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                THE

       PROLOGUE

                AND

       EPILOGUE

            To the NEW

       COMEDY,

            CALLED,

   Sir Courtly Nice or,
       It Cannot be.

    The PROLOGUE.

WHat are the Charms by which theſe happy Iſles,
Have gain'd Heavens brighteſt, and Eternal Smiles ?
What Nation upon Earth beſides our own,
But by a loſs like ours had been undone ?
Ten Ages ſcarce ſuch Royal worth diſplay,
As England Loſt, and Found, in one ſtrange day.
One hour in Sorrow and Conſuſion hurl'd,
And yet the next the Envy of the World.
Nay, we are Bleſt in Spite of us, 'tis known,
Heavens Choice for us, was better than our own.
To ſtop the Bleſſings that o'reflow this day,
What heaps of Rogues we pil'd up in the way ?
We choſe fit Tools againſt all good to ſtrive,
The Sawcieſt, Lewdeſt Proteſtants alive.
They wou'd have form'd a Bleſſed Church indeed,
Upon a Turn-Coat Doctors Lying Creed ;
To know if e're he took Degree is hard,
'Tis thought he'l have one in the Palace-Yard.
Plot-Swakowers
ſure, will Drink no more Stuff down,
From that foul Pitcher, when his Ears are gone.
Let us Rely on Conſcience, not on Cheats,
On Heavens Wiſdom, not State-Juglers Feats.
How greatly Heaven has our loſs ſupplyed ?
'Tis no ſmall Vertue Heals a Wound ſo wide:
Nay, in ſo little time to Rear our Head ,
To our own Wonder, and our Neighbours dread.
They ſee that Valour Crown'd with Regal Power,
They have oft ſeen with Lawrels Crown'd before.
Verſe is too Narrow for ſo great a Name ;
Far ſounding Seas hourly repeat his Fame.
Our Neighbours Vanquiſh'd Fleets oft waſted o're,
His Name to theirs, and many a Trembling Shore.

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