The word is given, and with a loud Huzzaw The Miter'd Moppet from his Chair they draw:

On the slain Corps contending Nations fall:

Alas, what's one poor Pope among 'em all!

He burns; now all true hearts your Triumphs ring,

And next (for fashion) cry, God save the King.

40

A needful Cry in midst of such Alarms, When Forty thousand Men are up in Arms.

But after he's once sav'd, to make amends,) In each succeeding Health they Damn his Friends:

So God begins, but still the Devil ends. What if some one inspir'd with Zeal shou'd call,

Come, let's go cry, God save him at Whitehall?

His best Friends wou'd not like this overcare,

Or think him e're the safer for that pray'r. 49

Five praying Saints are by an Act allow'd, But not the whole Church-Militant in crowd;

Yet, should Heav'n all the true Petitions drain

Of Presbyterians who wou'd Kings maintain, Of Forty thousand five wou'd scarce remain.

EPILOGUE.

A Virgin Poet was serv'd up to day,
Who till this Hour ne're cackl'd for a Play.
He's neither yet a Whigg nor Tory-Boy,
But, like a Girl, whom several wou'd
enjoy,

Begs leave to make the best of his own natural Toy.

Were I to play my callow Author's game, The King's House wou'd instruct me by the Name:

There's Loyalty to one; I wish no more; A Commonwealth sounds like a common Whore.

Prologue 36 Moppet] Editors till Christie give Poppet

What's this, you'll say, to Us and our Vocation? 10 Only thus much, that we have left our Station,

And made this Theatre our new Plantation.
The Factious Natives never cou'd agree;
But aiming, as they call'd it, to be Free,
Those Play-house Whiggs set
up for
Property.

Some say they no Obedience paid of late, But would new Fears and Jealousies create, 'Till topsy-turvy they had turned the State. Plain Sense, without the Talent of Forctelling,

20

Might guess 'twould end in down-right
knocks and quelling;
For seldom comes there better of Rebelling.
When Men will, needlessly, their Freedom

barter

For lawless Pow'r, sometimes they catch a Tartar;

(There's a damned word that rhimes to this, call'd Charter.)

But since the Victory with Us remains, You shall be call'd to Twelve in all our gains,

(If you'll not think Us sawcy for our Pains.)

TO THE KING AND QUEEN, 1682. Text of 1683.

We'll take no blundering Verse, no fustian Tumour,

No dribling Love from this or that Presumer, No dull fat Fooll shamm'd on the Stage for humour.

For, faith, some of 'em such vile stuff have made,

As none but Fools or Fairies ever Play'd; But 'twas, as Shop-men say, to force a Trade. We've giv'n you Tragedies all sense defying; And singing men in woeful Metre dying; This 'tis when heavy Lubbers will be flying. All these disasters we well hope to weather; We bring you none of our old Lumber hether;

41

Whigg Poets and Whigg Sheriffs may hang together.

EPILOGUE.

New Ministers, when first they get in place, Must have a care to please; and that's our Case:

Some Laws for public Welfare we design, you, the Power supream, will please to join.

If

There are a sort of Pratlers in the Pit, Who either have, or who pretend to Wit; These noisy Sirs so loud their Parts rehearse, That oft the Play is silenc'd by the Farce: Let such be dumb, this penalty to shun, Each to be thought my Lady's eldest Son. 10 But stay; methinks some Vizard Mask I see Cast out her Lure from the mid Gallery: About her all the fluttering Sparks are rang'd;

The Noise continues, though the Scene is chang'd:

Now growling, sputt'ring, wauling, such a clutter,

'Tis just like P'uss defendant in a Gutter;

o'er ye,

The Surgeon will be told a woful story.
Let Vizard Mask her naked Face expose,
On pain of being thought to want a Nose: 20
Then for your laqueys, and your Train
beside,

(By whate'er Name or Title dignify'd,) They roar so loud, you'd think behind the Stairs

Tom Dove, and all the Brotherhood of Bears: They're grown a Nuisance, beyond all Disasters;

We've none so great but their unpaying Masters.

We beg you, Sirs, to beg your Men that they Would please to give you leave to hear the Play.

Next, in the Play-house, spare your precious Lives;

Think, like good Christians, on your bearns and wives;

30

Think on your Souls; but by your lugging forth,

It seems you know how little they are worth.

PROLOGUE.

Spoken by Mr. SMITH.

