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PROLOGUE TOTHE THREE HOURS, etc. 169

How fhall our author hope a gentler fate, Who dares most impudently not translate! It had been civil in these ticklish times To fetch his fools and knaves from foreign climes.

Spaniards and French abufe to the world's

end;

But fpare old England, left you hurt a friend. any fool is by our fatire bit,

If

Let him hiss loud, to fhew you all he's hit. Poets make characters, as falefmen clothes; We take no measure of your fops and beaus; But here all fizes and all shapes you meet, And fit yourselves, like chaps in MonmouthStreet.

Gallants! look here; this * fool's cap has

an air

Goodly and smart, with ears of Ifachar.
Let no one fool engross it, or confine,
A common bleffing! now 'tis yours, now

mine.

But poets in all ages had the care

To keep this cap, for fuch as will, to wear.
Our author has it now, (for every wit
Of course refign'd it to the next that writ ;)
And thus upon the stage 'tis fairly thrown;
Let him that takes it, wear it as his own.

Shews a cap with ears. + Flings down the cap, and exit.
*SANDY S's

OR, A

Proper New BALLAD

ΟΝ ΤΗΕ

New OVID's METAMORPHOSES,

As it was intended to be tranflated by Persons of

YE

Quality.

E lords and commons, men of wit
And pleasure about town,

Read this, e're you tranflate one bit
Of books of high renown.

Beware of Latin authors all!

Nor think your verses sterling,
Though 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 'squire.

Rare

Rare imp of Phœbus, 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?

A defk he had of curious work,
With glitt'ring ftuds about;
Within the fame did Sandys lurk,
Though Ovid lay without.

Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought,
Forth popp'd the Sprite fo thin,
And from the key-hole bolted out
All upright as a pin.

With whiskers, band, and pantaloon,
And ruff compos'd moft duly,
This 'fquire he dropp'd his pen full foon,
While as the light burnt bluely.

Ho! mafter Sam, quoth Sandys' fprite,
Write on, nor let me feare 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,
Wits, witlings, prigs, and peers:
Garth at St. James's, and at White's,
Beats up for volunteers.

What Fenton will not do, nor Gay;
Nor Congreve, Rowe, nor Stanyan,
Tom Burnet or Tom D'Urfy may,
John Dunton, Steel, or any one.

If juftice Philips' costive head

Some frigid rhymes disburses;
They fhall like Perfian tales be read,
And glad both babes and nurses.

Let Warwick's muse with Ash---t join,
And Oxel's with lord Hervey's,
Tickell and Addison combine,
And Pope tranflate with Jervis.

L--- himself, that lively lord,
Who bows to every lady,

Shall join with F--- in one accord,
And be like Tate and Brady.

Ye

Ye ladies too, draw forth your pen;
I pray, where can the hurt lie?
Since have brains as well as men,
As witness lady Wortley.

you

Now, Tonfon, lift thy forces all,
Review them, and tell nofes:
For to poor Ovid shall befal
A ftrange metamorphofis;

A metamorphofis more ftrange Than all his books can vapour "To what, (quoth, 'fquire) fhall Ovid change?"

Quoth Sandys, To waste paper.

* UMBR A.

CLOSE

LOSE to the beft-known author
Umbra fits,

The conftant index to all Button's wits.
Who's here? cries Umbra: only Johnson

Ob!

Your flave, and exit; but returns with Rowe: Dear Rowe, let's fit and talk of tragedies: Ere long Pope enters, and to Pope he flies.

I

Then

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