To raife recruits, and draw new forces down ;
Thus, in the dead vacation of the town,
To mufter up our rhymes, without our reason,
And forage for an audience out of season?
Our author's fears muft this falfe ftep excufe;
'Tis the first flight of a juft-feather'd Mufe:
Th' occafion ta'en, when critics are away;
Half wits and beaux, those ravenous birds of prey.
But, heaven be prais'd, far hence they vent their wrath,
Mauling, in mild lampoon, th' intriguing Bath,
Thus does our author his first flight commence ;
Thus, against friends at firft, with foils we fence:
Thus prudent Gimcrack try'd if he were able
(Ere he'd wet foot) to swim upon a table.

Then fpare the youth; or, if you'll damn the play,
Let him but first have his, then take your day.

Y

ORO ONO KO.

OU fee we try all fhapes, and fhifts and arts, To tempt your favours, and regain your hearts. We weep, and laugh, join mirth and grief together, Like rain and funshine mix'd, in April weather. Your different taftes divide our poet's cares : One foot the fock, t' other the buskin wears:

1

Thus while he ftrives to please, he's forc'd to do 't,
Like Volfcius, hip-hop, in a single boot.

Criticks, he knows, for this may damn his books:
But he makes feafts for friends, and not for cooks.
Though errant-knights of late no favour find,

Sure you will be to ladies-errant kind.

To follow fame, knights-errant make profeffion :
We damfels fly, to fave our reputation :
So they, their valour show; we, our discretion.
To lands of monfters and fierce beafts they go :
We to thofe iflands where rich husbands grow:
Though they 're no monfters, we may make them fo.
If they're of English growth, they 'll bear 't with
patience :

But fave us from a fpoufe of Oroonoko's nations!
Then bless your stars, you happy London wives,
Who love at large, each day, yet keep your lives:
Nor envy poor Imoinda's doating blindness,
Who thought her husband kill'd her out of kindness.
Death with a husband ne'er had fhewn fuch charms,
Had fhe once died within a lover's arms.

Her error was from ignorance proceeding:
Poor foul! fhe wanted fome of our town-breeding!
Forgive this Indian's fondness of her spouse;
Their law no chriftian liberty allows :

Alas! they make a conscience of their vows!

If virtue in a heathen be a fault;

Then damn the heathen fchool where fhe was taught. She might have learn'd to cuckold, jilt, and fham, Had Covent-Garden been in Surinam.

PRO

A COMEDY, WRITTEN BY MR. J. DRYDEN, JUN.

'HIS year has been remarkable two ways,

THI

For blooming poets, and for blasted plays : We've been by much appearing plenty mock'd, At once both tantaliz'd and over-ftock'd. Our authors too, by their fuccefs of late, Begin to think third-days are out of date. What can the cause be, that our plays won't keep Unless they have a rot fome years like sheep? For our parts, we confefs, we 're quite asham'd, To read fuch weekly bills of poets damn'd. Each parish knows 'tis but a mournful cafe When christenings fall, and funerals increase. Thus 'tis, and thus 'twill be when we are dead, There will be writers which will ne'er be read. Why will you be fuch wits, and write fuch things? You're willing to be wasps, but want the ftings. Let not your fpleen provoke you to that height, 'Odslife you don't know what you do, firs, when you

write.

You'll find that Pegasus has tricks, when try'd,
Though you make nothing on 't, but up and ride;
Ladies and all, I'faith, now get aftride.

G 4

}

Con

Contriving characters, and fcenes, and plots,
Is grown as common now, as knitting knots:
With the fame cafe, and negligence of thought,
The charming play is writ, and fringe is wrought.
Though this be frightful, yet we 're more afraid,
When ladies leave, that beaux will take the trade :
Thus far 'tis well enough, if here 'twould stop,
But fhould they write, we muft e'en fhut up fhop.
How fhall we make this mode of writing fink?
A mode, faid I? 'tis a difeafe, I think,

A ftubborn tetter that 's not cur'd with ink.
For ftill it fpreads, 'till each th' infection takes,
And feizes ten, for one that it forfakes.

Our play to-day is fprung from none of thefe;
Nor fhould you damn it, though it does not pleafe,
Since born without the bounds of your four feas.
For if you grant no favour as 'tis new,
Yet as a ftranger, there is fomething due :

From Rome (to try its fate) this play was fent;

Start not at Rome! for there's no popery meant ;
Though there the poet may his dwelling chufe,
Yet ftill he knows his country claims his Mufe.
Hither an offering his first-born he sends,
Whofe good, or ill fuccefs, on you depends.
Yet he has hope fome kindness may be shown,
As due to greater merit than his own,
And begs the fire may for the fon atone.
There's his laft refuge, if the play don't take,
Yet fpare young Dryden for his father's fake.

}

}

HERE's a young fellow here—an actor-Powell

One whofe perfon, perhaps, you all may know well; And he has writ a play---this very play

Which you are all come here to see, to-day;
And fo, it being an ufual thing, to speak
Something or other, for the author's fake,
Before the play (in hopes to make it take)
I'm come, being his friend and fellow-player,
To fay what (if you please) you 're like to hear.
First know, that favour which I'd fain have shown,
I ask not for, in his name, but my own;

For, without vanity, I'm better known.
Mean time then, let me beg you would forbear
Your cat-calls, and the inftruments of war.
For mercy, mercy, at your feet we fall,
Before your roaring gods destroy us all!
I'll fpeak with words fweet as diftilling honey,
With words---as if I meant to borrow money;

}