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PROLOGUE to the LOYAL BROTHER; Or, The PERSIAN PRINCE.

(By Mr. SOUTHERN E. 1682.)

Port critics, like damn'd Whigs, debauch'd our Oets, like lawful Monarchs, rul'd the Stage, [Age:

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 feems Advice to bring;
The fawning Whig petitions to the King:
But one's Advice into a Satire flides;
T'other's Petition a Remonftrance hides.

These will no Taxes give, and thofe no Pence ;
Critics wou'd ftarve the Poet, Whigs the Prince.
The Critic all our Troops of Friends difcards;
Juft fo 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 fafe- 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 firft, 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 Antichrift behind, to pay for all.
The Punk of Babylon in Pomp appears,
A lewd old Gentleman of feventy Years:

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Whofe

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Whofe 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 Parfon in a Tyburn-Cart.

The Word is giv'n, and with a loud huzza
The mitred Poppet from his Chair they draw:
On the flain 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 Fafhion) cry, God fave the King.
A needful cry in midst of fuch Alarms,

When forty Thousand Men are up in Arms.
But after he's once fav'd, to make amends,

In each fucceeding Health they damn his Friends:
So God begins, but ftill the Devil ends.

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What if fome one, infpir'd with Zeal, fhou'd call,
Come, let's go cry, God fave him at Whitehall ?
His beft Friends wou'd not like this over-care,
Or think him ere the fafer for this Pray'r.
Five praying Saints are by an A&t allow'd ;
But not the whole Church-militant in Croud.
Yet, fhou'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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EPILOGUE to the fame.

Virgin Poet was ferv'd up to-day,

Who, till this Hour, ne'er 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

Were I to play, my callow Author's Game,
The King's House would inftru&t 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 rifing quell.
Then, as you hope we shou'd your Failings hide,
An honeft Jury for our Play provide.
Whigs at their Poets never take Offence;

They fave dull Culprits, who have murder'd Senfe.
Tho' Nonfenfe is a naufeous heavy Mafs,
The Vehicle call'd Faction makes it país.
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 Penfion-Parliament of Wit.
In City-Clubs their Venom let them vent ;
For there 'tis fafe, in its own Element.
Here, where their Madness can have no Pretence,
Let them forget themselves an hour of Sense.
In one poor Ifle, why fhou'd two Factions be?
Small diff'rence in your Vices I can see :
In Drink and Drabs both Sides too well agree.
Wou'd there were more Preferments in the Land :
If Places fell, the Party cou'd not stand.

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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 fend each Year good Money into France;
And they that know what Merchandise we need,
Send o'er true Proteftants to mend our Breed.

EPI

EPILOGUE

To CONSTANTINE the GREAT.

Ο

(By Mr. N. LEE. 1684.)

Ur Hero's happy in the Play's Conclufion;
The holy Rogue at laft has met Confufion:
Tho' Arius all along appear'd a Saint,
The laft A&t fhew'd him a true Proteftant.
Eufebius (for you know I read Greek Authors)"
Reports, that, after all these Plots and Slaughters,
The Court of Conftantine was full of Glory,
And every Trimmer turn'd Addreffing Tory.
They follow'd him in Herds as they were mad :
When Claufe was King, then all the World was glad.
Whigs kept the Places they poffeft before,

And most were in a way of getting more ;
Which was as much as faying, Gentlemen,
Here's Power and Money to be Rogues again.
Indeed, there were a fort of peaking Tools,
Some call them Modeft, but I call them Fools,
Men much more Loyal, tho' not half fo loud;
But these poor Devils were caft behind the Croud.
For bold Knaves thrive without one grain of Sense,
But good Men ftarve for want of Impudence.
Befides all these, there were a fort 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 Caufe.

When their own damn'd Design was quash'd and aw'd,
At least, they gave it their good word abroad.
As many a Man, who, for a quiet Life,

Breeds out his Bastard, not to noife his Wife ;

Thus

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 laft Plot; may I be curft,
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 ftink.
And now it comes into my head, I'll tell
Why these damn'd Trimmers lov'd the Turks fo well.
Th' Original Trimmer, tho' a Friend to no Man,
Yet in his Heart ador'd a pretty Woman;
He knew that Mahomet laid up for ever

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Kind black-ey'd Rogues, for every true Believer;
And, which was more than mortal man e'er tafted,
One Pleasure that for threescore Twelvemonths lafted;
To turn for this, may furely be forgiven :
Who'd not be circumcis'd for fuch a Heav'n ?

PROLOGUE to The DISAPPOINTMENT, Or, The MOTHER in FASHION.

(By Mr. SOUTHERN E. 1684.)

Spoken by Mr. BETTERTON.

"Ow comes it, Gentlemen, that now-a-
a-days,

H Womall of you to fhrewdly judge of Plays,

fo

Our Poets tax you ftill with want of Sense?
All Prologues treat you at your own Expence.
Sharp Citizens a wifer way can go ;

fo.

They make you Fools, but never call you
They, in good Manners, seldom make a slip,
But treat a Common Whore with Ladyship :

But

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