By foreign hands thy dying eyes were clos'd, By foreign hands thy decent limbs compos'd,
By foreign hands thy humble grave adorn'd, By strangers honour'd, and by strangers mourn'd! What tho' no friends in sable weeds appear, Grieve for an hour, perhaps, then mourn a year, And bear about the mockery of woe
To midnight dances, and the public show? What tho' no weeping Lowes thy ashes grace,
Nor polifh'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 shall thy grave with rifing flow'rs be dreft,
And the green turf lie lightly on thy breast: There shall the morn her earliest tears bestow, 65
There the first roses of the year shall blow; While Angels with their filver wings o'ershade The ground now facred by thy reliques made.
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 shall be!
Poets themselves must fall like those they sung, Deaf the prais'd ear, and mute the tuneful tongue. Ev'n he, whose soul now melts in mournful lays, Shall shortly want the gen'rous tear he pays; Then from his clofing eyes thy form shall part, And the last pang shall 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!
O wake the foul by tender strokes of art, To raise 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 Muse first trod the stage, Commanding tears to stream thro' ev'ry age; Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept. Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move The hero's glory, or the virgin's love; In pitying Love, we but our weakness show, And wild Ambition well deserves its woe. Here tears shall flow from a more gen'rous cause, Such tears as Patriots shed for dying Laws: He bids your breast 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,
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate, And greatly falling with a falling state. While Cato gives his little Senate laws, What bosom beats not in his Country's caufe? Who fees him act, but envies ev'ry deed? Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed? Ev'n when proud Cæfar 'midft triumphal cars, The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars, Ignobly vain and impotently great,
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state; 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 pass'd unheeded by; Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd, And honour'd Cæfar's leís than Cato's fword.
Britons, attend: be worth like this approv'd, And show, you have the virtue to be mov'd. With honeft scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom the fubdu'd;
Your fcene precariouflý fubfifts too long
On French tranflation, and Italian fong. Dare to have sense yourselves; affert the stage, 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.
Mr. ROWE'S JANE SHORE.
Design'd for MIS. OLDFIELD.
the Frail-one of our Play
From her own Sex should 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 pass- but that strange creature, Shore, I can't indeed now I fo hate a whore- Just as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull, And thanks his stars he was not born a fool; So from a fifter finner you shall hear, "How strangely you expose yourself, my dear?" But let me die, all raillery apart, Our fex are still forgiving at their heart; And did not wicked custom 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 close corner of the foul, they fin; Still hoarding up most scandaloufly nice, Amidft their virtues a referve of vice
The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns,
Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams. Would you enjoy soft nights and folid dinners? Faith, gallants, board with faints, and bed with finners. 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, Srern Cato's felf was no relentless spoufe: 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, should need her, He'd recommend her as a special breeder. To lend a wife, 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 Husband 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 instruct the City: There, many an honest man may copy Cato, Who ne'er faw naked sword, or look'd in Plato.
If, after all, you think it a disgrace, That Edward's Miss thus perks it in your face: To fee a piece of failing flesh and blood, In all the rest so impudently good;
Faith, let the modeft Matrons of the town
Come here in crouds and stare the strumpet down.
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