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(By Mr. SOUTHERNE. 1682.) Dets, like lawful Monarchs, rul’d the Stage, [Age:

Till Critics, like damn’d Whigs, debauch'd our Mark how they jump : Critics wou'd regulate Our Theatres, and Whigs reform our State : Both pretend Love, and both (Plague rot 'em !) hate. The Critic humbly seems Advice to bring ; The fawning Whig petitions to the King : But one's Advice into a Satire Nides ; T'other's Petition a Remonstrance hides. These will no Taxes give, and those no Pence ; Critics wou'd starve the Poet, Whigs the Prince. The Critic all our Troops of Friends discards; Juft so the Whig wou'd fain pull down the Guards. Guards are illegal, that drive Foes away, As watchful Shepherds, that fright Beasts of prey. Kings, who disband such needless Aids as these, Are safe—as long as e'er their Subjects please : And that wou'd be 'till next Queen Bess's Night : Which thus grave Penny Chroniclers indite, Sir Edmond Bury first, in woful wife, Leads up the Show, and milks their maudlin Eyes. There's not a Butcher’s Wife but dribs her part, And pities the poor Pageant from her Heart; Who, to provoke Revenge, rides round the Fire; And, with a civil Congé, does retire. But guiltless Blood to ground must never fall ;, There's Antichrif behind, to pay for all. The Punk of Babylon in Pomp appears, A lewd old Gentleman of seventy Years :


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Whose Age in vain our Mercy wou'd implore ;
For few take pity on an old caft Whore.
The Dev'l, who brought him to the Shame, takes part;
Sits cheek by jowl, in black, to cheer his Heart;
Like Thief and Parson in a Tyburn-Cart.
The Word is giv'n, and with a loud huzza
The mitred Poppet from his Chair they draw :
On the sain Corps contending Nations fall :
Alas! what's one poor Pope among 'em all!
He burns ; now all true Hearts your Triumphs ring;
And next (for Fashion) cry, God save the King.
A needful cry in midst of such Alarms,
When forty Thousand Men are up in Arms.
But after he's once fav’d, to make amends,
In each succeeding Health they damn his Friends :
So God begins, but still the Devil ends.
What if some one, inspir'd with Zeal, shou'd call,
Come, let's go cry, God save him at Whitehall ?
His best Friends wou'd not like this over-care,
Or think him ere the safer for this Pray'r.
Five praying Saints are by an Act allow'd;
But not the whole Church-militant in Croud.
Yet, shou'd Heav'n all the true Petitions drain
Of Presbyterians, who wou'd Kings maintain,
Of forty Thousand, five wou'd scarce remain.



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A Wiren till this Hour

, ne per cackled for a Play.

He's neither yet a Whig nor Tory-Boy ;
But, like a Girl, whom

fev'ral wou'd enjoy,
Begs leave to make the best of his own nat'ral Toy.


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Were I to play, my callow Author's Game,
The King's House would instruct me by the Name.
There's Loyalty to one: I wish no more :
A Commonwealth sounds like a Common Whore,
Let Husband or Gallant be what they will,
One Part of Woman is true Tory still.
If any factious Spirit should rebel,
Our Sex, with ease, can ev'ry rising quell.
Then, as you hope we should your Failings hide,
An honest Jury for our Play provide.
Whigs at their Poets never take Offence ;
They save dull Culprits, who have murder'd Sense.
Tho' Nonsense is a nauseous heavy Mass,
The Vehicle "calld Faction makes it pass.
Faction in Play's the Commonwealth-Man's Bribe ;
The Leaden. Farthing of the Canting Tribe :
Tho' void in Payment Laws and Statutes make it,
The Neighbourhood, that knows the Man, will take it.
'Tis Faction buys the Votes of half the Pit ;
There's is the Pension-Parliament of Wit.
In City-Clubs their Venom let them vent;
For there 'tis safe, in its own Element.
Here, where their Madness can have no Pretence,
Let them forget themselves an hour of Sense.
In one poor Ille, why shou'd two Factions be?
Small diff'rence in your Vices I can see :
In Drink and Drabs both Sides too well

Wou'd there were more Preferments in the Land :
If Places fell, the Party cou'd not stand.
Of this damn'd Grievance ev'ry Whig complains ;
They grunt like Hogs, 'till they have got their grains.
Mean time you see what Trade our Plots advance ;
We send each Year good Money into France ;
And they that know what Merchandise we need,
Send o'er true Protestants to mend our Breed.


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(By Mr. N. LE E. 1684.)
Ur Hero's happy in the Play's Conclusion ;

The holy Rogue at last has met Confufion:
Tho' Arius all along appear'd a Saint,
The last Act thew'd him a true Protestant.
Eufebius (for you know I read Greek Authors)
Reports, that, after all these Plots and Slaughters,
The Court of Constantine was full of Glory,
And every Trimmer turn'd Addressing Tory.
They follow'd him in Herds as they were mad :
When Clause was King, then all the World was glad.
Whigs kept the Places they pofleft before,
And most were in a way of getting more ;
Which was as much as saying, Gentlemen,
Here's Power and Money to be Rogues again.
Indeed, there were a sort of peaking Tools,
Some call them Modest, but I call them Fools,
Men much more Loyal, tho' not half so loud ;
But these poor Devils were caft behind the Croud.
For bold Knaves thrive without one grain of Sense;
But good Men starve for want of Impudence.
Befides all these, there were a sort of Wights,
(I think my Author calls them Tekelites)
Such hearty Rogues against the King and Laws,
They favour'd e'en a foreign Rebel's Cause.
When their own damn'd Design was quash'd and awd,
At least, they gave it their good word abroad.
As many a Man, who, for a quiet Life,
Breeds out his Bastard, not to noise his Wife;


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Thus o'er their Darling Plot these Trimmers cry ;
And tho' they cannot keep it in their Eye,
They bind it Prentice to Count Tekely.
They b'lieve not the last Plot; may I be curst,
If I believe they e'er believ'd the firft.
No wonder their own Plot no Plot they think ;
The Man, that makes it, never smells the stink.
And now it comes into my head, I'll tell
Why these damn'd Trimmers lov'd the Turks so well.
Th’Orig'nal Trimmer, tho’a Friend to no Man,
Yet in his Heart ador'd a pretty Woman ;
He knew that Mahomet laid up for ever
Kind black-ey'd Rogues, for every true Believer ;
And, which was more than mortal man e'er talted,
One Pleasure that for threescore Twelvemonths lafted :
To turn for this, may surely be forgiven :
Who'd not be circumcis'd for such a Heay'n ?


Or, The Mother in FASHION.
(By Mr. SOUTHERN E. 1684.)

Spoken by Mr. BeTTERTON.
Ow comes it, Gentlemen, that now-a-days,

When all of you so shrewdly judge of Plays,
Our Poets tax you still with want of Sense ?
All Prologues treat you at your own Expence.
Sharp Citizens a wiser way can go ;
They make you Fools, but never call you so.
They, in good Manners, seldom make a slip,
But treat a Common Whore with Ladyship




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