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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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Prologue to a Musick Speech in the Theatre in Oxford.
  
  
  
  
  

Prologue to a Musick Speech in the Theatre in Oxford.

Well! for a careful provident Bawd, say I,
Give me my Mother University.
Bless us! how neatly has she rank'd you here,
Where drawn in Love's Battalia, you appear
The Black, the Brown, the Fair, and the not Fair.

332

I must confess the Case is alter'd now,
From what your narrow fulsome Box could show.
A Musick-Room, a fitter Name 'twould prove,
Call it a Stove, a Bathing-Tub of Love,
Where sweating Scholar faints, and knows not why,
And melting Tallow-Chandler drips hard by,
And all this Heat from Love, or else July.
But now you're welcome hither, in this Row
Painting does in its full Perfection show,
Streter above you, Ladies here below.
Did not such Malice in your Beauties reign,
We yet might hope a Golden Age again:
When Nature taught her untold Tale of Love,
And Passion from a ragged Gown could move.
But now those Days are gone, and saucy Art,
Mimick of Nature, acts the noblest Part.
E'en Passion is successless in this Age,
Unless set off by Love's high Equipage.
The ruffling Pantaloon declares the Flame,
And the well ty'd Cravat-string wins the Dame.
Plain Lovers, like plain Linnen, e'er cashier'd,
In whose behalf no Point has e'er appear'd:
What Hopes then have unhappy we to please,
Whom niggard Stars made not so vain as these?
Alas! we hate your gentle stinking Water,
Loath distill'd Oils, but those of Mother Nature.
This knew our Fates, and plac'd us in a Town
Where Beauty is so thin, so rarely sown;
The Nymphs o'th' Fleece, and the three Gates go down.
Like homely Peasants, us'd to wholesome Meat,
When Love invites us to your splendid Treat;
We'll gape and gaze, and make no hearty Meal,
Give us our sturdy Beef and Mutton still.
But let us not despair. I'll lead the Van,
And tho' I proudly say't, we Scholars can,
Altho' not act the Fop, yet play the Man.
We'll run at all, and freely take our Lot,
From the fair Walcop, down to foul Bess Scot.