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The works of Mr. Thomas Brown

Serious and Comical, In Prose and Verse; In four volumes. The Fourth Edition, Corrected, and much Enlarged from his Originals never before publish'd. With a key to all his Writings

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Jo. Haines in Pennance:
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  

Jo. Haines in Pennance:

Or, his Recantation Prologue, at his acting of Poet Bayes in the Duke of Buckingham's Play, call'd The Rehearsal. Spoken in a white Sheet, with a burning Taper in his Hand, upon his Admittance into the House, after his Return from the Church of Rome.

Written by T. Brown, for his Friend Jo. Haines,
As you dislike the Converts of the Nation,
That went to Rome, and left your Congregation,
By the same Rule pray kindly entertain
Your penitent lost Sheep return'd again.
For reconverted Haines, taught by the Age,
Is now come back to his Primitive Church, the Stage;
And own my Crime, of leaving in the lurch
My Mother Playhouse, she's my Mother Church.
As Penitents do go from you to Rome,
A Penitent from Rome to you I come.
Tho' I from you to Rome did never go
As Runagade for her, but Spy for you.
For see'ng the Beaux and Banterers every Day
Ev'n tired with themselves in ev'ry Play,
I went to Rome, to seek for Fops more new,
And more ridiculous than any of you;
A Miracle from Rome, I thought, might do.
Besides I left ye, all design'd for Rome;
But see'ng ye came not over, I came home:
For I, like you, finding my self mistaken,
Did early tack about, to save my Bacon.
Pox on't!—

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At Rome a Godly Part they made me play;
A damn'd unnatural one to me, you'll say:
They wou'd not let me roar, or rant or swear,
But fob'd me off with Penitence and Prayer,
Guess how that Penance relisht with a Player.
That ever any Player should have the Face
Thus to pretend to such a thing as Grace!
'Tis very hard indeed, th'Italian Nation
Should put this Phiz a little out of fashion;
But yielding Nature, and this tempting Face
Confirms me Flesh and Blood in spite of Grace:
Therefore, dear loving Sisters of the Pit,
Again your Brother Runagade admit,
And don't despise me now because I've liv'd
Where sawcy Boys claim your Prerogative.
No, Sisters; no,—
I ne'er turn'd Heretick, in Love at least;
Twas decent Whoring kept my Thoughts still chaste:
But you, kind Sirs! who here are daily known,
To love all Whores but her of Babylon,
Will never damn Jo. Haines for his Religion.
Well Sirs!—
B'ing thus confest, and free from all Pollution,
I beg from your kind Hands my Absolution.