Hiatus mi valde deflendus!

From which, good Jupiter, defend us!
Sooner I'd quit my part in thee,
Than be no part in Tom D'Urfy.
P protefted, puff'd, and fwore,

He'd not be ferv'd fo like a beaft;
He was a piece of emperor,

And made up half a pope at least,
C vow'd, he'd frankly have releas'd
His double fhare in Cafar Caius
For only one in Tom Durfeius.
I, confonant and vowel too,
To Jupiter did humbly sue,
That of his grace he wou'd proclaim
Durfeius his true Latin name:

For though without them both 'twas clear
Himfelf could ne'er be Jupiter;
Yet they'd refign that poft fo high
To be the genitive, Durfei.
B and L fwore b--- and w---s;
X and Z cry'd, p--x and z---s;
G fwore by G--d, it ne'er fhould be;
And I wou'd not lofe, not he,
An English letter's property

In the great name of Tom D'Urfy.
In short, the reft were all in fray,
From chrift-cross to et cætera.

They,

They, tho' but standers-by, too mutter'd;
Diphthongs and triphthongs fwore and
Autter'd;

That none had so much right to be
Part of the name of stuttering T---
T--Tom--a--as---De--D'Ur--fy--fy.

Then Jove thus fpake: With care and pain
We form'd this name, renown'd in rhyme:
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 strange 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 say?

What if the Hebrew next fhou'd 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;

* A poet, who used to make yerfes ending with the laft fyllables of the names of thofe

perfons he praised; which Voiture turn'd against him in a poem of the fame kind. And

And all th' ambitious vowels vie,
No less than Pythagorick 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,
And, all that in us lies, please each,
Et cætra to our aid muft call;
Et cæt'ra represents ye all:

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

* PROLOGUE

Defign'd for Mr. D'URFY's last play.

GRO

ROWN old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard

Your persevering, unexhaufted bard: Damnation follows death in other men, But your damn'd poet lives, and writes again. Th' advent'rous lover is fuccefsful ftill, Who ftrives to please the fair against her

will:

Be kind, and make him in his wishes easy, Who in your own defpite has ftrove to please ye.

He

PROLOGUE FOR MR. D'URFY's PLAY. 107 He fcorn'd to borrow from the wits of yore, Eut ever writ, as none e'er writ before. You modern wits, fhou'd each man bring his claim,

Have desperate debentures on your fame; And little wou'd be left you, I'm afraid, If all debts to Greece and Rome were your

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 reafons- 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.

Though Tom the poet writ with ease and pleasure,

The comick Tom abounds in other treasure.
Fame is at beft an unperforming cheat;
But 'tis fubftantial happiness to eat.
Let ease, his last request, be of your giving,
Nor force him to be damn'd to get his living.

PROLOGUE

Α

TO THE

Three Hours after Marriage.

UTHORS are judg'd by ftrange capricious rules;

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

Yet fure the beft are most severely fated; For fools are only laugh'd at, wits are hated. Blockheads with reafon men of fense abhor; But fool 'gainst fool, is barb'rous civil war. Why on all authors then fhou'd criticks fall? Since fome have writ, and fhewn nowit at all. Condemna play of theirs, and they evade it; Cry, "Damn not us, but damn the French "who made it."

By running goods thefe gracelefs owlers gain; Theirs are the rules of France, the plots of

Spain:

But wit, like wine, from happier climates

brought,

Dash'd by these rogues, turns English common draught.

They pall Moliere's and Lopez' fprightly ftrain,

And teach dull Harlequins to grin in vain.

How