Poets, your subjects have their parts assign'd
To unbend, and to divert their sovereign's mind:
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Ladies! (I hope there's none behind to hear) I long to whisper something in your ear:
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When lawless men their neighbours dispossess, The tenants they extirpate or oppress,
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A parish-priest was of the pilgrim-train; An awful, reverend, and religious man.
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Chloe found Amyntas lying, All in tears, upon the plain,
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To say this comedy pleased long ago, Is not enough to make it pass you now.
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In those cold regions which no summers cheer, Where brooding darkness covers half the year,
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The day approached when Fortune should decide The important enterprise, and give the bride;
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In days of old, when Arthur filled the throne, Whose acts and fame to foreign lands were blown,
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Thee, Sovereign God, our grateful accents praise; We own thee Lord, and bless thy wondrous ways;
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What Nostradame, with all his art, can guess The fate of our approaching Prophetess?
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Thespis, the first professor of our art, At country wakes, sung ballads from a cart.
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So shipwracked passengers escape to land, So look they, when on the bare beach they stand,
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So much religion in your name doth dwell, Your soul must needs with piety excel.
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Fair Iris I love and hourly I die, But not for a lip nor a languishing eye:
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Heaven save ye, gallants, and this hopeful age! Y' are welcome to the downfall of the stage.
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Were none of you, gallants, e'er driven so hard, As when the poor kind soul was under guard,
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While Norman Tancred in Salerno reigned, The title of a gracious Prince he gained;
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A quire of bright beauties in spring did appear, To choose a May-lady to govern the year;
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Enter JANUS JANUS
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On a bank, beside a willow, Heaven her covering, earth her pillow,
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'Tis hard, my friend, to write in such an age, As damns not only poets, but the stage.
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While Arcite lives in bliss, the story turns Where hopeless Palamon in prison mourns.
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O sylvan prophet! whose eternal fame Echoes from Judah's hills and Jordan's stream;
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Three poets, in three distant ages born, Greece, Italy, and England, did adorn.
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The unhappy man, who once has trailed a pen, Lives not to please himself, but other men;
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In times when princes cancelled nature's law, And declarations which themselves did draw;
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For since 'twas mine, the white hath lost its hue, To show 'twas ne'er it self but whilst in you,
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[Music within.] The Lovers enter at opposite doors, each held by a keeper.
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A plain-built house, after so long a stay, Will send you half unsatisfied away;
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