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Mr. Rowe's JANE SHORE.

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Defigned for Mrs. OLDFIELD.

Rodigious this! the Frail-one of our Play From her own Sex fhould mercy find to-day! You might have held the pretty head afide,

Peep'd in your fans, been serious, thus, and cry'd,
The Play may pass--but that strange creature, Shore,
I can't-indeed now-I fo hate a whore-
Juft as a blockhead rubs his thoughtless skull,
And thanks his ftars he was not born a fool;
So from a fifter finner you fhall hear,

"How ftrangely you expose yourself, my dear ?”
But let me die, all raillery apart,

Our sex are still forgiving at their heart;
And did not wicked cuftom fo contrive,
We'd be the beft, good-natur'd things alive.

There are, 'tis true, who tell another tale,

That virtuous ladies envy while they rail;
Such rage without betrays the fire within;
In fome close corner of the foul, they fin ;
Still hoarding up, most scandalously nice,
Amidft their virtues a reserve of vice.
The godly dame, who fleshly failings damns,
Scolds with her maid, or with her chaplain crams.





Would you enjoy foft nights and folid dinners?
Faith, gallants, board with faints, and bed with finners.
Well, if our Author in the Wife offends,
He has a Hufband that will make amends:
He draws him gentle, tender, and forgiving,
And fure fuch kind, good creatures may be living.
In days of old, they pardon'd breach of vows,
Stern'd Cato's felf was no relentless spouse:
Plu -Plutarch, what's his name, that writes his life?
Tells us, that Cato dearly lov'd his Wife:
Yet if a friend, a night or fo, fhould need her,
He'd recommend her as a special breeder.
To lend a wife, few here would fcruple make,



But, pray, which of you all would take her back?
Tho' with the Stoic Chief our stage may ring,
The Stoic Husband was the glorious thing.
The man had courage, was a fage, 'tis true,
And lov'd his country-but what's that to you?
Those strange examples ne'er were made to fit
But the kind cuckold might instruct the City:
There, many an honest man might copy Cato,
Who ne'er faw naked fword, or look'd in Plato.



If, after all, you think it a disgrace,
That Edward's Mifs thus perks it in your face,


To fee a piece of failing flesh and blood,

In all the rest so impudently good;

Faith, let the modelt Matrons of the town


Come here in crouds, and ftare the ftrumpet down.

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