Who fees him act, but envies every deed?
e. Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev'n when proud Cæfar, 'midft triumphal cars,
The fpoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in ftate;
As her dead father's rev'rend image past
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercaft;
The triumph ceas'd, tears gush'd from ev'ry eye;
The world's great victor pafs'd unheeded by;
Her laft good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Cæfar's lefs than Cato's fword.
Britons! attend: be worth like this approv'd,
And fhow you have the virtue to be mov❜d.
With honeft fcorn the firft fam'd Cato view'd
Dare to have sense yourselves; affert the stage,
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom the fubdued
Your fcene precariously fubfifts too long
On French tranflation and Italian fong:
Be juftly warm'd with your own native rage:
Such plays alone fhould win a British ear,
As Cato's felf had not difdain'd to hear.
EPILOGUE
TO MR. ROWE'S
JANE SHORE.
DESIGNED FOR MRS. OLDFIELD.
PRODIGIOUS this! the frail-one of our Play
From her own sex fhould mercy find to-day!
You might have held the pretty head afide,
Peep'd in your fans, been ferious, thus, and cry'd,
The play may pafs-but that ftrange creature, Shore,
I can't indeed now-I fo hate a whore-
Juft as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull,
And thanks his ftars he was not born a fool;
So from a fifter finner you shall hear,
"How ftrangely you expose yourself, my dear!" 10
L 2
But let me die, all raillery apart,
Our fex are still forgiving at their heart;
And, did not wicked custom so contrive,
We'd be the best good-natur'd things alive.
There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale,
That virtuous ladies envy while they rail;
Such rage without betrays the fire within;
In fome clofe corner of the foul they fin;
Still hoarding up, moft fcandalously nice,
Amidft their virtues a referve of vice.
The godly dame, who flefhly failings damns,
Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.
Would you enjoy foft nights, and folid dinners?
Faith, gallants, board with faints, and bed with finuers.
Well, if our Author in the Wife offends,
He has a husband that will make amends:
He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving;
And fure fuch kind good creatures may be living.
In days of old, they pardon'd breach of vows;
Stern Cato's felf was no relentless spouse:
Plu-Plutarch, what's his name, that writes his life?
Tells us, that Cato dearly lov'd his wife:
Yet if a friend, a night or fo, fhould need her,
He'd recommend her as a special breeder.
To lend a wire, few here would' fcruple make ;
But, pray, which of you all would take her back?
Tho' with the Stoic Chief our stage may ring,
The Stoic Hufband was the glorious thing.
The man had courage, was a fage, 'tis true,
And lov'd his country-But what's that to you?
Thofe ftrange examples ne'er were made to fit ye,
But the kind cuckold might instruct the City :
There many an honeft man may copy Cato,
Who ne'er faw naked fword, or look'd in Plato.
If, after all, you think it a difgrace,
That Edward's Mifs thus perks it in your face;
To fee a piece of failing fleih and blood,
In all the reft fo impudently good;
Faith, let the modest Matrons of the Town
Come here in crowds, and stare the strumpet down. 50
The following Tranflations were selected from many others done by the Author in his youth; for the most part, indeed, but a fort of Exercises, while he was improving bimfelf in the languages, and carried, by his early bent to Poetry, to perform them rather in verfe than profe. Mr. Dryden's Fables came out about that time, which occafioned the Translations from Chaucer. They were first feparately printed in mifcellanies by J. Tonfon and B. Lintot, and after wards collected in the Quarto Edition of 1717. The Imitations of English Authors were done as early, fome of them at fourteen or fifteen years old.
[WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1711.]
The hint of the following piece was taken from Chaucer's Houfe of Fame. The defign is in a manner entirely altered, the defcriptions and most of the particular thoughts my own: yet I could not fufier it to be printed without this acknowledgment. The reader who would compare this with Chaucer, may begin with his Third Book of Fame, there being nothing in the two first books that anfwer to their title. [P.]
that foft feafon when descending show'rs
Call forth the greens, and wake the rising flow'rs ;
When op'ning buds falute the welcome day,
And earth relenting feels the genial ray;
As balmy fleep had charm'd my cares to reft,
And love itfelf was banish'd from my breaft,
(What time the morn myfterious vifions brings,
While purer flumbers fpread their golden wings,)
A train of phantoms in wild order rose,
And, join'd, this intellectual sense compose.
I ftood, methought, betwixt earth, feas, and skies, The whole creation open to my eyes:
In air felf-balanc'd hung the globe below,
Where mountains rife and circling oceans flow ;
Here naked rocks and empty waftes were seen,
There tow'ry cities, and the foreits green:
Here failing ships delight the wand'ring eyes;
There trees and intermingled temples rife:
Now a clear fun the fhining fcene difplays,
The tranfient landfcape now in clouds decays.
O'er the wide profpect as I gaz'd around,
Sudden I heard a wild promifcuous found,
Like broken thunders that at diftance roar,
Or billows murm'ring on the hollow fhore:
Then gazing up, a glorious pile beheld,
Whole tow'ring fummit ambient clouds conceal'd.
High on a rock of ice the structure lay,
Steep its aicent, and flipp'ry was the way:
The wondrous rock like Parian marble fhone,
And feem'd, to diftant fight, of folid ftone:
Infcriptions here of various names I view'd,
The greater part by hoftile Time subdu'd;
Yet wide was spread their fame in ages paft,
And poets once had promis'd they should laft.
Some fresh engrav'd appear'd of wits renown'd;
I look'd again, nor could their trace be found.
Critics I faw, that other names deface,
And fix their own, with labour, in their place:
Their own, like others, foon their place refign'd,
Or difappear'd, and left the firft behind.
Nor was the work impair'd by ítorms alone,
But felt the approaches of too warm a fun;
For fame, impatient of extremes, decays
Nor more by envy than excess of praife.
Yet part no injuries of heav'n could feel,
Like crystal faithful to the graving steel:
The rock's high fummit, in the temple's fhade,
Nor heat could melt, nor beating ftorm invade.
There names infcrib'd unnumber'd ages paft,
From Time's firft birth,' with Time itself fhall last;
Thefe ever new, nor subject to decays,
Spread, and grow brighter with the length of days.
So Zembla's rocks (the beauteous work of Froft)
Rife white in air, and glitter o'er the coast;
Pale funs, unfelt, at diftance roll away,
And on th' impaffive ice the lightnings play;
Eternal fnows the growing mafs fupply,
Till the bright mountains prop th' incumbent sky;
As Atlas fix'd, each hoary pile appears,
The gather'd winter of a thousand years.
On this foundation Fame's high temple stands;
Stupendous pile! not rear'd by mortal hands.
Whate'er proud Rome or artful Greece beheld,
Or elder Babylon, its frame excell'd.
Four faces had the dome, and ev'ry face
Of various structure, but of equal grace:
Four brazen gates, on columns lifted high,
Salute the diff'rent quarters of the sky.
Here fabled chiefs in darker ages born,
Or worthies old, whom arms or arts adorn,
Who cities rais'd, or tam'd a monftrous race,
The walls in venerable order grace;
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