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Written by Mr. Dryden , to a New Play,
call'd , The Loyal Brother, &c.
POets, like Lawfull Monarchs, rul'd the Stage,
Till Criticks, like Damn'd Whiggs, debauch'd our Age.
Mark how they jump : Criticks wou'd regulate
Our Theatres, and Whiggs reform our State :
Both pretend love, and both ( Plague rot 'em ) hate.}
The Critick humbly ſeems Advice to bring ,
The fawning Whigg Petitions to the King :
But ones advice into a Satyr ſlides ;
T'others Petition a Remonſtrance hides.
Theſe will no Taxes give, and thoſe no Pence :
Criticks wou'd ſtarve the Poet , Whiggs the Prince.
The Critick all our troops of friends diſcards ;
Juſt ſo the Whigg wou'd fain pull down the Guards.
Guards are illegal, that drive foes away,
As watchfull Shepherds, that fright beaſts of prey.
Kings, who Disband ſuch needleſs Aids as theſe,
Are ſafe——as long as e're their Subjects pleaſe.
And that wou'd be till next Queen Beſſes night :
Which thus, grave penny Chroniclers endite.
Sir Edmond-berry, firſt, in wofull wiſe,
Leads up the ſhow, and Milks their Maudlin eyes.
There's not a Butcher's Wife but Dribs her part,
And pities the poor Pageant from her heart;
Who, to provoke revenge, rides round the fire ,
And, with a civil congee, does retire.
But guiltleſs blood to ground muſt never fall :
There's Antichriſt behind, to pay for all.
The Punk of Babylon in Pomp appears ,
A lewd Old Gentleman of Seventy years.
Whoſe Age in vain our Mercy wou'd implore ;
For few take pity on an Old-caſt Whore.
The Devil, who brought him to the ſhame, takes part ;
Sits cheek by jowl, in black, to cheer his heart :
Like Theef and Parſon in a Tyburn-Cart.}
The word is giv'n ; and with a loud Huzzaw
The Miter'd Moppet from his Chair they draw :
On the ſlain Corps contending Nations fall ;
Alas, what's one poor Pope among 'em all !
He burns ; now all true hearts your Triumphs ring ;
And next ( for faſhion ) cry , God ſave the King.
A needful Cry in midſt of ſuch Alarms :
When Forty thouſand Men are up in Arms.
But after he's once ſav'd, to make amends ,
In each ſucceeding Health they Damn his Friends :
So God begins , but ſtill the Devil ends.}
What if ſome one inſpir'd with Zeal, ſhou'd call ,
Come let's go cry, God ſave him at White-Hall ?
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|English ballads > Literature & Theatre > Prologue written by Mr Dryden, to a new play, call'd, The loyal brother, &c > (1) [Page 1]|