Two Houses join'd, two Poets to a Play? You noisy Whigs will sure be pleas'd to-day; It looks so like two Shrieves the City Way. But since our Discords and Divisions cease, You, @3Bilboa@1-gallants, learn to keep the Peace; Make here no Tilts; let our poor Stage alone; Or if a decent Murder must be done, Pray take a civil Turn to Marybone. If not, I swear we'll pull up all our Benches; Not for your Sakes, but for our Orange-wenches: For you thrust wide sometimes, and many a Spark, That misses one, can hit the other Mark. This makes our Boxes full; for men of Sense Pay their four Shillings in their own Defence: That safe behind the Ladies they may stay, Peep o'er the Fan, and judge the bloody Fray. But other Foes give Beauty worse Alarms; The @3posse-poetarum's@1 up in Arms: No Woman's Fame their libels has escap'd; Their Ink runs Venom, and their Pens are clapp'd. When Sighs and Prayers their ladies cannot move, They rail, write Treason, and turn Whigs to love. Nay, and I fear they worse Designs advance, There's a damn'd Love-trick new brought o'er from @3France@1. We charm in vain, and dress, and keep a Pother, While those false Rogues are ogling one another. All Sins besides admit some Expiation; But this against our Sex is plain Damnation. They join for Libels too, these Womenhaters; And as they club for Love, they club for Satyres: The best on't is they hurt not: for they wear Stings in their Tails; their only Venom's there. 'Tis true, some shot at first the Ladies hit, Which able Marksmen made and Men of Wit: But now the Fools give Fire, whose Bounce is louder; And yet, like mere Train-bands, they shoot but Powder. Libels, like Plots, sweep all in their first Fury; Then dwindle like an ignoramus Jury: Thus Age begins with towzing and with tumbling, But grunts, and groans, and ends at last in fumbling. |