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They roar so loud, you'd think behind the stairs Tom Dove,* and all the brotherhood of bears: They've grown a nuisance, beyond all disasters; We've none so great but their unpaying masters. We beg you, sirs, to beg your men, that they Would please to give you leave to hear the play.

Next, in the play-house, spare your precious lives; Think, like good Christians,on your bairns and wives; Think on your souls; but, by your lugging forth,† It seems you know how little they are worth. If none of these will move the warlike mind, Think on the helpless whore you leave behind. We beg you, last, our scene-room to forbear, And leave our goods and chattels to our care. Alas! our women are but washy toys, And wholly taken up in stage employs : Poor willing tits they are; but yet, I doubt, This double duty soon will wear them out. Then you are watch'd besides with jealous care; What if my lady's page should find you there? My lady knows t' a tittle what there's in ye; No passing your gilt shilling for a guinea.

Thus, gentlemen, we have summ'd up in short Our grievances, from country, town, and court; Which humbly we submit to your good pleasure; But first vote money, then redress at leisure.‡

* A Bear so called, which was a favourite with the courtly audience of the Bear Garden.

+ See Note, p.


This was the course which Charles usually recommended to Parliament, who generally followed that which was precisely opposite.




BY MR N. LEE, 1689.

This play is one of the coarsest which ever appeared upon the stage. The author himself seems to be ashamed of it, and gives, for the profligacy of his hero, the Duke of Nemours, the odd reason of a former play on the subject of the Paris massacre having been prohibited, at the request, I believe, of the French ambassador. See Vol. VII. p. 188.

LADIES! (I hope there's none behind to hear)
I long to whisper something in your ear:
A secret, which does much my mind perplex,-
There's treason in the play against our sex.
A man that's false to love, that vows and cheats,
And kisses every living thing he meets;

A rogue in mode,-I dare not speak too broad,-
One that-does something to the very bawd.
Out on him, traitor, for a filthy beast!
Nay, and he's like the pack of all the rest :
None of them stick at mark; they all deceive.
Some Jew has changed the text, I half believe;
There Adam cozen'd our poor grandame Eve.
To hide their faults they rap out oaths, and tear;
Now, though we lie, we're too well-bred to swear.


So we compound for half the sin we owe,
But men are dipt for soul and body too;

And, when found out, excuse themselves, pox cant them,

With Latin stuff, Perjuria ridet Amantum.

I'm not book-learn'd, to know that word in vogue,
But I suspect 'tis Latin for a rogue.

I'm sure, I never heard that screech-owl hollow'd
In my poor ears, but separation follow'd.
How can such perjured villains e'er be saved?
Achitophel's not half so false to David.*
With vows and soft expressions to allure,
They stand, like foremen of a shop, demure;
No sooner out of sight, but they are gadding,
And for the next new face ride out a padding.
Yet, by their favour, when they have been kissing,
We can perceive the ready money missing.
Well! we may rail; but 'tis as good e'en wink;
Something we find, and something they will sink.
But, since they're at renouncing, 'tis our parts
To trump their diamonds, as they trump our hearts.

*Alluding to Shaftesbury and Charles II. in his own admirable satire.

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A QUALM of conscience brings me back again,
To make amends to you bespatter'd men.
We women love like cats, that hide their joys,
By growling, squalling, and a hideous noise.
I rail'd at wild young sparks; but, without lying,
Never was man worse thought on for high-flying.
The prodigal of love gives each her part,
And, squandering, shows at least a noble heart.
I've heard of men, who, in some lewd lampoon,
Have hired a friend to make their valour known.
That accusation straight a question brings,
What is the man that does such naughty things?
The spaniel lover, like a sneaking fop,

Lies at our feet:-he's scarce worth taking up.
"Tis true, such heroes in a play go far;
But chamber-practice is not like the bar.

When men such vile, such faint petitions make,
We fear to give, because they fear to take;
Since modesty's the virtue of our kind,
Pray let it be to our own sex confined.
When men usurp it from the female nation,
'Tis but a work of supererogation.

We shew'd a princess in the play, 'tis true,
Who gave her Cæsar* more than all his due;
Told her own faults; but I should much abhor
To choose a husband for my confessor.

You see what fate follow'd the saint-like fool,
For telling tales from out the nuptial school.
Our play a merry comedy had proved,
Had she confess'd so much to him she loved.
True Presbyterian wives the means would try;
But damn'd confessing is flat Popery.

* The Princess of Cleves, in the play, confesses to her husband her love for Nemours.

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