« PreviousContinue »
PROLOGUE FOR MR. D'URFY'S PLAY. « Omicron and Omega from us “ Would each hope to be O in Thomas; “ And all th' ambitious vowels vie, “No less than Pythagorick Y, “ To have a place in Tom D'Urfy.
“ Then well-belov'd and trusty letters ! “ Cons'nants, and vowels much their betters, “We, willing to repair this breach, “ And, all that in us lies, please eachi, “ Et cætra to our aid must call; « Et cætra represents ye all : « Et cætra, therefore, we decree, “ Henceforth for ever join'd shall be “ To the great name of Tom D'Urfy.”
DESIGNED FOR MR. D’URFY'S LAST PLAY.
GROWN old in rhyme, 'twere barbarous to discard
your damn’d poet lives, and writes again.
PROLOGUE TO THE THREE HOURS, &c.
THREE HOURS AFTER MARRIAGE.
AUTHORS are judg’d by strange capricious rules;
PROLOGUE TO THE THREE HOURS, &c. 407 By running goods these graceless owlers gain ; Theirs are the rules of France, the plots of Spain : But wit, like wine, from happier climates brought, Dash'd by these rogues, turns English common draught. They pall Moliere's and Lopez' sprightly strain, And teach dull Harlequins to grin in vain.
How shall our author hope a gentler fate,
Gallants, look here ! this fool's cap * has an air,
had the care
Shows a cap with ears.
+ Flings down the cap, and exit.
SANDYS'S SANDYS'S GHOST:
A PROPER NEW BALLAD
NEW OVID'S METAMORPHOSES,
AS IT WAS INTENDED TO BE TRANSLATED BY PERSONS OF
YE lords and commons, men of wit
And pleasure about town,
Of books of high renown.
Beware of Latin authors all !
Nor think your verses sterling, Though with a golden pen you scrawl,
And scribble in a berlin:
For not the desk with silver nails,
Nor bureau of expense,
To writing of good sense.
With saucer eyes of fire,
A wit and courtly 'squire.
Rare imp of Phoebus, hopeful youth!
Like puppy tame, that uses To fetch and carry in his mouth
The works of all the Muses. Ah! why did he write poetry,
That hereto was so civil; And sell his soul for vanity
To rhyming and the devil ? A desk he had of curious work,
With glittering studs about ;
Though Ovid lay without.
Forth popp'd the sprite so thin,
All upright as a pin.
And ruff compos'd most duly,
While as the light burnt bluely.
Write on, nor let me scare ye;
To Budgel seek, or Carey *.
Poor Ovid finds no quarter !
• Henry Carey was a musick-master, and taught several persons to sing. He wrote several poems and pamphlets, and nine dramatick pieces, some of which met with success. He put a period to his life. 4 Oct. 1743.