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Thus, Gentlemen, we have summ'd up in short
Our Grievances, from Country, Town, and Court;
Which humbly we fubmit to your good pleasure ;
But first Vote Money, then redress at leisure.


(By Mr. N. LE E. 1689.)

Adies! (I hope there's none behind to hear)

I long to whisper something in your Ear: A Secret, which does much my Mind perplex : There's Treason in the Play against our Sex. A Man that's false to Love, that vows and cheats, And kisses every living Thing he meets. A Rogue in Mode (I dare not speak too broad) One that does something to the very Bawd. Out on him, Traytor, for a filthy Beast Nay, and he's like the pack of all the rest : None of 'em stick at mark; They all deceive. Some Jew has chang'd the Text, I half believe ; There Adam cozen'd our poor Grandame Eve. To hide their Faults they rap out Oaths, and tear : Now, tho' we lye, we're too well-bred to swear. So we compound for half the Sin we owe, But men are dipt for Soul and Body too ; And, when found out, excuse themselves, Pox cant 'em, With Latin ftuff, perjuria ridet Amantúm. I'm not Book-learn'd, to know that word in vogue; But I suspect 'tis Latin for a Rogue. I'm sure, I never heard that Scritch-Owl hollow'd In my poor Ears, but Separation follow'd.



How can such perjur'd Villains e'er be saved ?
Achitophel's not half so false to David.
With Vows and soft Expressions to allure,
They stand, like Foremen of a Shop, demure :
No sooner out of fight, but they are gadding,
And for the next new Face ride out a padding.
Yet, by their Favour, when they have been kifling,
We can perceive the ready Money missing.
Well! we may rail ; but 'tis as good e'en wink ;
Something we find, and something they will fink.
But, fince they're at renouncing, 'tis our Parts,
To trump their Diamonds, as they trump our Hearts.


EPILOGUE to the same. Qualm of Conscience brings me back again,

To make amends to you bespatter'd Men. We Women love like Cats, that hide their Joys, By growling, squalling, and a hideous Noise. I rail'd at wild young Sparks ; but, without lying, Never was Man worse thought on for high-flying. The Prodigal of Love gives each her Part, And Squandring shows, at least, a noble Heart. I've heard of Men, who, in some lewd Lampoon, Have hir'd a Friend, to make their Valour known. That Accusation straight this Question brings; What is the Man that does such naughty things ? The Spaniel Lover, like a sneaking Fop, Lies at our Feet : He's scarce worth taking up. 'Tis true, such Heroes in a Play go far ; But Chamber Practice is not like the Bar. When Men such vile, such feint, Petitions make, We fear to give, because they fear to take ;

Since Modesty's the Virtue of our Kind,
Pray let it be to our own Sex confin'd.
When Men usurp it from the Female Nation,
'Tis but a Work of Supererogation
We shew'd a Princess in the Play, 'tis true,
Who gave her Cæfar more than all his due ;
Told her own Faults :- but I shou'd much abhor
To choose a Husband for my Confeffor.
You see what Fate follow'd the Saint-like Fool,
For telling Tales from out the Nuptial School.

Our Play a merry Comedy had prov'd,
Had the confess'd so much to him the lov'd.
True Presbyterian Wives the means wou'd try ;
But damn'd Confefling is dat Popery.





(By Mrs. Be H N. 1690.) Eav'n save ye, Gallants, and this hopeful Age ; Y'are welcome to the downfall of the

Stage : The Fools have labour'd long in their Vocation And Vice (the Manufacture of the Nation) O'erstocks the Town so much, and thrives so well, That Fops and Knaves grow Drugs, and will not sell. In vain our Wares on Theatres are shown, When each has a Plantation of his own. His Cause ne'er fails ; for whatsoe'er he spends, There's still God's Plenty for himself and Friends. Shou'd Men be rated by poetic Rules, Lord! what a Poll would there be rais'd from Fools!




Time was,

Mean time poor Wit prohibited must lie,
As if 'twere made fome French Commodity.
Fools you will have, and rais'd at vast Expence ;
And yet, as soon as seen, they give offence.

when none wou'd cry, That Oaf was me ;
But now you strive about your Pedigree.
Bauble and Cap no sooner are thrown down,
But there's a Muss of more than half the Town.
Each one will challenge a Child's Part at least ;
A sign the Family is well increaft.
Of foreign Cattle there's no longer need,
When we're fupply'd fo fast with English Breed.
Well! flourish, Countrymen, drink, swear, and roar;
Let ev'ry free-born Subject keep his Whore,
And wand'ring in the Wilderness about,
At end of forty Years not wear her out.
But when you see these Pictures, let none dare

To own beyond a Limb or single Mare : - For where the Punk is common, he's a Sot, Who needs will father what the Parish got.



Spoken by Mrs. BR A CEGIRDLE.
Hus you the sad Catastrophe have seen,

Occafion'd by a Mistress and a Queen.
Queen Eleanor the Proud was French, they say ;
But English Manufacture got the day.
Jane Clifford was her Name, as Books ayer :
Fair Rosamond was but her Nom de

Now tell me, Gallants, wou'd you lead your Life
With such a Mistress, or with such a Wife ?


If one must be your Choice, which d'ye approve,
The Curtain Lecture, or the Curtain Love ?
Wou'd ye be Godly with per petual Strife,
Still drudging on with homely Joan your Wife;
Or take your

Pleasure in a wicked way,
Like honest whoring Harry in the Play ?
I guess your Minds : The Mistress wou'd be taken,
And nauseous Matrimony sent a packing.
The Devil's in you all ; Mankind's a Rogue ;
You love the Bride, but you detest the Clog.
After a Year, poor Spouse is left i'th' lurch,
And you, like Haynes, return to Mother-Charch.
Or, if the Name of Church comes cross your Mind,
Chapels of Ease behind our Scenes you find.
The Play-house is a kind of Market-Place ;
One chaffers for a Voice, another for a Face :
Nay, some of you (I dare not say how many)
Wou'd buy of me a Pen'worth for your Penny.
E'en this poor Face (which with my Fan I hide)
Wou'd make a shift my Portion to provide,
With some small Perquifites I have befide.
Tho' for your Love, perhaps, I shou'd not care,
I cou'd not hate a Man that bids me fair.
What might ensue, 'tis hard for me to tell ;
But I was drench'd to day for loving well,
And fear the Poison that wou'd make me swell.




F yet there be a few that take delight

In that which reasonable Men should write ; To them Alone we Dedicate this Night.

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