And how, and how, _Mesieurs_! what do you say To our good Moderate, Conscientious Play? Not Whig, nor Tory, here can take Offence; It Libels neither _Patriot_, _Peer_, nor _Prince_, Nor _Shrieve_, nor _Burgess_, nor the Reverend _Gown_. } Faith here’s no Scandal worth eight hundred pound; } Your Damage is at most but half-a-Crown. } Only this difference you must allow, } ‘Tis you receive th’ Affront and pay us too, } Wou’d Rebell WARD had manag’d matters so. } Here’s no Reflections on Damn’d Witnesses, } We scorn such out-of-Fash’on’d Things as These; } They fail to be believ’d, and fail to please. } No _Salamanca_ Doctor-ship abus’d, Not a Malicious _States-man_ here accus’d; No Smutty Scenes, no intrigues up Stairs, That make your _City_ Wives in Love with _Players_. But here are fools of every sort and Fashion, } Except State-Fools, the Tools of _Reformation_, } Or Cullys of the Court--_Association_. } And those Originals decline so fast We shall have none to Copy by at last; Here’s _Jo_, and _Jack_ a pair of whining Fools, And _L[e]igh_ and _I_ brisk Lavish keeping Fools, He’s for Mischief all, and carry’s it on With Fawne and Sneere as Jilting _Whigg_ has done. And like theirs too his Projects are o’rethrown. A PASTORAL _to Mr._ Stafford, _Under the Name of_ SILVIO _on his Translation of the Death of_ Camilla: _out of_ VIRGIL. _By Mrs._ Behn. THIRSIS _and_ AMARILLIS. _Thirsis._ Why, _Amarillis_, dost thou walk alone, And the gay pleasures of the Meadows shun? Why to the silent Groves dost thou retire, When uncompell’d by the Suns scorching fire? Musing with folded Arms, and down-cast look, Or pensive yield to thy supporting _Hook_: Is _Damon_ false? and has his Vows betray’d, And born the Trophies to some other Maid? _Amarillis._ The Gods forbid I should survive to see The fatal day he were unjust to me. Nor is my Courage, or my Love so poor } T’ out-live that Scorn’d, and miserable hour; } Rather let _Wolves_ my new-yean’d Lambs devour, } Wither ye Verdant Grass, dry up ye Streams, And let all Nature turn to vast extreams: In Summer let the Boughs be cale and dry, } And now gay Flowers the wandring Spring supply, } But with my _Damons_ Love, Let all that’s charming die. } _Thirsis._