But for some other Gifts: Mind what I say, }
Never compare, each Dapple has his Day, }
Nor anger him, but kindly use this Play: }
For should you with him, conceal'd Parts disclose,
Lord! how like Ninnies would look all the Beaus.
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A PROLOGUE,
To the Massacre of Paris: For Mr. Betterton.
BRAVE is that Poet that dares draw his Pen, }
To expose the nauseous Crimes of guilty Men, }
As once did our Immortal Patron, Ben. }
And Wise are they that can with Patience bear, }
And just Reflections moderately hear, }
Unmov'd by Passion, as unsway'd by Fear: }
These we present a Tragick piece to Night,
That has some Years been banish'd from the Light;
Hush'd and imprison'd close, as in the Tower,
Half press'd to Death by a dispensing Power:
Rome's Friend, no doubt, suppos'd there might be shown,
Just such an Entertainment of their own,
The Plot, the Protestants, the Stage, the Town:
But no such Fears our Hugenots alarm'd,
True English Hearts are always better Arm'd;
For if the Valiant in a little Town,
Batter'd and starving their brave Cause, durst own,
And now to take a Tryal for it's fact,
Is just come out by th' Habeas Corpus Act.
If Peasants scorning Death can guard their Walls,
And the mild Priesthood, turn to Generals;
Britains look up, and this blest Country see, }
In spite of byass'd Law serene and free, }
Cleer'd from it's choaking Foggs of Popery. }
No Massacres or Revolutions fear,
Affairs are strangely alter'd in one Year:
