PROLOGUE to ROMULUS, Spoken by MRS. BUTLER.

HOw we shall please ye now I cannot say;
But Sirs, 'Faith here is News from Rome to day;
Yet know withal, we've no such PACKETS here,
As you read once a Week from Monkey CARE.
But 'stead of that Lewd Stuff (that clogs the Nation)
Plain Love and Honour; (tho quite out of Fashion;)
Ours is a Virgin ROME, long, long, before
Pious GENEVA Rhetorick call'd her Whore;
For be it known to their Eternal Shames,
Those Saints were always good at calling Names:
Of Scarlet Whores let'em their Wills devise,
But lete'm raise no other Scarlet Lies;
LIES that advance the Good Old Cause, and bring
Into Contempt the PRELATES with the KING.
Why shou'd the Rebel Party be affraid?
They're Ratts and Weazles gnaw the Lyon's Beard,
And then in IGNORAMUS Holes they think,
Like other Vermin, to lie close, and stink.
What have ye got ye Conscientious Knaves,
With all your Fancy'd Power, and Bully Braves?
With all your standing to't; your Zealous Furies;
Your Lawless Tongues, and Arbitrary Iuries?
Your Burlesque Oaths, when one Green-Ribbon-Brother
In Conscience will be Perjur'd for another?
Your PLOTS, Cabals; Your Treats, Association,
Ye shame, Ye very Nusance of the Nation,
What have ye got but one poor Word? Such Tools
Were Knaves before; to which you've added Fools.
Now I dare swear, some of you Whigsters say,
Come on, now for a swinging TORY PLAY.
But, Noble Whigs, pray let not those Fears start ye,
Nor fright hence any of the Sham Sheriffs Party;
For, if you'l take my censure of the story,
It is as harmless as e're came before ye,
And writ before the times of Whig and Tory.

EPILOGUE to the Same, Spoken by the Lady SLINGSBY.

FAir Ladies, pity an unhappy Maid,
By Fortune, and by faithless Love betray'd.
Innocent once.—I scarce knew how to sin,
Till that unlucky Devil entring in,
Did all my Honour, all my Faith undo:
LOVE! like Ambition, makes us Rebels too:
And of all Treasons, mine was most accurst;
Rebelling 'gainst a KING and FATHER first.
A Sin, which Heav'n nor Man can e' e forgive;
Nor could I Act it with the face to live.
My Dagger did my Honours cause redress;
But Oh! my blushing Ghost must needs confess,
Had my young Charming Lover faithful been,
I fear I'd dy'd with unrepented Sin.
There's nothing can my Reputation save
With all the True, the Loyal and the Brave;
Not my Remorse, or Death, can expiate
With them a Treason 'gainst the KING and State.
Some Love-sick Maid perhaps, now I am gone,
(Raging with Love, and by that Love undone,)
May form some little Argument for me,
T' excuse m' Ingratitude and Treachery.
Some of the Sparks too, that infect the Pit,
(Whose Honesty is equal to their Wit,
And think Rebellion but a petty Crime,
Can turn to all sides Int'rest does incline,)
May cry 'I gad I think the Wench is wise;
'Had it prov'd Lucky, 'twas the way to rise.
'She had a Roman Spirit, that disdains
'Dull Loyalty, and the Yoke of Sovereigns.
'A Pox of Fathers, and Reproach to come;
'She was the first and Noblest Whig of Rome.
But may that Ghost in quiet never rest,
Who thinks it self with Traytors Praises blest.

LONDON: Printed by Nath. Thompson, 1682.

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