty Meal,
Give us our sturdy Beef and Mutton ftill.
But let us not despair, I'll lead the Van,
And cho' I proudly fay't, we Scholars can;
Altho' not act the Fop, yet play the Man.
We'll run at all, and freely take our Lot,
From the fair Walcop down to foul Bess Scot,

gape

}

The

.

e

The EPILOGU E. As from a darkend Room fome Optick Glass

Transmits the distant Species as they pass;
The World's large Landskip is from far descry'd,
And Men contracted on the Paper glide.

Thus crowded Oxford represents Mankind,
And in these Walls Great Britain seems confin'd :
Oxford is now the publick Theatre,
And you both Audience and Actors are :
The gazing World on the new Scene artend,
Admire the Turns, and wish a prosp'rous End.
Oxford, the Seat of Peace, the quiet Cell,
Where Arts, remov'd from noisy Bus’ness, dwell;
Should calm your Minds, unite the jarring Parts,
And with a kind Contagion seize your Hearts.
0! may its Genius, like soft Musick move,
And tune you all to Concord and to Love.
Our Aits which has in Tempest long been toss’d,
Could never rest on so secure a Coast.
From hence you may look back on civil Rage,
And view the Ruins of the former Age.
Here a new World its Glories may unfold,
And here be fav'd the Remnant of the old :
But while our Thoughts on publick Cares are bent,
Past Ills to heal, and future to prevent,
Some vacant Hours allow to your Delight ;
Mirth is the pleasing Bus'ness of the Night,
The King's Prerogative, the Subjects Righc.
Were all your Hearts to fullen Cares confin’d,
The Body would be weary'd by the Mind.
'Tis Wisdom's Part, betwixt Extreams to steer,
Be Gods in Senate, but be Mortals here.

}

Upor

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