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Poems on Several Occasions

With Anne Boleyn to King Henry VIII. An Epistle. By Mrs. Elizabeth Tollet. The Second Edition
  

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On Mr. Congreve's Plays and Poems.
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
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On Mr. Congreve's Plays and Poems.

Congreve! the justest Glory of our Age!
The whole Menander of the English Stage!
Thy comic Muse, in each complete Design,
Does manly Sense and sprightly Wit combine.
And sure the Theatre was meant a School,
To lash the Vicious and expose the Fool:
The wilful Fool, whose Wit is always shown
To hit another's Fault and miss his own,
Laughs at himself when by thy Skill exprest:
And always in his Neighbour finds the Jest.
A Fame from vulgar Characters to raise
Is ev'ry Poet's Labour, and his Praise:
They, fearful, coast; while you forsake the Shore,
And undiscover'd Worlds of Wit explore,
Enrich the Scene with Characters unknown,
There plant your Colonies and fix your Throne.

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Let Maskwell's Treacheries, and Touchwood's Rage,
Let rugged Ben, and Foresight's tim'rous Age,
And Heartwell's sullen Passion grace the Stage:
Then let Half-Criticks veil their idle Spight,
For he knows best to rail who worst can write.
Let juster Satire now employ their Pen,
To tax the Vicious on the World's great Scene;
There the Reformer's Praise the Poet shares,
And boldly lashes whom the Zealot spares.
Ye British Fair! Cou'd your bright Eyes refuse
A pitying Tear to grace his Tragic Muse?
Can gen'rous Osmyn sigh beneath his Chain,
Or the distress'd Almeria weep in vain?
A kindly Pity ev'ry Breast must move,
For injur'd Virtue, or for suff'ring Love.
The Nymphs adorn Pastora's sacred Tomb;
And mourn the lov'd Amyntas' short-liv'd Bloom:
The Learn'd admire the Poet, when he flies
To trace the Theban Swan amid the cloudless Skies.
When he translates, still faithful to the Sense,
He copies, and improves each Excellence.
Or when he teaches how the Rich and Great,
And all but deathless Wit must yield to Fate:
Or when he sings the Coursers rapid Speed;
Or Virtue's loftier Praise, and more immortal Deed.
Each various Grace conspires t'adorn his Song;
As Horace easy, and as Pindar strong:
Pindar, who long like Oracles ador'd
In rev'rend Darkness, now to Light restor'd
Shall stamp thy current Wit, and seal thy Fame's Record.