Feace, Chloris! peace! or singing die, That together you and I

To heav'n may go;

For all we know

Of what the blessed do above,

Is that they sing, and that they love.

Go, lovely Rose !

SONG.

Tell her that wastes her time and me, That now she knows,

When I resemble her to thee,

How sweet and fair she seems to be.

Tell her that's young,

And shuns to have her graces spied, That hadst thou sprung

In deserts, where no men abide,
Thou must have uncommended died.

Small is the worth

Of beauty from the light retir'd : Bid her come forth,

Suffer herself to be desir'd,

And not blush so to be admir'd:

Then die! that she

The common fate of all things rare May read in thee,

How small a part of time they share

That are so wondrous sweet and fair!

SUNG BY

MRS. KNIGHT, TO HER MAJESTY,

ON HER BIRTH-DAY.

THIS happy day two lights are seen,
A glorious Saint, a matchless Queen;
Both nam'd alike, both crown'd appear,
The saint above, the' Infanta here.
May all those years which Catharine
The martyr did for Heav'n resign,
Be added to the line

Of your blest life among us here!
For all the pains that she did feel,
And all the torments of her wheel,
May you as many pleasures share!
May Heav'n itself content
With Catharine the Saint!
Without appearing old,

An hundred times may you,
With eyes as bright as now,
This welcome day behold!

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.

PROLOGUE FOR THE LADY-ACTORS:

SPOKEN BEFORE KING CHARLES II.

AMAZE us not with that majestic frown,
But lay aside the greatness of your crown!
And for that look which does your people awe,
When in your throne and robes you give them law,
Lay it by here, and give a gentler smile,
Such as we see great Jove's in picture, while
He listens to Apollo's charming lyre,

Or judges of the songs he does inspire.
Comedians on the stage show all their skill,
And after do as Love and Fortune will.
We are less careful, hid in this disguise;

In our own clothes more serious and more wise.
Modest at home, upon the stage more bold,
We seem warm lovers, though our breasts be cold:
A fault committed here deserves no scorn,
If we act well the parts to which we're born.

PROLOGUE .

TO THE MAID'S TRAGEDY.

SCARCE should we have the boldness to pretend
So long-renown'd a tragedy to mend,

Had not already some deserv'd your praise
With like attempt. Of all our elder plays

This and Philaster have the loudest fame:
Great are their faults, and glorious is their flame.
In both our English genius is express'd;

Lofty and bold, but negligently dress'd.

Above our neighbours our conceptions are;
But faultless writing is the' effect of care.
Our lines reform'd, and not compos'd in haste,
Polish'd like marble, would like marble last.
But as the present, so the last age writ;
In both we find like negligence and wit.
Were we but less indulgent to our faults,
And patience had to cultivate our thoughts,
Our Muse would flourish, and a nobler rage
Would honour this than did the Grecian stage.

Thus says our Author, not content to see That others write as carelessly as he ; Though he pretends not to make things complete, Yet, to please you, he'd have the poets sweat. In this old play, what's new we have exprest In rhyming verse, distinguish'd from the rest; That as the Rhone its hasty way does make (Not mingling waters) through Geneva's lake, So having here the different styles in view, You may compare the former with the new. If we less rudely shall the knot untie, Soften the rigour of the tragedy, And yet preserve each person's character, Then to the other this you may prefer. 'Tis left to you: the Boxes and the Pit Are sovereign judges of this sort of wit. In other things the knowing artist may Judge better than the people; but a play, (Made for delight, and for no other use) If you approve it not, has no excuse.

EPILOGUE

TO THE MAID'S TRAGEDY.

SPOKEN BY THE KING.

THE fierce Melantius was content, you see,
The King should live; be not more fierce than he :
Too long indulgent to so rude a time,

When love was held so capital a crime,

That a crown'd head could no compassion find,
But died-because the killer had been kind!
Nor is❜t less strange such mighty wits as those
Should use a style in tragedy like prose.
Well-sounding verse, where princes tread the stage,
Should speak their virtue, or describe their rage.
By the loud trumpet, which our courage aids,
We learn that sound, as well as sense, persuades:
And verses are the potent charms we use,
Heroic thoughts and virtue to infuse.

When next we act this tragedy again,
Unless you like the change, we shall be slain.
The innocent Aspasia's life or death,
Amintor's too, depends upon your breath.
Excess of love was heretofore the cause;
Now if we die 'tis want of your applause.