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Yrtylla, like Time, is always a flying,

She regards not my Tears, nor pities my Sighing,

But when she flips by me, oh! then I complain,

Nor Wishes, nor Words can recal him again,

Then, my Friend, be advis'd, for old Time has, you know,

A Lock on his Forehead, Myrtylla below:

And if you would have her to fly you no more,
To hold her, like Time, you must take her before.

M

Thus Tranflated Extempore.

E Myrtilla fugit rapidâ velocior horâ

Siftitur haud lachrymis illa, nec hora, meis;

Deferto extorquet miferas fugitiva querelas,
Injiciet nullam mafta querela moram.

Chare Puer, crines (experto crede Sodali)
Tempus fronte gerit, ventre Puella Suos.
An Tempus Nymphamne velis retinere? capillos
Et Nympha & Tempus, quos habet ante, cape.

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The Damn'd from all their Pains were eas'd, Not that his Mufick so much pleas'd,

But that the Oddness of the Matter

Had juftly made their Wonder greater.

Pluto enrag'd that any He

Should enter his Dominions free,
And to inflict the Sharpest Pain,
Made him an Husband once again.

But yet in Juftice to his Voice,
He left it ftill within his Choice;
If, as a Curse, he'd not refuse her,
And taught him by a Look to lofe her.

EPILOGUE

TO

THE

TRAGEDY

OF

Bufiris, King of Egypt.

HE Race of Criticks, dull judicious Rogues,
To mournful Plays deny brisk Epilogues,
Each gentle Swain and tender Nymph, fay
they,

From a fad Tale fhould go in Tears. away,

From hence, quite home, fhould Streams of Sorrows fhed,

And drown'd in Grief feal fupperlefs to Bed,

This Doctrine is so grave, the Sparks won't bear it, They love to go in Humour to their Claret.

The Cit, who owns a little Fun worth buying,
Holds Half-a-Crown too much to pay for Crying.
Befides, who knows without thefe healing Arts,

But Love might turn our Heads, and break our Hearts;
And the poor Author, by imagin'd Woes,

Might people Bedlam with our Belles and Beaux?

Hence I, who lately bid Adieu to Pleasure,
Robb'd of my Spouse, and my dear Virgin-Treasure,
I, whom you faw despairing breathe my last,
Am free and easy, as if nought had past;
Again put on my Airs, and play my Fan,
And fear no more that dreadful Creature, MAN.
But whence does this malicious Mirth begin?

I know, ye Beasts, you reckon it a Sin.

'Tis ftrange that Crimes the fame, in diff'rent Plays, Should move our Horror, and our Laughter raise, Love's Joy fecure the Comick Actor trys,

And if he's wicked in Blank Verfe, he dies.

The Farce, where Wives prove frail, still takes the best, And the poor Cuckold is a ftanding Jeft:

But our grave Bard, a virtuous Son of Ifis,

Counts a bold Stroke in Love among the Vices,

In Blood and Wounds a guilty Land he dips ye,
And wafts an Empire for one ravifh'd Gipfy.

What musty Morals fill an Oxford Head,
To Notions of Pedantick Virtue bred!
There each stiff Don at Gallantry exclaims,
And calls fine Men and Ladies filthy Names;
They tell you Rakes and Jilts corrupt a Nation;
Such is the Prejudice of Education!

You, who know better things, will fure approve 'Thofe Scenes, that fhew the boundless Pow'r of Love. Let, when they will, th' Italian Things appear, This Play, we truft, fhall throng an Audience here. Bold Myron's Paffion, up to Frenzy wrought, Would ill be warbled thro' an Eunuch's Throat; His Part, at leaft, his Part requires a MAN, Let Nicolini act it if he can.

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