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By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, SI
By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd,
By strangers honour'd, and by ftrangers mourn'd!
What tho' no friends in fable weeds appear, SS
Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year,
And bear about the mockery of woe

To midnight dances, and the public fhow?
What tho' no weeping Lowes thy afhes grace,
Nor polish'd marble emulate thy face?
What tho' no facred earth allow thee room,
Nor hallow'd dirge be mutter'd o'er thy tomb?
Yet fhall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be dreft,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast:
There fhall the morn her earlieft tears bestow,
There the firft rofes of the year fhall blow;
While Angels with their filver wings o'erfhade
The ground now facred by thy reliques made.

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So peaceful refts without a stone a name,
What once had beauty, titles, wealth, and fame. 70
How lov'd, how honour'd once, avails thee not,
To whom related, or by whom begot;

A heap of duft alone remains of thee,
'Tis all thou art, and all the proud fhall be!

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Poets themselves muft fall like thofe they fung, Deaf the prais'd car, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whofe foul now melts in mournful lays, Shall fhortly want the gen'rous tear he pays; Then from his clofing eyes thy form fhall 'part, And the last pang fhall tear thee from his heart, so Life's idle business at one gasp be o'er,

The Muse forgot, and thou belov'd no more!

Mr.

T

PROLOGUE

TO

ADDISON'S Tragedy

OF

C A T O.

O wake the foul by tender ftrokes of art,

To raife the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind, in confcious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold: For this the Tragic Mufe firft trod the ftage, Commanding tears to ftream thro' ev'ry age; Tyrants no more their favage nature kept, And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept. Our author fhuns by vulgar fprings to move The hero's glory, or the virgin's love; In pitying Love, we but our weakness show, And wild Ambition well deferves its woe. Here tears fhall flow from a more gen'rous caufe, Such tears as Patriots fhed for dying Laws: He bids your breaft with ancient ardour rife, And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes. Virtue confefs'd in human fhape he draws, What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was: No common object to your fight displays, But what with pleasure Heav'n itself surveys,

NOTES.

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VER. 20. But what with pleasure) This alludes to a famous paffage of Seneca, which Mr, Addison afterwards used as a motto to his play, when it was printed.

A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.

While Cato gives his little Senate laws,
What bofom beats not in his Country's cause?
Who fees him act, but envies ev'ry deed?

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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,

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Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in ftate; 30
As her dead Father's rev'rend image paft,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercaft;
The Triumph ceas'd, tears guth'd from ev'ry eye;
The World's great Victor pals'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 show, you have the virtue to be mov'd.
With honeft fcorn the firft fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdu'd;
Your scene precarioufly fubfifts too long
On French tranflation and Italian fong.
Dare to have fenfe yourselves; affert the stage,

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Be justly 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.

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NOTES.

VER. 37. Britons, attend:) Mr. Pope had written it arife, in the spirit of Poetry and Liberty; but Mr. Additon frighten'd at for dering an expression, which, he tought, fquinted at rebellion, would have it alter'd, in the fpirit of Profe and Polites, to attend.

VER. 46. As Cato's felf, etc.) This alludes to that famous fory of his going into the Theatre, and immediately coming out again.

EPILOGUE

ΤΟ

Mr. Rowe's JANE SHORE.

Defign'd for Mrs. OLDFIELD.

PROD

RODIGIOUS this! the Frail-one of our Play From her own Sex fhould mercy find to day You might have held the pretty head aside, Peep'd in your fans, been ferious, thus, and cry'd, The Play may pass-but that strange creature, Shore, I can't indeed now- I fo hate a whore

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Just 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?" But let me die, all raillery apart,

Our fex are still forgiving at their heart;
And, did not wicked cuftom fo 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 fcandaloufly nice,
Amidft their virtues. a referve of vice

The godly dame, who flefhly failings damns,

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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 finners.
Well, if our Author in the Wife offends,
He has a Hufband 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:

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Yet if a friend, a night or fo, fhould need her,
He'd recommend her as a special breeder.
To lend a wife, few here would scruple make,
But, pray, which of you all would take her back?
Tho' with the Stoic Chief our ftage 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? 40
Those strange examples ne'er were made to fit ye,
But the kind cuckold might inftruct the City:
There, many an honest man may copy Cato,
Who ne'er faw naked fword, or look'd in Plato.
If, after all, you think it a disgrace,
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That Edward's Mifs thus perks it in your face :
To fee a piece of failing flesh and blood,
In all the reft fo impudently good;

Faith, let the modeft Matrons of the town

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Come here in crouds and ftare the ftrumpet down.

BERLIN,

printed by GEORGE LEWIS WINTER.

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