And how, and how, Mesieurs! what do you say
To our good Moderate, Conscientious Play?
Not Whig, nor Tory, here can take Offence;
It Libels neither Patriot, Peer, nor Prince,
Nor Shrieve, nor Burgess, nor the Reverend Gown. }
Faith here's no Scandal worth eight hundred pound; }
Your Damage is at most but half-a-Crown. }
Only this difference you must allow, }
'Tis you receive th' Affront and pay us too, }
Wou'd Rebell WARD had manag'd matters so. }
Here's no Reflections on Damn'd Witnesses, }
We scorn such out-of-Fash'on'd Things as These; }
They fail to be believ'd, and fail to please. }
No Salamanca Doctor-ship abus'd,
Not a Malicious States-man here accus'd;
No Smutty Scenes, no intrigues up Stairs,
That make your City Wives in Love with Players.
But here are fools of every sort and Fashion, }
Except State-Fools, the Tools of Reformation, }
Or Cullys of the Court—Association. }
And those Originals decline so fast
We shall have none to Copy by at last;
Here's Jo, and Jack a pair of whining Fools,
And L[e]igh and I brisk Lavish keeping Fools,
He's for Mischief all, and carry's it on
With Fawne and Sneere as Jilting Whigg has done.
And like theirs too his Projects are o'rethrown.
A PASTORAL to Mr. Stafford, Under the Name of SILVIO on his Translation of the Death of Camilla: out of VIRGIL. By Mrs. Behn.
THIRSIS and AMARILLIS.
Thirsis.
Why, Amarillis, dost thou walk alone,
And the gay pleasures of the Meadows shun?
Why to the silent Groves dost thou retire,
When uncompell'd by the Suns scorching fire?
Musing with folded Arms, and down-cast look,
Or pensive yield to thy supporting Hook:
Is Damon false? and has his Vows betray'd,
And born the Trophies to some other Maid?
Amarillis.
The Gods forbid I should survive to see
The fatal day he were unjust to me.
Nor is my Courage, or my Love so poor }
T' out-live that Scorn'd, and miserable hour; }
Rather let Wolves my new-yean'd Lambs devour, }
Wither ye Verdant Grass, dry up ye Streams,
And let all Nature turn to vast extreams:
In Summer let the Boughs be cale and dry, }
And now gay Flowers the wandring Spring supply, }
But with my Damons Love, Let all that's charming die. }
Thirsis.
Why then this dull retreat, if he be true,
Or, Amarillis, is the change in you?
You love some Swains more rich in Herds and Flocks,
For none can be more powerful in his looks;
His shape, his meen, his hair, his wondrous face,
And on the Plaines, none dances with his Grace;
'Tis true, in Piping he does less excell.
Amarillis.