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Not thine, immortal Neufgermain!

'Coft ftudious cabalifts more time.
Yet now, as then, you all declare,
Far hence to Egypt you'll repair,
And turn ftrange hi'roglyphicks there,
Rather than letters longer be,

Unless i' th' name of Tom D'Urfy.

WERE you all pleas'd, yet what, I pray,
To foreign letters could I fay?
What if the Hebrew next fhould aim

To turn quite backward D'Urfy's name?
Shou'd the Greek quarrel too, by Styx, I
Cou'd never bring in Pfi and Xi ;
Omicron and Omega from us

Would each hope to be O in Thomas;

And all th' ambitious vowels vie,
No less than Pythagoric Y,

To have a place in Tom D'Urfy.

THEN, well belov'd and trusty letters!

Cons'nants, and vowels much their betters,

We, willing to repair this breach,

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And, all that in us lies, please each,

Et cet'ra to our aid must call;
Et cæt'ra reprefents ye all:

Et cat'ra therefore, we decree,
Henceforth for ever join'd shall be
To the great name of Tom D'Urfj.

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* PROLOGUE defigned for Mr. D'URFY's laft play.

GROWN

ROWN old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard
Your perfevering, unexhaufted bard:

A poet, who used to make verfes ending with the last fyl fables of the names of thofe perfons he praifed; which Voiture turned against him in a poem of the fame kind.

PROLOGUE FOR MR D'URFY's PLAY.
Damnation follows death in other men,

But
your damn'd poet lives, and writes again.
Th' advent'rous lover is successful still,
Who ftrives to please the fair against her will:
Be kind, and make him in his wishes eafy,
Who in your own defpite has ftrove to please ye.
He fcorn'd to borrow from the wits of

But ever writ as none e'er writ before.

yore,

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You modern wits, fhould each man bring his claim, Have defperate debentures on your fame;

And little would be left you, I'm afraid,

If all your debts to Greece and Rome were paid.
From his deep fund our author largely draws,
Nor finks his credit lower than it was.

Tho' plays for honour in old time he made,
"Tis now for better reasons-to be paid.

Believe him, he has known the world too long,
And feen the death of much immortal fong.
He fays, poor poets loft, while players won,
As pimps grow rich, while gallants are undone.
Tho' Tom the poet writ with eafe and pleasure,
The comic Tom abounds in other treasure.
Fame is at beft an unperforming cheat;
But 'tis fubftantial happinefs to eat.

Let eafe, his laft request, be of your giving,

Nor force him to be damn'd to get his living."

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*PROLOGUE to The Three Hours after Marriage.

UTHORS are judg'd by ftrange capricious rules;

AUTHORS

The great ones are thought mad, the small ones fools:

Yet fure the best are moft feverely fated;

For fools are only laugh'd at, wits are hated.

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Blockheads with reafon men of sense abhor;
But fool 'gainst fool is barb'rous civil war.
Why on all authors then should critics fall?
Since fome have writ, and fhewn no wit at all.
Condemn a play of theirs, and they evade it;
Cry, "Damn not us, but damn the French who
made it."

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By running goods these graceless owlers gain;
Theirs are the rules of France, the plots of Spain :
But wit, like wine. from happier climates brought,
Dafh'd by thefe rogues, turns English common draught.
They pall Moliere's and Lopez' fprightly ftrain,
And teach dull Harlequins to grin in vain.

How shall our author hope a gentler fate,

Who dares moft impudently not tranflate!
It had been civil in these ticklish times

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To fetch his fools and knaves from foreign climes. 20 Spaniards and French abufe to the world's end,

But fpare old England, left you hurt a friend.

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Let him his loud, to fhew you all he's hit.
Poets make characters, as falefmen cloaths:
We take no measure of your fops and beaus ;
But here all fizes and all fhapes you meet,
And fit yourselves, like chaps in Monmouth-ftreet.
GALLANTS! look here: this fool's cap has an air

Goodly and smart, with ears of Iffachar.

Let no one fool ingrofs it, or confine,

*

A common bleffing! now 'tis yours, now mine. poets in all ages

But

had the care

To keep this cap, for fuch as will, to wear.

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Our author has it now (for every wit

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Of course refign'd it to the next that writ);

And thus upon the ftage 'tis fairly thrown † ;

Let him that takes it, wear it as his own.

Shews a cap with cars. + Flings down the cap, and exit.

OR;

A proper new BALLAD on the new OVID'S METAMORPHOSES, as it was intended to be tranflated by perfons of quality.

E Lords and Commons, men of wit

YE

And pleasure about town,

Read this, ere you tranflate one bit

Of books of high renown.

Beware of Latin authors all!

Nor think your verses Sterling, Tho' with a golden pen you fcrawl, And fcribble in a berlin :

For not the desk with filver nails,

Nor bureau of expence,

Nor ftandish well japan'd, avails

To writing of good fenfe.

Hear how a ghoft in dead of night,

With faucer eyes of fire,

In woful wife did fore affright

A wit and courtly 'fquire.

Rare imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth!
Like puppy tame, that uses
To fetch and carry in his mouth
The works of all the mufes.

Ah! why did he write poetry,
That hereto was fo civil;
And fell his foul for vanity
To rhyming and the devil ?

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A defk he had of curious work,

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With glittering ftuds about

Within the fame did Sandys lurk,

Tho' Ovid lay without.

Now, as he fcratch'd to fetch up thought,

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Forth popp'd the Sprite so thin,

And from the key-hole bolted out

All upright as a pin.

With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,

And ruff compos'd moft duely,

This 'fquire he dropp'd his pen full foon,
While as the light burnt bluely.

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Ho! Mafter Sam, quoth Sandys' sprite,

Write on, nor let me fcare ye;
Forfooth, if rhymes fall not in right,
To Budgel feek, or Carey.

I hear the beat of Jacob's drums,
Poor Ovid finds no quarter!

-See first the merry P - comes

In hafte without his garter.

Then lords and lordings, 'fquires and knights,

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If Justice Philips' coftive head

Some frigid rhymes difburfes;

They fhall like Perfian Tales be read,
And glad both babes and nurses.

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