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النشر الإلكتروني

PROLOGUE

ΤΟ

Mr. ADDISON's Tragedy

O F

CAT
ATO.

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O wake the foul by tender ftrokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind, in confcious virtue bold, Live o'er each fcene, and be what they behold: For this the Tragic Mufe firft trod the flage, Commanding tears to fream thro' ev'ry age; Tyrants no more their favage nature kept, And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept. Our author fhuns by vulgar fprings to move The hero's glory, or the virgin's love; In pitying Love, we but our weakness show, And wild Ambition well deferves its woe. Here tears fhall flow from a more gen'rous cause, Such tears as Patriots fhed for dying Laws:

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He bids
your breaft 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 difplays,
But what with pleafure Heav'n itfelf furveys,
A brave man ftruggling in the forms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling flate.
While Cato gives his little Senate laws,
What bofom beats not in his Country's caufe?
Who fees him act, but envies ev'ry deed?

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Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bleed?
Ev'n when proud Cæfar 'midft triumphal cars,
The fpoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain and impotently great,

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Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in ftate; 30 As her dead Father's rev'rend image past, The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercaft; The Triumph ceas'd, tears gufh'd from ev'ry eye; The World's great Victor pafs'd unheeded by; Her laft good man dejected Rome ador'd, And honour'd Cæfar's lefs than Cato's fword. Britons, attend: be worth like this approv'd, And fhow, you have the virtue to be mov'd. With honeft fcorn the firft fam'd Cato view'd Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she subdu'd; Your scene precarioufly fubfifts too long

On French translation, and Italian fong.

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Dare to have fense yourselves; affert the stage,
Be juftly warm'd with your own native rage:
Such Plays alone should win a British ear,
As Cato's felf had not difdain'd to hear.

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EPILOGUE

ΤΟ

Mr. Rowe's JANE SHORE.

Design'd for Mrs. OLDFIELD.

RODIGIOUS this! the Frail-one of our Play

PRO

From her own Sex fhould mercy find to day!

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You might have held the pretty head aside,
Peep'd in your fans, been ferious, thus, and cry'd,
The Play may pafs-but that ftrange creature, Shore,
I can't-indeed now-I fo hate a whore-
Juft as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless fkull,
And thanks his ftars he was not born a fool;
So from a fifter finner you fhall hear,

"How ftrangely you expofe yourself, my dear?" But let me die, all raillery apart,

Our fex are still forgiving at their heart;

And, did not wicked custom so contrive,
We'd be the beft, good-natur'd things alive.

There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale,
That virtuous ladies envy while they rail;
VOL. I.

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Such rage without betrays the fire within;
In fome close corner of the foul, they fin;
Still hoarding up moft fcandalously nice,
Amidst their virtues a reserve of vice.
The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns,
Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.
Would you enjoy foft nights and folid dinners?
Faith, gallants, board with faints, and bed with

finners.

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Well, if our Author in the Wife offends, He has a Hufband 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, Stern Cato's felf was no relentless spouse : 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, fhould need her, He'd recommend her as a special breeder. To lend a wife, few here would fcruple make, 35 But, pray, which of you all would take her back? Tho' with the Stoic Chief our stage may ring, 'The Stoic Hufband 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 inftruct the City: There, many an honeft man may copy Cato, Who ne'er faw naked fword, or look'd in Plato.

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