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. mine. But poets in all ages had the care To keep this cap, for fuch as will, to wear. Shews a cap with ears. + Flings down the cap, and exit. 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 Read this, e're you tranflate one bit Beware of Latin authors all! Nor think your verses sterling, For not the desk with filver nails, Hear how a ghoft in dead of night, In woful wife did fore affright Rare Rare imp of Phœbus, hopeful youth ! Like puppy tame, that uses To fetch and carry in his mouth Ah! why did he write poetry, A defk he had of curious work, Now, as he scratch'd to fetch up thought, With whiskers, band, and pantaloon, Ho! mafter Sam, quoth Sandys' fprite, I hear the beat of Jacob's drums, Then lords and lordings, 'fquires and knights, What Fenton will not do, nor Gay; If juftice Philips' costive head Some frigid rhymes disburses; Let Warwick's muse with Ash---t join, L--- himself, that lively lord, Shall join with F--- in one accord, Ye Ye ladies too, draw forth your pen; you Now, Tonfon, lift thy forces all, 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 The conftant index to all Button's wits. 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 |