OUR Play's a Parallel: The Holy League Begot our Cov'nant; Guisards got the

Whigg: Whate'er our hot-brain'd Sheriffs did advance

Was like our Fashions, first produc'd in France;

And, when worn out, well scourg'd, and banish'd there,

Sent over, like their godly Beggars, here.
Cou'd the same Trick, twice play'd, our
Nation gull?

It looks as if the Devil were grown dull;
Or serv'd us up in Scorn his broken Meat,
And thought we were not worth a better
Cheat.

The fulsome Cov'nant, one wou'd think in Reason,

Had given us all our Bellys-full of Treason;

THE DUKE OF GUISE, 1682. Published in 1683.

Let Him lose England, to recover France. 29 Cry Freedom up with Popular noisie Votes, And get enough to cut each other's Throats, Lop all the Rights that fence your Monarch's Throne ;

For fear of too much Pow'r, pray leave Him

none.

A noise was made of Arbitrary Sway; But in Revenge, you Whiggs have found a way,

An Arbitrary Duty now to pay.

Let His own Servants turn, to save their stake,

Glean from His Plenty, and Ilis Wants forsake;

But let some Judas near His Person stay,
To swallow the last Sop, and then betray.
Make London independant of the Crown; 41
A Realm a part; the Kingdom of the Town.
Let Ignoramus juries find no Traytors,
And Ignoramus Poets scribble Satyrs.
And, that your meaning none may fail to

scan,

Do what in Coffee-houses you began; Pull down the Master, and Set up the Man.)

EPILOGUE.

Spoken by Mrs. COOKE.

Much Time and Trouble this poor Play has cost;

And faith, I doubted once the Cause was lost. Yet no one Man was meant, nor Great nor Small;

Our Poets, like frank Gamesters, threw at All.

They took no single Aim :--

But, like bold Boys, true to their Prince and hearty,

Huzza'd, and fired Broad-sides at the whole Party.

Duels are Crimes; but, when the Cause is right,

In Battel every Man is bound to fight.
For what should hinder Me to sell my`
Skin,

Dear as I cou'd, if once my Hand were in?
Se defendendo never was a Sin.

10

'Tis a fine World, my Masters, right or

wrong,

The Whiggs must talk, and Tories hold their Tongue.

They must do all they can

But We, Forsooth, must bear a Christian mind,

And fight, like Boys, with one Hand ty'd behind;

Nay, and when one Boy's down, 'twere wond'rous wise

To cry, Box fair, and give him time to

rise.

When Fortune favours, none but Fools will dally;

20

Would any of you Sparks, if Nan or Mally Tipp'd you th' inviting Wink, stand, shall Í, shall I?

A Trimmer cry'd (that heard me tell this Story),

Fie, Mistress Cooke! Faith, you're too rank a Tory!

Wish not Whiggs hang'd, but pity their hard Cases;

You Women love to see Men make wry Faces.

Pray, Sir, said I, don't think me such a Jew;

I say no more, but give the Dev'l his due.Lenitives, says he, best suit with our Condition.

Jack Ketch, says I, 's an excellent Physician.

30 I love no Bloud.-Nor I, Sir, as I breath; But hanging is a fine dry kind of Death. We Trimmers are for holding all things

We charm in vain, and dress, and keep a Pother,

While those false Rogues are ogling one another.

All Sins besides admit some Expiation; But this against our Sex is plain Damnation. They join for Libels too, these Womenhaters;

And as they club for Love, they club for Satyres:

30 The best on't is they hurt not for they wear Stings in their Tails; their only Venom's there.

'Tis true, some shot at first the Ladies hit, Which able Marksmen made and Menof Wit: But now the Fools give Fire, whose Bounce is louder ;

And yet, like mere Train-bands, they shoot but Powder.

Libels, like Plots, sweep all in their first Fury;

Then dwindle like an ignoramus Jury: Thus Age begins with towzing and with tumbling,

But grunts, and groans, and ends at last in fumbling.

40

And most were in a way of getting more; Which was as much as saying, Gentlemen, Here's Power and Money to be Rogues again.

The Court of Constantine was full of Glory, And every Trimmer turn'd Addressing Tory. They follow'd him in Herds as they were mad:

When Clause was King, then all the World was glad.

ANOTHER EPILOGUE. Text from the original broadsheet, 1682.

Indeed, there were a sort of peaking Tools, Some call 'em Modest, but I call 'em Fools; Men much more Loyal, tho' not half so loud; But these poor Devils were cast behind the Croud.

For bold Knaves thrive without one grain of Sense,

But good Men starve for want of Impudence.

CONSTANTINE The Great, 1684. The play is

by Lee.