Now, as a nymph, I need not sue, nor try
The force of any lightning but the eye.

Beauty and youth, more than a god, command;
No Jove could e'er the force of these withstand.
'Tis here, that sov'reign pow'r admits dispute;
Beauty sometimes is, justly, absolute.
Our sullen Catos, whatsoe'er they say,
E'en while they frown, and dictate laws, obey.
You, mighty Sir! our bonds more easy make,
And, gracefully, what all must suffer take:
Above those forms the grave affect to wear,
For 'tis not to be wise, to be severe.
True wisdom may some gallantry admit,
And soften bus'ness with the charms of wit.

These peaceful triumphs, with your cares, you bought,

And, from the midst of fighting nations, brought. You only hear it thunder from afar,

And sit in peace the arbiter of war:

Peace, the loath'd manna which hot brains despise,
You knew its worth, and made it early prize;
And in its happy leisure, sit and see

The promises of more felicity;

Two glorious nymphs of your own godlike line,
Whose morning rays, like noontide, strike and shine.
Whom you to suppliant monarchs shall dispose,
To bind your friends, and to disarm your foes.

III.

EPILOGUE to the MAN OF MODE: or SIR FOPLING FLUTTER.

[By Sir GEORGE ETHEREGE, 1676.]

MOST modern wits such monstrous fools have

shown,

They seem not of Heav'n's making, but their own.
These nauseous Harlequins in farce may pass,
But there goes more to a substantial ass:
Something of man must be expos'd to view,
That, Gallants! they may more resemble you.
Sir Fopling is a fool so nicely writ,

The ladies would mistake him for a wit;
And when he sings, talks loud, and cocks, would cry,
I vow, methinks he's pretty company;

So brisk, so gay, so travell'd, so refin❜d,
As he took pains to graff upon his kind.
True fops help Nature's work, and go to school,
To file and finish God Almighty's fool.
Yet none Sir Fopling him, or him, can call;
He's knight o' th' shire, and represents ye all.
From each he meets, he culls whate'er he can ;
Legion's his name, a people in a man.
His bulky folly gathers as it goes,

And, rolling o'er you, like a snow-ball, grows.
His various modes from various fathers follow;
One taught the toss; and one, the new French wal-
low,

His sword-knot, this; his cravat, that design'd; And this, the yard-long snake, he twirls behind. From one the sacred periwig he gain'd,

Which wind ne'er blew, nor touch of hat profan'd.
Another's diving bow he did adore,

Which with a shog casts all the hair before;
Till he, with full decorum, brings it back,
And rises, with a water spaniel shake.

As for his songs, the ladies' dear delight,
These, sure, he took from most of you who write.
Yet ev'ry man is safe from what he fear'd;
For no one fool is hunted from the herd.

IV.

EPILOGUE

TO MITHRIDATES, KING OF PONTUS.

[By Mr. N. LEE, 1678.]

You've seen a pair of faithful lovers die : And much you care: for most of you will cry, 'Twas a just judgment on their constancy. For, Heav'n be thank'd, we live in such an age, When no man dies for love, but on the stage: And e'en those martyrs are but rare in plays; A cursed sign how much true faith decays, Love is no more a violent desire; 'Tis a mere metaphor, a painted fire. In all our sex, (the name examin'd well,) 'Tis pride to gain, and vanity to tell.

In woman, 'tis of subtle int'rest made:
Curse on the punk that made it first a trade!
She first did Wit's prerogative remove,
And made a fool presume to prate of love.
Let honour and preferment go for gold,
But glorious beauty is not to be sold;
Or if it be, 'tis at a rate so high,
That nothing but adoring it should buy.
Yet the rich cullies may their boasting spare;
They purchase but sophisticated ware.
"Tis prodigality that buys deceit,

Where both the giver and the taker cheat.
Men but refine on the old half-crown way,
And women fight, like Swissers, for their pay.

V.

EPILOGUE

TO A TRAGEDY CALLED TAMERLANE.
[By Mr. SAUNDERS.]

LADIES, the beardless author of this day,
Commends to you the fortune of his play:
A woman-wit has often grac'd the stage,
But he's the first boy-poet of our age.
Early as is the year his fancies blow,
Narcissus peeping thro' the snow.
Like young
Thus Cowley blossom'd soon, yet flourish'd long;
This is as forward, and may prove as strong,
Youth, with the fair, should always favour find,
Or we are damn'd dissemblers of our kind.

What's all this love they put into our parts? 'Tis but the pit-a-pat of two young hearts. Should Hag and Greybeard make such tender

moan,

Faith you'd e'en trust them to themselves alone;
And cry, Let's go, here's nothing to be done.'
Since love's our bus'ness, as 'tis your delight,
The young, who best can practise, best can write.
What tho' he be not come to his full pow'r,
He's mending and improving ev'ry hour.
You sly she-jockies of the box and pit,
Are pleas'd to find a hot unbroken wit:
By management he may in time be made,
But there's no hopes of an old batter'd jade :
Faint and unnerv'd, he runs into a sweat;
And always fails you, at the second heat.

VI.

AN EPILOGUE FOR THE KING'S HOUSE.

W

E act by fits and starts, like drowning men, But just peep up, and then pop down again. Let those who call us wicked change their sense; For never men liv'd more on Providence.

Not lott'ry cavaliers are half so poor,

Nor broken Cits, nor a vacation whore.
Not courts, nor courtiers living on the rents
Of the three last, ungiving Parliaments: