[printer's device for George Kearsley]

LONDON: Printed for GEORGE KEARSLEY, at John­son's Head, Fleet-street. M.DCC.LXXXV.



Spoken by Mr. KING.

A Rope-maker a Poet!—write a play!
O hang the blockhead! wicked wits will say;
—Before you turn him off—a word I pray.
Genius is not to place, or state fix'd down,
But flies at random all about the town;
Now at Whitehall, now at St. James's smiles,
Then whisks to Wapping, or to Broad St. Giles.
O let not prejudice, rank weed, take root,
Which may of Genius choak the fairest fruit:
If none but gentlemen high-born must write,
I fear we soon should wish you all good night!
Shakespeare and Johnson, our Dramatick Lords,
Did they amuse themselves with twisting cords?
[Page 226] Were they fine gentlemen?—O no—Old Ben
Was famous for his trowel as his pen;
With mortar and the Muse he pass'd his days,
And built good walls, before he built good plays.
Shakespeare, a genius born! his taste was such,
Too exquisite! he lov'd fat buck too much!
And he whose matchless muse can soften rocks,
Fled to Parnassus to avoid the Stocks.
Now to the Rope-maker I come again,—
Who having spun much hemp, now spins his brain:
This hempen produce any test will stand;
This, of his brain, may prove a rope of sand;
But should this spinning of his head deceive him,
This hempen manufacture may relieve him!
Had I but time to give my fancy scope,
I'd shew, how tragedy was like a rope;
How several parts well twisted, make a whole,
To curb the passions, and to melt the soul.
The cause of justice each alike befriends,
Both salutary means for moral ends;
Thus the most crabbed Critic plainly sees,
That making Ropes is writing Tragedies:
And should he fail to please, poor scribbling els—
O—then he makes a rope to hang himself.


Enter Arcadian Men and Women; and among them Dorcas, gathering about Linco.
WELCOME Linco, welcome home.
Happy am I, that am come;
Tho' I've been in countries rare,
Seen such sights would make you stare!
Tell us, tell us!
Give me air to blow my bellows.
Tell us, tell us!
A moment spare.
Make your neighbours some amends.
Never more I'll wander,
Simple, silly gander,
From my flock and cackling friends.
(Shakes hands, and kisses the women.)
Welcome, Linco, welcome home.
[Page 228]
Don't crowd so, neighbours, you con­found me:
Stand back, and make a circle round me;
I'll move my elbows in the center—
And on my travels thus I enter:
O yes!—keep silence old and young;
Do you find ears, while I find tongue.
I am so deaf, I must come near thee.
And pray be dumb, or you'll not hear me.
Seiz'd with a strange desire of gadding,
Which sets your Englishmen a madding;
I rather chose, like them, to roam,
To play the fool, than stay at home:
But tho', like them, abroad I rov'd,
I'm not return'd so much improv'd—
Those English folks are very strange.
In politicks much giv'n to change;
They are in temper like the weather;
Fair, storm, foul, sun-shine all together:
Strange contradictions, gay and sad,
Mop'd, merry, moody, wise, and mad!
A strange hodge-podge of good and bad.
'Tis said they are so sierce and bold!
No woman's safe.
Unless she's old.
I hate such wantonness and riot!
You'd live among 'em very quiet.
[Page 229]
But are they so prodigious stout?
Best go and try 'em, if you doubt.
Be honest, and they'll kindly treat you;
Be pert and saucy, and they'll beat you.
If you dissect an English skull,
Of politicks 'tis so brimful,
Of papers, pamphlets, prose and verse,
The furniture can't well be worse.
So furious are they to be free,
Nothing so common as to see
Britons dead-drunk for liberty.
This draws the sword of Englishmen;
Of Englishwomen draws the pen;
I ne'er shall see such folks again.
Their very children on the lap,
Are fed with liberty and pap!
But hold—
True traveliers have various ways
To ease their bones—they quit their chaise,
To mount a horse, and pace along—
So I, to ease my half-tir'd tongue,
Leave doggrel trot, to pace it in a song.
I saw sprightly France,
That nation so gay,
Where they sing and they dance
All their sorrows away.
For with fal, lal, la,
And ha! ha! ha!
They drive sorrow away.
The German so brave,
Not a smile must come near;
When they laugh they are grave;
'Tis thus with mynheer.
They fal, lal, la,
And ha! ha! ha!
Nicht laughter, mynheer.
The Italians so sly,
Have one simple plan,
On your purse they keep eye,
And their hand, if they can.
If you fal, lal, lal,
Then they fal, lal, lal,
So Signor, Signora, if they can.
But England's strange folk
Are my greatest delight;
They'll scold, and they'll joke,
Shake hands, and they'll fight.
One moment fal, lal, lal,
The next fal, lal, lal,
Curse, kiss you, and fight.
I will now leave my horse, and my chaise, for a time,
And will foot it for change in prose tagg'd with rhyme.
[Page 231]
Of England tell more, what their sport and their trade is.
And tell us, good Linco, some news of their ladies.
Their women are fair, but fantastical grown,
To Dame Nature owe much, would they let her alone.
They challenge the world for good hearts and sweet faces,
But use all their tongues as they do in all places.
For their sports, they have plays, where all ranks and degrees
Take places to sweat, to be squeez'd, and to squeeze.
'Tis strange, but 'tis true, what I saw with my eye,
They give money to laugh, and what's stranger—to cry.
They build 'em fine places to meet in, and talk;
To walk round and round, and then round and round walk.
When tir'd to drink tea, and to eat butter'd bread;
Then again round and round, and go home al­most dead.
Of all human things there, a traffic is made;
Religion, law, physick—nay, beauty's a trade.
[Page 232]
Yes beauty, I say—at midnight you'll meet
Kind damsels, who offer their charms in the street.
" Ah! so you! where go you? Sir, pray stay a while,"
Then so softly they talk, and so sweetly they smile,
That they tempt you to buy, by alluring ap­proaches;
Such females are hir'd, as they hire hackney coaches.
Fye for shame! for their kingdom they should not have me.
In that, my good dame, you and they will agree;
For ev'ry disorder, they'll publish a cure,
Whose virtue, much pussing and swearing insure:
Should he kill the poor patient, the doctor must gain,
And still have good trade—for the dead won't complain.
Tho' they talk of their rights, which they'll fight for, and die;
Yet to know what's their right, to the law they apply;
For two bits of gold a black gown reads your case,
Hums, and haws, and thus speaks with a wise pucker'd face:
[Page 233] That coat on your back you have bought, and may use it;
'Tis prov'd the next day 'tis not mine, and I lose it.
Among these green bags, if you are not alert,
With your coat, you may lose both your waistcoat and shirt.
And happy I am that I've brought home my skin.
To forsake all your friends was a shame and a sin.
Leave roving, and make your own country your wife.
From this moment I wed her, and take her for life:
Shall quit all the world, and think her the most comely,
For home is still home, tho' never so homely.
I'll never go abroad, again,
Nor ever will I roam;
For he has but a flimsy brain,
Who wanders far from home.
See nine in ten
Of Englishmen,
Who run the nations o'er;
Tho' pert and gay,
Yet, pray, are they
Much wiser than before?
See nine in ten, &c. &c.
Contented here, I'll pass my life,
For roving's but a curse;
I'll take my country for a wife,
For better and for worse:
See nine in ten
Of Englishmen,
Who run the nations o'er;
Tho' pert and gay,
Yet, pray, are they
Much wiser than before?
See nine in ten, &c. &c.
While I can see such sights as these,
And such a harvest bring;
And, while I can my betters please,
For ever will I sing—
That nine in ten
Of Englishmen,
Who chuse abroad to roam,
Among mankind
Will ever find
The worth they leave at home.
See nine in ten, &c. &c.

Spoken by Mr. FOOTE.

THIS night we add some heroes to our store,
Who never were, as heroes, seen before:
No blustering Romans, Trojans, Greeks, shall rage,
No knights, arm'd cap-apee, shall croud our stage;
Nor shall our Henrys, Edwards, take the field,
Opposing sword to sword, and shield to shield;
With different instruments our troop appears;
Needles to thimbles shall, and sheers to sheers;
With parchment gorgets, and in buckram arm'd,
Cold-blooded taylors are to heroes warm'd,
And, slip-shod, slide to war.—No lyon's glare,
No eye-balls darting fire, shall make you stare:
Each outside shall belye the stuff within;
A Roman spirit in a taylor's skin:
A taylor-legg'd Cassius, Pompey, shall you see,
And the ninth part of Brutus strut in me!
What tho' no swords we draw, no daggers shake,
Yet can our warriors a quiet us make
[Page 236] With a bare bodkin.—Now be dumb, ye railers,
And never but in honour call out taylors!
But are these heroes tragic? you will cry.
Oh, very tragic! and I'll tell you why.
Should female artists with the male combine,
And mantua-makers to the taylors join;
Should all, too proud to work, their trades give o'er,
Nor to be soften'd by the sixpence more,
What horrors would ensue! First you, ye beaux,
At once lose all existence with your cloaths!
Then you, ye fair, where would be your de­fence?
This is no golden age of innocence!
Should drunken bacchanals the Graces meet,
And no police to guard the naked street,
Beauty is weak, and passion bold and strong,
Oh then—but modesty restrains my tongue.
May this night's bard a skilful taylor be,
And like a well-made coat his tragedy!
Tho' close, yet easy, decent, but not dull,
Short, but not scanty, without buckram, FULL.

Spoken by Mr. KING.

BOLD is the man, and compos mentis scarce,
Who, in these nicer times, dares write a farce;
A vulgar, long-forgotten taste renew;
All now are comedies, five acts or two.
Authors have ever, in a certain strain,
Begg'd mercy for the bantling of their brain:
That you, kind nurse, would fondle't on your lap,
And rear it with applause, that best of pap.
Thus babes have in their cradle 'scap'd a blow,
Tho' lame and ricketty from top to toe.
Our bard, with prologue out-works, has not fenc'd him,
For all that I shall say will make against him.
Imprimis, this his piece—a farce we call it—
Ergo 'tis low, and ten to one you maul it!
Would you, because 'tis low, no quarter give?
Blackguards, as well as gentlemen, should live.
[Page 238] 'Tis downright English too—nothing from France;
Except some beasts, which treat you with a dance.
With a Burletta too we shall present you—
And, not Italian—that will discontent you—
Nay, what is worse—you'll see it, and must know it—
I, Thomas King, of King-street, am the poet!
The murder's out, the murderer detected,
And, in one night, be try'd, condemn'd, dis­sected.
'Tis said, for Scandal's tongue will never cease,
That mischief's meant against our little piece:
Let me look round, I'll tell you how the case is:
There's not one frown a single brow disgraces:
I never saw a sweeter set of faces!
Suppose Old Nick, before you righteous folk,
Produce a farce, brimful of mirth and joke;
Tho' he, at other times, would fire your blood,
You'd clap his piece, and swear 'twas dev'lish good!
Malice prepense!—'tis false—it cannot be—
Light is my heart, from apprehensions free,
If you would save Old Nick, you'll never damn poor me.

LX. ADDRESS to the TOWN, by way of EPI­LOGUE to A PEEP behind the CURTAIN.
Spoken by Mr. KING.

ALL fable is figure—I your bard will maintain it,
And lest you don't know it, 'tis fit I explain it:
The lyre of our Orpheus, means your approba­tion;
Which frees the poor poet from care and vexa­tion:
Should want make his mistress too keen to dis­pute,
Your smiles fill his pockets—and madam is mute.
Should his wife, that's himself, for they two are but one;
Be in hell, that's in debt, and the money all gone;
Your favour brings comfort; at once cures the evil;
For 'scaping bum-bailiffs, is 'scaping the devil.
Nay, Cerberus critics their fury will drop:
For such barking monsters, your smiles are a sop.
[Page 240] But now to explain what you most will require,
That cows, sheep, and calves, should dance after the lyre.
Without your kind favour, how scanty each meal!
But with it comes dancing, beef, mutton, and veal.
For sing it, or say it, this truth we all see,
Your applause will be ever the true Beaume de Vie.

Spoken by Mr. KING.

I'M vex'd, quite vex'd, and you'll be vex'd—that's worse;
To deal with stubborn scribblers! there's the curse!
Write moral plays—the blockhead!—why, good people,
You'll soon expect this house to wear a steeple!
For our fine piece, to let you into facts,
Is quite a Sermon—only preach'd in Acts.
You'll scarce believe me 'till the proof appears,
But even I, Tom Fool, must shed some tears.
[Page 241] Do, ladies, look upon me—nay, no simp'ring—
Think you this face was ever made for whim­p'ring?
Can I a cambrick handkerchief display,
Thump my unfeeling breast, and roar away?
Why this is comical, perhaps you'll say.
Resolving this strange, aukward bard to pump,
I ask'd him what he meant? He, somewhat plump,
New purs'd his belly, and his lips thus biting,
I must keep up the dignity of writing!
You may, but if you do, sir, I must tell ye,
You'll not keep up that dignity of belly;
Still he preach'd on—"Bards of a former age
" Held up abandon'd pictures on the stage,
" Spread out their wit, with fascinating art,
" And catch'd the fancy, to corrupt the heart;
" But, happy change!—in these more moral days,
" You cannot sport with virtue, even in plays:
" On Virtue's side his pen the poet draws,
" And boldly asks a hearing for his cause."
Thus did he prance and swell. The man may prate,
And feed these whimsies in his addle pate,
That you'll protect his muse, because she's good,
A virgin and so chaste!—O lud! O lud!
No muse the critic beadle's lash escapes,
Tho' virtuous, if a Dowdy and a Trapes;
[Page 242] If his come forth a decent, likely lass,
You'll speak her fair, and grant the proper pass;
Or should his brain be turn'd with wild pre­tences,
In three hours time you'll bring him to his senses;
And well you may, when in your power you get him,
In that short space, you blister, bleed, and sweat him.
Among the Turks, indeed, he'd run no danger,
They sacred hold a madman, and a stranger.

Spoken by Mrs. DANCER.

WHEN with the Comic Muse a bard hath deal­ing,
The traffic thrives, when there's a mutual feeling;
Our Author boasts that well he chose his plan,
False modesty!—Himself, an Irishman:
As I'm a woman, somewhat prone to satire,
I'll prove it all a bull, what he calls nature;
And you, I'm sure, will join before you go,
To maul False Modesty—from Dublin ho!
[Page 243] Where are these Lady Lambtons to be found?
Not in these riper times on English ground.
Among the various flowers, which sweetly blow,
To charm the eyes, at Almac's and Soho,
Pray does that weed False Delicacy grow? Oh no—
Among the fair of fashion, common breeding,
Is there one bosom where love lies a bleeding?
In olden times, your grannams unrefin'd,
Ty'd up the tongue, put padlocks on the mind;—
O, ladies, thank your stars, there's nothing now confin'd!
In love you English men—there's no concealing,
Are most, like Winworth, simple in your deal­ing:—
But Britons, in their natures, as their names,
Are diff'rent, as the Shannon, Tweed, and Thames.
As the Tweed flows, the bonny Scot proceeds,
Wunds slaw, and sure, and nae obstruction heeds;
Tho' oft' repuls'd, his purpose still hauds fast,
Stecks like a burr, and wuns the lass at last.
The Shannon, rough and vig'rous, pours along,
Like the bold accents of brave Paddy's tongue;
Arrah, dear crature—can you scorn me so?
Cast your sweet eyes upon me, top and toe!
[Page 244] Not fancy me?—pooh!—that's all game and laughter,
First marry me, my jewel—ho!—you'll love me after.
Like his own Thames, honest John Trott, their brother,
More quick than one, and much less bold than t'other,
Gentle, not dull, his loving arms will spread,
But stopt—in willows hides his bashful head;
John leaves his home, resolv'd to tell his pain;
Hesitates—I—love—fye, sir, 'tis in vain;
John blushes, turns him round, and whistles home again.
Well, is my painting like? or do you doubt it?
What say you to a tryal?—let's about it;
Let Cupid lead three Britons to the field,
And try which first can make a damsel yield;
What say you to a widow?—smile consent,
And she'll be ready for experiment.

Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

(She peeps through the Curtain.)
HOW do you all, good folks?—in tears for cer­tain;
I'll only take a peep behind the curtain;
You're all so full of tragedy, and sadness!
For me to come among ye, would be madness:
This is no time for giggling—when you've lei­sure,
Call out for me, and I'll attend your pleasure:
As soldiers hurry at the beat of drum,
Beat but your hands, that instant I will come.
(She enters upon their clapping.)
This is so good, to call me out so soon!
The Comic Muse by me intreats a boon;
She call'd for Pritchard, her first maid of honour,
And begg'd of her to take the task upon her;
But she (I'm sure you'll all be sorry for't)
Resigns her place, and soon retires from court:
[Page 246] To bear this loss, we courtiers make a shift,
When good folks leave us, worse may have a lift.
The Comic Muse, whose ev'ry smile is grace,
And her stage sister, with her tragic face,
Have had a quarrel—each has writ a case.
And on their friends assembled now I wait,
To give you of their difference a true state *.
Melpomene complains when she appears,—
For five good Acts, in all her pomp of tears,—
To raise your souls, and with her raptures wing 'em;
Nay wet your handkerchiefs that you may wring 'em.
Some flippant hussey like myself comes in;
Crack goes her fan, and with a giggling grin,
Hey! Presto! pass!—all topsy-turvy see;
For ho, ho, ho! is chang'd to he, he, he!
We own the fault, but 'tis a fault in vogue,
'Tis theirs, who call and bawl for—Epilogue!
O shame upon you—for the time to come,
Know better, and go miserable home.
What says our Comic Goddess?—with re­proaches,
She vows her sister Tragedy encroaches!
And, spite of all her virtue and ambition,
Is known to have an am'rous disposition:
[Page 247] For in False Delicacy—wond'rous sly,
Join'd with a certain Irishman—O fye!
She made you, when you ought to laugh, to cry.
Her sister's smiles with tears she try'd to smo­ther,
Rais'd such a tragi-comic kind of pother,
You laugh'd with one eye, while you cry'd with t'other.
What can be done?—sad work behind the scenes;
There Comic females scold with Tragic Queens.
Each party different ways the foe assails,
These shake their daggers, those prepare their nails.
'Tis you alone must calm those dire mishaps,
Or we shall still continue pulling caps.
What is your will?—I read it in your faces;
That all hereafter take their proper places,
Shake hands, and kiss, and friends, and—burn their cases.

* Mrs. PRITCHARD's Farewell EPILOGUE, spoken on Monday the 25th April, 1768, at Drury-lane Theatre.

THE curtain dropt—my mimic life is past,
That scene of sleep and terror was my last.
Could I in such a scene my exit make,
When ev'ry real feeling is awake?
Which beating here, superior to all art,
Bursts in full tides from a most grateful heart.
I now appear myself, distress'd, dismay'd,
More than in all the characters I've play'd;
In acted passion, tears must SEEM to flow,
" But I have that within that passeth shew."
Before I go, and this lov'd spot forsake,
What gratitude can give, my wishes, take:
Upon your hearts may no affliction prey,
Which cannot by the stage be chas'd away;
And may the stage, to please each virtuous mind,
Grow ev'ry day more moral, more refin'd.
Refin'd from grossness, not by foreign skill:
Weed out the poison, but be English still.
To all my brethren whom I leave behind,
Still may your bounty, as to me, be kind;
To me for many years your favours flow'd,
Humbly receiv'd—on small desert bestow'd;
For which I feel—what cannot be express'd—
Words are too weak—my tears must speak the rest.

Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

I'M sent good folks, to speak the Epilogue,
But 'tis so dull—I'll cheat the scribbling rogue;
Among ourselves, your loss will be but small,—
(To the Boxes.
too polite for Epilogue to call;
[Page 250] But as for you
(To the Gallery.
, it is your joy and pride,
Ever to call, but never satisfied.
Will you, ye criticks, give up Rome and Greece?
And turn Mahometans, and save this piece?
What, shall our stage receive this Tartar race,
Each whisker'd hero with a copper face?
I hate the Tartars, hate their vile reli ion—
We have no souls forsooth—that's their decision!
These brutes, some horrid prejudice controuls;
Speak, English husbands, have your wives no souls?
Then for our persons—still more shameful work,
A hundred women wed a single Turk!
Again, ye English husbands, what say you?
A hundred wives! you would not wish for two.
Romans and Greeks for me!—O that dear Sparta!
Their women had a noble Magna Charta!
There a young hero, had he won fair fame,
Might from her husband ask a lovely dame;
The happy husband, of the honour vain,
Gave her with joy, took her with joy again;
The chosen dame no struggles had within,
For to refuse had been a public sin.
And to their honour, all historians say,
No Spartan lady ever sinn'd that way.
Ye fair, who have not yet thrown out your bait,
To tangle captives in the marriage state;
[Page 251] Take heed, I warn you, where your snares you set,
O let not Infidels come near your net.
Let hand in hand with prudence go your wishes,
Men are in general the strangest fishes!
Do not for misery your beauty barter,
And, O take heed—you do not catch a Tartar:

Spoken by Mr. KING.

THE scribbling gentry, ever frank and free,
To sweep the stage with Prologues, fix on me.
A female representative I come,
And with a Prologue, which I call a broom,
To sweep the critic cobwebs from the room.
Criticks, like spiders, into corners creep,
And at new plays their bloody revels keep;
With some small venom, close in ambush lie,
Ready to seize the poor dramatick fly:
The weak and heedless soon become their prey,
But the strong blue bottle will force its way,
Clean well its wings, and hum another day!
[Page 252] Unknown to Nature's laws, we've here one evil,
For flies, turn'd spiders, play the very devil!
' Fearing some danger, I will lay before ye
'A short, true, recent, tragi-comic story.
' As late I saunter'd in the Park for air,
' As free from thought as any coxcomb there;
' Two sparks came up, one whisper'd in my ear,
' He was a Critic, then ask'd me with a sneer—
' Thus stradling, staring, with a swaggering swing,
' You've writ a Farce?—Yes, sir—a foolish thing.
' Damn'd foolish—better mind your acting, King.
' 'Tis ten to one—I speak it for your sake,
' That this same Farce will prove YOUR WIT'S LAST STAKE*.
' I scribble for amusement; boast no pow'rs;
' Right, for your own amusement—not for ours.
' Thus he went on, and with his pleasant talking,
' I lost the appetite I got with walking;
' He laugh'd—I bow'd—but ere I could retreat,
' His lisping friend did thus the dose repeat:
' Pray, sir—this School for Rakes—the woman's play—
' When do you give it us?—next Saturday.
' I hope you'll both be kind to her at least;
' A scribbling woman is a dreadful beast!
[Page 253] ' Then they're so ugly, all these Female Wits;—
' I'll damn her Play—to throw her into fits:—
' Had I my Will—these slattern, sluttish Dames,
' They all should see the bottom of the Thames.
' If you are here, * good Sirs, to breed a riot,
' Don't shew your spite—for if you are not quiet,
' 'Tis ten to one—I speak it for your sake,
' This School for Rakes—we'll prove your Wits last Stake.
' As you sav'd me from their tyrannic will,
' You will not let them use a Woman ill!
' Protect her, and her Brat—The truly Brave,
' Women and Children, will for ever save!

Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

[Enters in a Hurry.]
FORGIVE my coming thus, our griefs to utter—
I'm such a figure!—and in such a flutter—
So circumstanc'd, in such an aukward way,
I know not what to do, or what to say.
Our bard, a strange, unfashionable creature,
As obstinate, as savage in his nature,
Will have no Epilogue!—I told the brute—
If, Sir these trifles don't your genius suit;
We have a working Prologue-smith within,
Will strike one off, as if it were a pin.
Nay, Epilogues are pins,—whose points, well­plac'd,
Will trick your Muse out, in the tip-too taste!
" Pins, madam! (frown'd the bard) the Greeks us'd none,
" (Then mutt'ring Greek—something like this went on)
" Pinnos, painton, patcheros, non Graeco Modon."
I coax'd, he swore—"That tie him to a stake,
" He'd suffer all for Decency's fair sake;
" No Bribery should make him change his plan."
There's an odd mortal. Match him if you can.
Hah, sir! (said I)—your reasoning is not deep,
For when at Tragedies spectators weep,
* They oft, like children, cry themselves asleep.
And if no jogging Epilogue you write,
Pit, Box, and Gallery, may sleep all night:
" Better (he swore)—a nap should overtake ye,
" Than Folly should to Folly's pranks awake ye;
" Rakes are more harmless nodding upon benches,
" Than ogling to ensnare poor, simple wenches;
[Page 255] " And simple girls had better close their eyes,
" Than send them gadding after butterflies.
" Nay, should a statesman make a box his nest;
" Who, that his country loves, would break his rest?
" Let come what may, I will not make 'em laugh,
" Take for an Epilogue—This Epitaph.
'Tis thus these pedant Greek-read poets vapour
Is it your pleasure I should read the paper?
Here, in the arms of death, a matchless pair,
A young lov'd hero, and beloved fair,
Now find repose.—Their Virtues tempest-tost,
Sea-sick, and weary, reach the wish'd-for coast.
Whatever mortal to this spot is brought,
O may the living, by the dead be taught!
May here Ambition learn to clip her wing,
And Jealousy to blunt her deadly sting;
Then shall the Poet every wish obtain,
Nor Ronan nor Rivine die in vain.

Spoken by Mr. FOOTE.

YOUR servants, kind masters, from bottom to top;
Be assur'd, while I breathe, or can stand—I mean hop;
Be you pleased to smile, or be pleased to grumble;
Be whatever you please, I am still your most humble.
As to laugh is a right only given to man,
To keep up that right is my pride and my plan.
Fair ladies don't frown, I meant woman too—
What's common to man, must be common to you.—
You all have a right your sweet muscles to curl,
From the old smirking prude, to the titt'ring young girl;
And ever with pleasure my brains I could spin,
To make you all giggle, and you, ye gods, grin.
In this present summer, as well as the past,
To your favour again we present Dr. Last,
Who, by wonderful feats, in the papers recounted,
From trudging on foot, to his chariot is mounted.
[Page 257] Amongst the old Britons when war was begun,
Charioteers would slay ten, while the foot could slay one:
So, when doctors on wheels with dispatches are sent,
Mortality bills rise a thousand per cent.
But think not to physic that quack'ry's confin'd,
All the world is a stage, and the quacks are man­kind—
There's trade, law, and state-quacks; nay, would we but search,
We should find,—heaven bless us!—some quacks in the church!
The stiff band, and stiff bob of the methodist race,
Give the balsam of life, and the tincture of grace,
And their poor wretched patients think much good is done 'em,
Tho' blisters and caustics are ever upon them.
As for law and the state, if quack'ry's a curse,
Which will make the good bad, and the bad will make worse,
We should point out the quack from the regular brother,
They are wiser than I who can tell one from t'other!
Can the stage with its bills, puffs, and patients stand trial?
Shall we find out no quacks in the Theatre-Royal?
[Page 258] Some dramatical drugs that are puff'd on the town,
Cause many wry faces, and scarce will go down.
Nay, an audience sometimes will in quack'ry delight,
And sweat down an Author, sometimes in one night.
To return to our quack—should he, help'd by the weather,
Raise laughter, and kind perspiration together,
Should his nostrums of hips and of vapours but cure ye,
His chariot he well will deserve, I assure ye;
'Tis easy to set up a chariot in town,
And easier still is that chariot laid down.
He petitions by me, both as doctor and lover,
That you'll not stop his wheels, or his chariot tip over:
Fix him well, I beseech you; the worst on't would be,
Should you overturn him, you may overset me.

Spoken before the Earl of CHESTERFIELD and a private Party, at Dr. Dodd's, after the Per­formance, by two young Gentlemen, of some Scenes from Shakespeare, Moliere, Zenobia, and the Mayor of Garratt.

WHATE'ER you think, good sirs, in this agree,
That we at least have giv'n—variety!
That we have posted on, in prose and verse,
Thro' Tragedy,—and Comedy,—and Farce.
Have you not had in me a strange farrago,
Of Rhadamistus, Stargeon, and Iago?
Nay, we have run from English to the French,
And the great boy became a simple wench!
Nature, a simple wench, much better teaches
To act our characters, and wear the breeches.
But why this motley mixture? 'Tis the fa­shion;
The times are medley—medley all the nation.
One day reigns Tragedy, all gloom and sorrow;
Then shift the scenes, and enter Farce to-morrow.
Now rise six thousand discontented sailors!
Then comes the Farce,—get up as many taylors!
[Page 260] These kings of shreds and patches touch'd in brain,
Strut for a day, and then—cross-legg'd again.
Our goddess, Liberty, from whom we own
Each blessing springs—for GEORGE is on the throne,
Now, Magna Charta and a William gives,
Then scours the streets, and with the rabble lives;
Will drink, huzza, and rouze you from your beds,
Break all your windows, and perhaps your heads.
Here taste, opinions, passions never fix,
But rise and fall like stocks—and politicks.
That we should ask you to our medley treat,
And get you too—was, faith! no boyish feat.
Are we not hopeful youths? Deal fair, and tell us,
And likely to turn out good sprightly fellows?
I mean to have that kind of useful spirit,
Which modestly assures us we have merit.
We little folks, like great ones, are but show,
Bold face oft hides what the faint heart doth know.
Think ye, we were not in a grievous fright,
To have our noble Patron in our sight,
Who knows—is known so well to speak and write!
We pray'd, before our awful judge appearing,
That our weak pipes were not within his hearing;
One sense of his*, less keen than all the rest,
Somewhat becalm'd the flutter of my breast;
[Page 261] It gave some courage to our troubled thoughts,
That seeing only mark'd but half our faults.
" 'Tis an ill wind, they say, that blows no good,"
And well the proverb now is understood;
For what has long been mourn'd by all the nation,
Is at this time our only consolation.

Spoken by Mr. KING.

FROM London, your honours, to Stratford I'm come;
I'm a waiter, your honours—you know bust­ling Tom?
Who proud of your orders, and bowing before ye,
'Till supper is ready, will tell you a story.
'Twixt Hounslow and Colnbrooke—two houses of fame,
Well known on that road—the two Magpies by name;
The one of long standing, the other a new one,
That boasts he's the old one, and this he's the true one.
[Page 262] Tho' we, the Old Magpye, as well as the Younger,
May puff that our liquors are dearer and stronger,
Of puffing and bragging you make but a jest,
You taste of us both, and will stick to the best:
A race we have had, for your pastime and laugh­ter*,—
Young Mag started first, with Old Mag hopping after:
'Tis said the old House hath possess'd a receipt
To make a choice mixture of sour, strong, and sweet;
A Jubilee punch—which, right skilfully made,
Insur'd the Old Magpye a good running trade;
But think you we mean to monopolize?—no, no:—
We're like Brother Ashley, pro publico bono!
Each Magpye, your honours, will peck at his bro­ther,
And their natures were always to crib from each other;
Young landlords, and old ones, are taught by their calling,
To laugh at engrossing, but practise forestalling:
Our landlords are game-cocks—and fair play but grant 'em,
I'll warrant you pastime for each little bantum.
To return to the punch: I hope from my soul,
That now the old Magpye may sell you a bowl.
[Page 263] We've all sorts and sizes, a quick trade to drive;
We've one shilling, two shillings, three shillings,—five.
From this town of Stratford you'll have each in­gredient,
Besides a kind welcome—from me, your obedient.
I'll now squeeze my fruit, put the sugar and rum in,
And be back in a moment—
I'm com­ing, sir, coming!
[Exit running.

Spoken by Mr. MOODY.

O HO! there ye are!—before one word I utter,
I must tell you, my dears—that I, Captain O'Cutter,
With silent respect, will a thing or two say
About my relation, who wrote this new play:
[Page 264] My cousin, poor soul, 's in a damnable fright,
Becase why?—to amuse ye he takes grate delight.
I said, fye for shame!—what, a man, and be frightful?
A pale bashful Irishman's never delightful;
No conquests are gain'd with such dread looks as those;
I told him, a man should not shrink at his foes;
That you were his friends, and would taste what he writ,
If he would not o'erload you with humour and wit;
He swore he would not be so wake and absurd,
And if I know my cousin, he'll not brake his word.
My cousin's no fool at your reading and writing,
Tho' now for his play he's as pale as a whiting.
I answer'd for you, which his heart has much eas'd,
That tho' you don't like it, I'm sure you'll be pleas'd;
For they say that Old Nick, if he's pleas'd, will be civil,
You'll like it, if not pleas'd, to be unlike the Devil.
In short, my dear cousin has taken a prize*,
I'm sure you'll applaud him, 'tis Spanish, my boys!
[Page 265] An old crazy vessel, ill built, rigg'd, and plan'd,
But now is ra-built, new rigg'd, and new man'd.
And just ready to lance—if, when it appears,
From this noble vessel, you'll give it three cheers,
'Twill lighten his heart, tho' it loads not his purse,
And the rogue will cry out—'Tis well it's no worse.
From the head to the starn, thus let me address you,
To lend us your hands, for faith I'll not press you.
First * you in the top there, with bawling don't stun him,
If you're stout, pray be merciful; don't fire upon him.
If you on the quarter-deck will not befriend him,
Your swivels, and small arms, fait, quickly will end him.
And if you between decks my cousin don't favour,
But give him your broadsides, you sink him for ever.
And O ye § sweet craters, who sit in the cabin,
Whose privateer eyes are our hearts ever nabbing,
Do but awe with your cannon this ** critical crew,
You'll charm Irish hearts, to your sex ever true,
That a son of St. Patrick's protected by you.

Spoken by Mr. KING.

INSTEAD of an Epilogue, round, smart, and terse,
Let poor simple me, and in more simple verse,
Just handle the text—It is well it's no worse.
The brat of this night should you cherish, and nurse,
And hush it, and rock it, tho' you fill not its purse,
The Daddy will say, that—'Tis well it's no worse.
Or should his strange fortune turn out the reverse,
That his pockets you fill, tho' his Play you should curse,
Still our author will say, It is well it's no worse.
Should you put the poor bard and his brat in one herse,
Yet to give to the Actors some praise not averse,
We comfort ourselves, It is well it's no worse.
The town with each poet will push carte and tierce;
If the bard can so guard, that his buff you don't pierce,
Tho' you pink him a little, 'Tis well it's no worse.
Should the play-house be full, tho' the critics so fierce,
The Managers, Actors, and Author asperse,
We shrug up our shoulders, 'Tis well it's no worse.
But should you to damn be resolv'd, and perverse,
If quietly after, from hence you disperse,
We wish you good night—and 'Tis well it's no worse.

Spoken by Mrs. BARRY.

A FEMALE Bard, far from her native land,
A female should protect—lo! here I stand,
To claim of chivalry the ancient rites,
And throw my gauntlet, at all critick Knights!
Nor only for our Auth'ress am I come;
I rise a champion for the sex at home!
Will shield you ladies from the sland'ring crew,
And prove Greeks, Romans, all, must yield to you:
I've read how women many of condition,
Did, ere some conqu'ror storm'd a town, peti­tion,
That each might take a load upon her back—
Out march'd the dames, but carry'd no stuft sack,
They bore their loving husbands pick-a-pack!
[Page 268] The same domestic zeal has each fair she,
In full perfection at the Coterie;
For don't they bargain when they quit their houses,
At pleasure's call, to carry too their Spouses?
Whereas with you, ye fair ones, shall we see
That Roman virtue—hospitality!
The foreign Artists can your smiles secure,
If he be singer, fidler, or friseur:
From our dull yawning scenes fatigu'd you go,
And croud to Fantocini's puppet show.
Each on the foreign things with rapture stares!
" Sweet dears!—they're more like flesh and blood than Play'rs!
As what we do, you modishly condemn,
So now, turn'd wood and wire, we'll act like them:
Move hands and feet, nay, e'en our tongues a-new,
Eh bien Monsieur! comment vous porte vouz?
Once more I challenge all the Critic Knights,
From City Jokers, to the Wits at White's,
From daily Scribblers, Volunteers, or Hacks;
Up to those more than mortals at Almack's!
Should any Fribble Critics dare to dem,
Gad's cuss—I'll throw a chicken glove at them:
And if to shew their teeth, they still will grin—
Let 'em come on—I draw my corking pin!*
[Page 269] But should our Soldiers, Sailors, raise our fears,
They only can be conquer'd by * your tears.
Your smiles may soften, but your tears can melt 'em;
The bravest, boldest, mightiest men have felt 'em.
Ay, you may sneer, ye wits, your hearts are steel,
I speak of mortals, who can fight, and feel!
In peace or war, ye Fair, trust only those,
Who love the sex, and always beat their foes:
Will none accept my challenge?—What dis­grace,
To all the nibling, scribbling, sland'ring race,
Who dare not meet a woman face to face!
The Auth'ress and our sex have gain'd their cause!
Complete their triumph, give 'em your applause.

Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

N.B. The Lines in Italics are to be spoken in a catechise tone.
CONFESS, good folks, has not Miss Rusport shewn
What, pawn her jewels!—there's a precious plan!
To extricate from want a brave old man;
And fall in love with poverty and honour;
A girl of fortune, fashion!—Fie upon her!
But do not think we females of the stage,
So dead to the refinements of the age,
That we agree with our old fashion'd poet:
I am point blank against him, and I'll shew it:
And that my tongue may more politely run,
Make me a lady—Lady Blabington.
Now, with a rank and title to be free,
I'll make a catechism—and you shall see,
What is the veritable Beaume de Vie:
As I change place, I stand for that, or this,
My Lady questions first—then answers Miss.
[Page 271] (She speaks as my Lady.)
" Come, tell me, child, what were our modes and dress,
" In those strange times of that old fright Queen Bess?"—
And now for Miss—
(She changes place, and speaks for Miss.)
When Bess was England's queen,
Ladies were dismal beings, seldom seen;
They rose betimes, and breakfasted as soon
On beef and beer, then studied Greek till noon;
Unpainted cheeks with blush of health did glow,
Beruff'd and fardingal'd from top to toe,
Nor necks, nor ancles would they ever shew.
Learnt Greek!—
—Our outside head takes half a day;
Have we much time to dress the inside, pray?
No heads dress'd à la Greque; the ancients quote,
There may be learning in a papillote:
Cards are our classicks; and I, Lady B,
In learning will not yield to any she,
Of the late founded female university*.
But now for Lady Blab—
(Speaks as my Lady,)
" Tell me, Miss Nancy,
" What sports and what employments did they fancy?"
(Speaks as Miss.)
The vulgar creatures seldom left their houses,
But taught their children, work'd, and lov'd their spouses.
[Page 272] The use of cards at Christmas only knew,
They play'd for little, and their games were few,
One-and thirty, Put, All fours, and Lantera Loo;
They bore a race of mortals stout and boney,
And never heard the name of Macaroni.—
(Speaks as my Lady.)
" Oh brava, brava! that's my pretty dear—
" Now let a modern, modish fair appear;
" No more of these old dowdy maids and wives,
" Tell how superior beings pass their lives."—
(Speaks as Miss.)
Till noon they sleep, from noon till night they dress,
From night till morn they game it more or less;
Next night the same sweet course of joy run o'er,
Then the night after as the night before,
And the night after that, encore, encore!—
(She comes forward.)
Thus with our cards we shuffle off all sorrow,
" To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow!"
We deal apace, from youth unto our prime,
To the last moment of our tabby-time;
And all our yesterdays, from rout and drum,
Have lighted fools with empty pockets home.
Thus do our lives with rapture roll away,
Not with the nonsense of our author's play;
This is true life—true spirit—give it praise;
Don't snarl and sigh for good Queen Bess's days:
For all you look so sour, and bend the brow,
You all rejoice with me, you're living now.

Spoken by Mr. FOOTE.

WHO but has read, if you have read at all,
Of one, they Jack the Giant-killer call?
He was a bold, stout, able-bodied man,
To clear the world of fee, faw, fum, his plan.
Whene'er the monster had within his power
A young and tender virgin to devour,
To cool his blood, Jack, like a skilful surgeon,
Bled well the monster, and releas'd the virgin;
Like the best doctors, did a method learn
Of curing fevers, never to return.
Mayn't I this Giant-killing trade renew?
I have my virgin, and my monster too.
Tho' I can't boast, like Jack, a list of slain,
I wield a lancet, and can breathe a vein:
To his Herculean arm my nerves are weak,
He cleft his foes, I only make mine squeak:
As Indians wound their slaves to please the court,
I'll tickle mine, great sirs, to make you sport.
To prove myself an humble imitator,
Giants are vices, and Jack stands for satire:
[Page 274] By tropes and figures, as it fancy suits,
Passions rise monsters, men sink down to brutes:
All talk and write in allegoric diction,
Court, city, town and country run to fiction!
Each daily paper, allegory teaches—
Placemen are locusts, and contractors, leeches;
Nay, e'en Change-alley, where no bard repairs,
Deals much in fiction to pass off their wares;
From whence the roaring there?—From bulls and bears!
The gaming fools are doves, the knaves are rooks;
Change-alley bankrupts waddle out lame ducks!
But, ladies, blame not you your gaming spouses,
For you, as well as they, have pigeon-houses.
To change the figure—formerly I've been
To straggling follies only whipper-in;
By royal bounty rais'd, I mount the back
Of my own hunter, and I keep the pack:
Tallyo! a rank old fox we now pursue,
So strong the scent, you'll run him full in view:
If we can't kill such brutes in human shape,
Let's fright 'em, that your chickens may escape;
Rouse 'em, when o'er their tender prey they're grumbling,
And rub their gums at least, to mar their mum­bling.

Sung by Mrs. BARRY.

A WIDOW bewitch'd with her passion,
Tho' Irish, is now quite asham'd,
To think that she's so out of fashion,
To marry and then to be tam'd:
'Tis Love, the dear joy,
That old-fashion'd boy,
Has got in my breast with his quiver;
The blind urchin he,
Struck the cush la maw cree,
And a husband secures me for ever!
Ye fair ones I hope will excuse me,
Tho' vulgar, pray do not abuse me;
I cannot become a fine lady,
O love has bewitch'd Widow Brady!
Ye criticks, to murder so willing,
Pray see all our errors with blindness;
For once change your method of killing,
And kill a fond widow with kindness:
[Page 276] If you look so severe,
In a fit of despair,
Again I will draw forth my steel, sirs;
You know I've the art
To be twice through your heart,
Before I can make you to feel, sirs:
Brother soldiers, I hope you'll protect me,
Nor let cruel criticks dissect me;
To favour my cause be but ready,
And grateful you'll find Widow Brady.
Ye leaders of dress and the fashions,
Who gallop post-haste to your ruin,
Whose taste has destroy'd all your passions,
Pray what do you think of my wooing?
You call it damn'd low,
Your heads and arms so,
(mimicks them.
So listless, so loose, and so lazy:
But pray what can you,
That I cannot do?
O fye, my dear craters, be azy.
Ye Patriots and Courtiers, so hearty,
To speech it and vote for your party,
For once be both constant and steady,
And vote to support Widow Brady.
To all that I see here before me,
The bottom, the top, and the middle,
For musick we now must implore you,
No wedding without pipe and fiddle:
[Page 277] If all are in tune,
Pray let it be soon,
My heart in my bosom is prancing!
If your hands should unite
To give us delight,
O that's the best piping and dancing!
Your plaudits to me are a treasure,
Your smiles are a dow'r for a lady;
O joy to you all in full measure,
So wishes, and prays Widow Brady.

LXXVII. EPILOGUE To the revived Comedy of the GAMESTERS*.
Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

CRITICKS, before you rise, one word, I pray;
You cannot to a female, sure, say nay!
I'll make a short excuse for what I've done,
And then to church with Master Hazard run:
Yes, run, I say, nay fly, my zeal to prove,
Fly to the Indies—with the man I love!
Love, a choice plant, once native of this soil,
Grew, spread, and blossom'd, without care or toil;
[Page 278] 'Twas thro' the land in such perfection kept,
That ivy-like around the heart it crept;
Each honest, feeling bosom, nurs'd the flow'r,
So sweet, it often prov'd the happiest dow'r;
'Till folks of taste, their genius to display,
Brought in exotics; while to sad decay
Poor Love is fall'n, cast like a weed away!
I will revive the plant in spite of fashions;
The heart is dead without that best of passions:
Ay, but says Surly, (there I see him sit,
Glancing a frown upon me from the pit)
I am for loving Miss as well as you;
But not a dice-box—that will never do!
Who draw [...] for husbands there, with open eyes,
Puts in a lottery without one prize!
Sir, by your leave, your praise I wish to merit,
For stepping forth with more than female spirit!
Am I not brave, amid the tempest's roar,
To plunge, and bring a drowning man to shore?
But should the monster so ungrateful prove,
When I have sav'd, and warm'd him with my love,
To let his former sins his heart entice,
And leave my rattling for the rattling dice!
I'll strike a bargain, and I say done first;
As soon as e'er my wretched spouse is hears'd;
For if he wear his worthless life away,
Watching all night, and fretting all the day;
E'en let him go; his loss your gain secures,
The Widow and ten thousand shall be your's!
Our youths are so fin'd down with fashions new,
I'd rather choose a surly man like you.

Spoken by Mrs. BARRY.

THOUGH lately dead, a princess, and of Spain,
I am no ghost, but flesh and blood again!
No time to change this dress; it is expedient
I pass for British, and your most obedient.
How happy, ladies, for us all—That we
Born in this isle, by Magna Charta free,
Are not, like Spanish wives, kept under lock and key?
The Spaniard now is not like him of yore,
Who, in his whisker'd face, his titles bore!
Nor joy, nor vengeance made him smile or grin,
Fi [...]'d were his features, tho' the devil within!
He when once jealous, to wash out the stain,
S [...]lk'd home, stabb'd madam, and stalk'd out again.
Thanks to the times, this dagger-drawing pas­sion,
Thro' polish'd Europe is quite out of fashion.
Signor th' Italian, quick of sight and hearing,
Once ever list'ning, and for ever leering,
To Cara Sposa now politely kind:
He, best of husbands, is both deaf and blind.
[Page 280] Mynheer the Dutchman, with his sober pace,
Whene'er he finds his rib has wanted grace,
He feels no branches sprouting from his brain,
But calculation makes of loss and gain;
And when to part with her, occasion's ripe,
Mynheer turns out mine frow, and smokes his pipe.
When a brisk Frenchman's wife is giv'n to pran­cing,
It never spoils his singing or his dancing:
Madame, you false—de tout mon coeur—Adieu;
Begar you cocu me, I cocu you.—
He tojours gai dispels each jealous vapour,
Takes snuff, sings Vive l'amour and cuts a caper.
As for John Bull—not he in upper life,
But the plain Englishman who loves his wife;
When honest John, I say, has got his doubts,
He sullen grows, scratches his head and pouts.
What is the matter with you Love? cries she;
Are you not well my dearest? Humph! cries he:
You're such a brute! But, Mr. Bull, I've done,
And if I am a brute—who made me one?
You know my tenderness—my heart's too full,
And so's my head—I thank you, Mrs. Bull.
O, you base man! Zounds! madam, theres no bearing;
She falls a weeping, and he falls a swearing:
[Page 281] With tears and oaths the storm domestic ends,
The thunder dies away, the rain descends;
She sobs, he melts, and then they kiss and friends.
Whatever ease these modern modes may bring
A little jealousy is no bad thing:
To me who speak from nature unrefin'd,
Jealousy is the bellows of the mind.
Touch it but gently, and it warms desire;
If handled roughly you are all on fire!
If it stands still affection must expire!
This truth no true philosopher can doubt,
Whate'er you do—let not the flame go out.

Spoken by Mr. WOODWARD.

EXCUSE me, Sirs, I pray—I can't yet speak—
I'm crying now—and have been all the week!
'Tis not alone this mourning suit, good masters,
I've that within—for which there are no plaisters.
[Page 282] Pray wou'd you know the reason why I'm cry­ing—
The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying!
And if she goes, my tears will never stop;
For as a play'r, I can't squeeze out one drop:
I am undone, that's all—shall lose my bread—
I'd rather, but that's nothing—lose my head.
When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier,
Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here.
To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed,
Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed!
Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents,
We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments!
Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up
We now and then take down a hearty cup.
What shall we do?—If Comedy forsake us,
They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us!
But why can't I be moral? Let me try—
My heart thus presing—fix'd my face and eye—
With a sententious look, that nothing means,
(Faces are barbers blocks—in moral scenes)
Thus I begin—"All is not gold that glitters,
" Pleasure seems sweet, but proves a glass of bitters.
" When ign'rance enters, folly is at hand;
" Learning is better far than house and land.
" Let not your virtue trip, who trips may stumble,
" And virtue is not virtue if she tumble."
I give it up—morals won't do for me;
To make you laugh I shou'd play Tragedy.
One hope remains—hearing the maid was ill,
A doctor comes this night to shew his skill.
To cheer her heart, and give your muscles mo­tion,
He in five draughts prepar'd presents a potion:
A kind of magic charm—for be assur'd,
If you would swallow it, the maid is cur'd:
But desperate the doctor, and her case is,
If you reject the dose, and make wry faces!
This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives,
No pois'nous drugs are mix'd in what he gives,
Should he succeed, you'll give him his degree;
If not, within he will receive no fee!
The college you, must his pretensions back,
Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Quack.

Spoken by Mr. KING.

SINCE your old taste for laughing is come back,
And you have dropp'd the melancholy pack
Of tragi-comic-sentimental matter,
Resolving to laugh more, and be the fatter,
[Page 284] We bring a piece drawn from our ancient store,
Which made old English sides with laughing sore.
Some smiles from Tony Lumpkin, if you spare,
Let Trincalo of Totnam have his share.
Tho' thieves there are, Justice herself will own,
No scene to hurt your morals will be shown.
Each sister muse a sep'rate shop should keep,
Comedy to laugh, Tragedy to weep,
And sentimental laudanum to make you sleep.
I'll tell you what, good folks, if you don't jest,
But clasp the gigling goddess to your breast;
Let but the comic muse enjoy your favor,
We'll furnish stuff to make you laugh for ever!
Do laugh, pray laugh—'tis your best cure when ill,
The grand specifick, universal pill!
What would I give to set the tide a-going,
A spring-tide in your heart with joy o'erflowing!
No superficial skin-deep mirth—all from with­in—
Laugh till your jaws ach—'till you crack your skin;
The English truly laugh—your Frenchmen only grin.
Italians sneer, Dutch grunt, and German features
Smirk thus—YOU only laugh like human crea­tures.
Who has not laughter in his soul's a wretch,
And fit for treason, stratagems, Jack Ketch!
[Page 285] Your meagre hollow eye speaks spleen and va­pors,
And stabs with pen and ink, in daily papers.
But the round cit, in ven'son to the knuckles,
He is no plotter, but eats, drinks, and chuckles;
When late to sentimentals you were kind,
I thought poor I was whistled down the wind,
To prey at fortune!—O, farewell to fun,
Said I, and took a shop at Islington.
To say the truth—I'm not prepar'd as yet
To dance the wire, or throw a somerset:
In short, if at a pun you would not grumble,
When I can't make you laugh—I needs must tumble;
Shew you are fond of mirth—at once restore us,
And burst with me in one grand laughing chorus!
True comedy reigns still—I see it plain;
Huzza! we now shall live and laugh again!
[Exit buzzaing and laughing.

Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

IN times of old, by this old play we see,
Our ancestors, poor souls, tho' brave and free,
Believ'd in spirits and astrology!
'Twas by the stars they prosper'd, or miscarried;
Thro' them grew rich, or poor; were hang'd, or married;
And if their wives were naught, then they were born
Under the Ram, or Bull, or Capricorn!
How many of the signs are tip'd with horn!
When our great-grand-mamas had made a slip,
(Their shoes with higher heels w uld often trip)
The rose and lily left their cheeks—'twas duty
To curse their planets, and destroy their beauty:
Such ign'rance, with faith in stars, prevails;
Our faces never change, they tell no tales;
Or should a husband, rather unpolite,
Lock up our persons, and our roses blight;
When once set free again, there's nothing in it,
We can be ros'd and lily'd in a minute:
Fly all abroad, be taken into favour,
And be as fresh and frolicksome as ever!
[Page 287] To heav'nly bodies we have no relation,
The star that rules us is our inclination!
Govern'd by that, our earthly bodies move,
Quite unconnected with the things above:
Two young ones love—a chaise to Scotland car­ries 'em,
The stars lend light, and inclination marries 'em:
When passion cools, and flame is turn'd to smo­ther,
They curse no stars—but Scotland, and each other!
To walk when dark no belles now make a fuss,
No spectres or hobgoblins frighten us!
No, says Old Crab, of Fops the last editions,
Pray, madam, what are they but apparitions!
So slim, so pale, so dress'd from foot to head,
Half girl, half boy, half living and half dead,
They are not flesh and blood, but walking gin­gerbread!
Mere flimsy beings kept alive by art,
" They come like shadows, and they so depart."
O fye, for shame! said I—he turn'd about,
And turn'd us topsy-turvey, inside out:
Rail'd at our sex, then curs'd the stars, and swore—
But you're alarm'd I see, I'll say no more:
Old doating fools from stars derive all evil,
Nor search our hearts to find the little devil.
Ladies take council, crush the mischief there;
Lay but that spirit, you'll be wise—as fair.


Music plays, and several persons enter with different kind of dishes.
After them Mr. PALMER, in the character of Christmas.
GO on—prepare my bounty for my friends,
And see that mirth with all her crew attends:
Behold a personage well known to fame;
Once lov'd and honour'd—Christmas is my name!
My officers of state my taste display;
Cooks, scullions, pastry-cooks, prepare my way!
Holly, and ivy, round me honours spread,
And my retinue shew, I'm not ill-fed:
Minc'd pies by way of belt, my breast divide,
And a large carving knife, adorns my side;
'Tis no Fop's weapon, 'twill be often drawn;
This turban for my head is collar'd brawn!
Tho' old, and white my locks, my cheeks are cherry,
Warm'd by good fires, good cheer, I'm always merry:
[Page 289] With carrol, fiddle, dance, and pleasant tale,
Jest, gibe, prank, gambol, mummery and ale,
I, English hearts rejoic'd in days of yore;
For new strange modes, imported by the score,
You will not sure turn Christmas out of door!
Suppose yourselves, well seated by a fire,
(Stuck close, you seem more warm than you de­sire)
Old father Christmas now in all his glory,
Begs, with kind hearts, you'll listen to his Story:
Clear well your minds from politicks and spleen,
Hear my Tale cut—see all that's to be seen!
Take care, my children, that you well behave,
You, Sir, in blue, red cape—not quite so grave:
That critick there in black—so stern and thin,
Before you frown, pray let the tale begin—
You in the crimson capuchin, I fear you,
Why, Madam, at this time so cross appear you?
Excuse me pray—I did not see your husband near you.
Don't think, fair Ladies, I expect that you
Should hear my tale—you've something else to do:
Nor will our beaux, old English fare encourage;
No foreign taste, could e'er digest plumb-por­ridge.
I have no sauce to quicken lifeless sinners
My food is meant for * honest hearty grinners!
[Page 290] For you—you spirits with good stomachs bring;
O make the neighb'ring roof with rapture ring;
Open your mouths, pray swallow every thing!
Criticks beware, how you our pranks despise;
Hear well my tale, or you shan't touch my pies;
The proverb change—be merry, but not wise.

Spoken by Mrs. BARRY.

AS it is prov'd by scholars of great fame,
That Gypsies and Egyptians are the same;
I, from my throne of Memphis, shift the scene,
And of the Gypsies now step forth the queen.
Suppose, that with a blanket on my shoulder,
An old strip'd jacket, petticoat still older.
With ebon locks, in wild disorder spread,
The diadem, a clout about my head;
My dingy Majesty here take her stand,
Two children at my back, and one in hand;
[Page 291] With courtsey thus—and arts my mother taught,
I'll tell your fertunes, as a Gypsey ought;
Too far to reach your palms—I'll mark your traces,
Which fate has drawn upon your comely faces,
See what is written on the outward skin,
And from the title-page, know all within;
First, in your faces * I will mark each letter—
Had they been cleaner I had seen 'em better;
Yet thro' that cloud some rays of sun-shine dart,
An unwash'd face oft veils the cleanest heart.
That honest tar, with Nancy by his side,
So loving, leering, whispers thus his bride.
" I love you Nancy, faith and troth I do,
" Sound as a biscuit is my heart, and true."
" Indeed, dear Johnny, so do I love you."
Love on, fond pair, indulge your inclination,
You ne'er will know, for want of education,
Hate, infidelity, and separation—
Some Cits I see look dull, and some look gay,
As in Change-alley they have pass'd the day,
City Barometers!—for as stocks go,
What Mercury they have, is high or low.
What's in the wind which makes that patriot­veer?
He smells a contract, or lott'ry next year;
Some courtiers too I see, whose features low'r,
Just turning patriots, they begin to sour;
[Page 292] What in your faces can a Gipsey see?
Ye youth of fashion, and of family!
What are we not to hope from taste and rank?
All prizes in this lott'ry?—Blank—blank—blank—
Now for the ladies—I no lines can spy
To tell their fortunes—and I tell you why;
Those fine drawn lines, which would their fate display,
Are by the hand of fashion-brush'd away,
Pity it is on beauty's fairest spot,
Where nature writes her best, they make a blot.
I'd tell our author's fortune, but his face,
As distant far as India from this place*,
Requires a keener sight than mine to view;
His fortune, can be only told by you.

Spoken by Mr. FOOTE.

IN trifling works of fancy, wits agree,
That nothing tickles like a simile;
So then, by way of tuning you to laughter,
With which, I hope, you'll tickle us hereafter,
From our poetick store-house we produce,
A couple, spick and span, for present use.
Dramatick Writers were, like Watchmen, meant
To knock down Vice; few answer the intent!
Both should be quick to see and seize their game;
But both are sometimes blind, and sometimes lame;
Can those cry, stand! while they themselves are reeling?
Can those catch thieves! while they themselves are stealing?
When wanted most, the watch a nap will take;—
Are all our comic authors quite awake?
[Page 294] Or, what is worse, by which they still come near 'em,
Are not you more than half asleep who hear 'em?
I, your old watchman, here have fix'd my stand,
On many a vice and folly laid my hand;
'Twas you cry'd, Watch! I limp'd at your command.
Let me, like other Watchmen, bless the times,
And take the privilege to nod betimes;
Nor let your srowns, now force me on a fright,
To cry, past sev'n o'clock—and a CLOUDY night!
But with your patience not to be too free,
We'll change the subject and the simile.
To chace a smuggling crew who law deride,
We launch a cutter of three guns this tide,
With your assistance, we will make the foe
Sink, or submit—to CAPTAIN TIMBER-TOE.
Ye pirate critics, fall not foul of me,
If once I sink, I founder in the sea;
In this condition can I swim to shore?
I'm cork, 'tis true
(pointing to his artificial leg)
but then I want an oar;
Besides, 'tis dangerous, I find, to steep
Myself and ship in brine, twelve fathom deep;
My chin I'd rather above water keep.
You oft' have sav'd my little bark from sinking,
I am no fish—fave me from water drinking.

Upon Mr. LACY's first Appearance in the Cha­racter of Alexander.
Spoken by Mr. KING, October 1774, at Drury­lane Theatre.

IN Macedon, when Alexander reign'd,
And vict'ry after victory was gain'd,
The Greek Gazettes (for they had papers there)
Publish'd a thousand fibs—as they do here.
From them one Curtius wrote of Philip's son,
How he did things, which never could be done!
Unlike his copy, who will soon appear,
His mighty soul ne'er knew the smallest fear:
Tho' laurel crown'd our pale young monarch comes,
Trembling amidst his triumphs, shouts, and drums;
Would give up all his vict'ries, false or true,
To gain one greater conquest—that of you!
" Lord, (cries a buxom widow, loud and strong)
He's quite a boy—to play that part is wrong!"
" Madam, he's six feet high, and cannot be too young."
[Page 296] " He looks so modest; hardly speaks a word:
Can he with proper spirit draw his sword?
A face so smooth, where neither rage or pride is,
Fits not the hero."—Fronti nulla fides.
In English thus: trust not to looks, they'll cheat us.
Bounc'd [...]ot Sir Swagger lately as he'd beat us?
And was not he with all his frowns and airs,
By one, who seem'd all meekness, kick'd down stairs?
Miss B. all delicacy, nerve and fear,
Elop'd last week with a horse-grenadier!
And our advent'rer, tho' so mild and civil,
If you once rouze him, plays the very devil!
" Indeed (cries madam) Sir, I'm much your debtor;
I should be glad to know the young man better."
Twice our young hero, who for glory tow'rs,
In fields less dang'rous try'd his unknown pow'rs*;
Like a young swimmer, whom his fears command,
In shallow streams first ventur'd from the land;
'Till bolder grown, the rougher wave he stems,
P [...]anges from giddy heights into the Thames.
E'en now he starts to hear the torrent roar!
While his pale fates stand frighted on the shore!
Soon will he leap the precipice—your nod
Sinks him, or lifts him to a demi-god.

Spoken by Mr. KING in the Character of Mo­dern Fame.

UNLIKE to ancient fame, all eyes, tongues, ears,
See Modern Fame dress'd cap-a-pee appears,
In Ledgers, Chronicles, Gazettes and Ga­zetteers.
My soaring wings are fine election speeches,
And puffs of candidates supply my breeches;
No flowing robe, and trumpet, me adorn,
I wear a jacket, and I wind a horn;
My cap is satyr! criticism! wit!
Is there a head that wants it in the pit!
(Pulling off his cap and holding it out.
Pipe, song, and pastoral, for five months past,
Puff'd well by me, have been the general taste.
Now Marybone shines forth to gaping crouds;
Now Highgate glitters from her hill of clouds;
St. George's fields, with taste and fashion struck,
Display Arcadia at the Dog and Duck!
And Drury misses here, in carmine pride,
Are there Pastoras—by the fountain side;
To flow'ry bow'rs they reel thro' midnight damps,
With fawns half drunk, and dryads breaking lamps;
[Page 298] Both far and near did this new whimsy run,
One night, forsooth, it frisk'd at Islington;
And now, as for the publick bound to cater,
Our Manager must have his Fete Champetie.
How is the weather?—Pretty clear and bright?
A storm's the devil, on Champetre night!
Lest it shou'd fall to spoil the author's scenes,
I'll catch this gleam to tell you what he means;
He means to shew, as brilliant as at Cox's,
Laugh for the pit, and may be at the boxes.
Touches of passion, tender, though not tragic,
Strokes at the times—or kind of lantern magic;
Song, chorus, frolick, dance, and rural play,
The merry-making of a Wedding-day.
Whose is this piece?—'Tis all surmise, suggestion;
Is't his, or her's, or your's, sir, that's the question?
The parent, bashful, whimsical, or poor,
Left it a puling infant at the door;
'Twas laid on flow'rs, and wrapt in fancied clocks,
And on the breast was written—MAID o' th' OAKS.
The actors crouded round, the girls caress'd it,
" Lord! the sweet pretty babe!" they prais'd and bless'd it.
The master peep'd, smil'd, took it in and dress'd it.
Whate'er's its birth, protect it from the curse
Of being smother'd by a parish nurse!
As you are kind, rear it—if you are curious, praise it,
And [...] vanity betray it.

Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON*.

IN Parliament, whene'er a question comes,
Which makes the Chief look grave and bite his thumbs,
A knowing one is sent—fly as a mouse,
To peep into the humour of the House;
I am that mouse, peeping at friends and foes,
To find which carry it, the Ayes or Noes.
With more than power of Parliament you sit,
Despotic representatives of wit!
For in a moment, and without much pother,
You can dissolve this piece and call another.
—As 'tis no treason, let us frankly see
In what they differ, and in what agree.
The said supreme assembly of the nation,
With this our great dramatic Convocation!
[Page 300] Business in both oft meets with interruption,
In both, we trust, no brib'ry or corruption:
Both, proud of freedom, have a turn to riot,
And the best Speaker cannot keep you quiet:
Nay, there as here, he knows not how to steer him,
When "order, order's" drown'd in "hear him, hear him."
We have unlike to them, one constant rule:
We open doors, and chuse our Galleries full.
For a full house both send abroad their fummons;
With us together sit the Lords and Commons.
You ladies here have votes! debate! dispute!
There if you go—Oh! fye for shame—you're mute.
Never was heard of such a persecution,
'Tis the great blemish of the Constitution:
No human laws should nature's rights abridge,
Freedom of speech our dearest privilege;
Ours is the wiser sex, though deem'd the weaker,
I'll put the question—if you choose me Speaker:
—Suppose me now be-wigg'd and seated here,
I call to order—You! the Chair! the Chair!
Is it your pleasure that this Bill shou'd pass,
Which grants this poet, upon Mount Parnass.
A certain spot, where never grew or corn or grass?
Is it your pleasure that the Bill do pass?
You that would pass this Play say Aye, and save it;
You who say No—would damn it!—The Ayes have it.

LXXXVIII. PROLOGUE spoken at Drury-lane, 1st De­cember 1774, on the first appearance of Miss COLE in The COUNTRY GIRL.
Spoken by Mr. KING.

HER age five months, four days and seventeen years,
The Country Girl, this awful night appears:
A chicken in the shell, snatch'd from the hen,
And hopes to find some kindness among men:
Tho' in the shell, by some device or other,
We hope to rear her, and without her mother.
A French Philosopher found out the art
To make an Oven act dame nature's part;
With ventilator shut, and full each seat,
Could we not give this house an oven's heat?
Ye critick epicures encrease our stores,
Come but each night and crowd us to the doors,
We'll hatch you chicken actresses by scores!
Should our poor Country Girl, so young and weak,
Come trembling forth unable yet to speak,
Your soft'ring smiles her drooping heart wou'd reach,
And so restore her to full powers of speech;
[Page 302] Our Manager might soon the change deplore,
And if she wed; her husband, still much more.
But jest apart—give but her bosom peace,
And with her fears her terrors wou'd decrease.
When first the linnet by the fowler caught,
From native woods, and fields to town is brought,
Unus'd to crowds, its bosom nimbly heaves;
In broken thrills the little songster grieves,
Till bolder grown the warbler swells its throat,
And fills the house with each harmonious note:
Indulgent care the weakest soon makes strong,
And gratitude breaks forth in ceaseless song!

Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

AS I'm an Artist, can my skill do better
Than paint your pictures? For I'm much your debtor:
I'll draw the outlines, finish at my leisure;
A group like you wou'd be a charming treasure!
[Page 303] Here is my pencil, here my sketching book,
Where for this work I memorandums took;
I will in full, three quarters, and profile,
Take your sweet faces, nay your thoughts I'll steal;
From my good friends above, their wives and doxies,
Down to Madame, and Monsieur, in the boxes:
Now for it, Sirs! I beg from top to bottom
You'll keep your features fix'd till I have got 'em.
First for fine gentlemen my fancy stretches—
They'll be more like, the slighter are the sketches:
Such unembodied from invention racks,
Pale cheeks, dead eyes, thin bodies and long backs;
They would be best in shades, or virgin wax.
To make fine ladies like, the toil is vain,
Unless I paint 'em o'er and o'er again;
In frost, tho' not a flower, its charms discloses,
They can, like hot-houses, produce their roses.
At you, Coquettes, my pencil now takes aim!
In Love's 'Change Alley playing all the game;
I'll paint you ducklings waddling out quite lame.
The Prude's most virtuous spite I'll next pourtray;
Railing at gaming—loving private play.
Quitting the gay bon-ton, and wou'd-be-witty,
I come to you, my Patrons, in the city:
I like your honest, open, English looks;
[Page 304] They shew too—that you well employ your cooks?
Have at you now—nay, Mister,—pray don't stir,
Hold up your head, your fat becomes you, Sir;
Leer with your eye—as thus—now smirk—well done!
You're ogling, Sir—a haunch of venison.
Some of you fickle patriots I shall pass,
Such brittle beings will be best on glass.
Now Courtiers you—looks meant your thoughts to smother,
Hands fix'd on one thing—eyes upon another;
For Politicians I have no dark tints,
Such clouded brows are fine for wooden prints.
To distant climes, if modern Jasons roam,
And bring the golden fleece with curses home,
I'll blacken them with Indian ink—but then
My hands, like theirs, will ne'er be clean again.
Tho' last, not least in love, I come to you!*
And 'tis with rapture, nature's sons I view;
My warmest tints shall glow your jolly faces,
Joy, love, and laughter, there have fixed their places,
Free from weak nerves, bon-ton, ennui, and foreign graces.
I'll tire you now no more with pencil strictures;
I'll copy these—next week send home your pic­tures.


WHAT son of physic, but his art extends,
As well as hands, when call'd on by his friends?
What landlord is so weak to make you fast,
When guests like you bespeak a good repast?
But weaker still were he whom fate has plac'd
To sooth our cares, and gratify our taste,
Should he neglect to bring before your eyes
Those dainty dramas which from genius rise;
Whether your luxury be to smiie or weep,
His and your profits just proportion keep.
To-night he brought, nor fears a due reward,
A Roman Patriot by a Female Bard.
Britons, who feel his flame, his worth will rate,
No common spirit his, no common fate,
Inflexible and Captive must be great.
" How," cries a sucking fop, thus lounging, straddling,
(Whose head shews want of ballast by its nodd­ling)
" A woman write? Learn, madam, of your betters,
" And read a noble Lord's Posthumous Letters .
[Page 306] " There you will learn the sex may merit praise,
" By making puddings—not by making plays:
" They can make tea and mischief, dance and sing;
" Their heads, tho' full of feathers, can't take wing."
I thought they could, sir; now and then by chance,
Maids fly to Scotland, and some wives to France.
He still went noddling on—"Do all she can,
" Woman's a trifle—play-thing—like her fan."
Right, sir, and when a wife the rattle of man.
And shall such things as these become the test
Of female worth? the fairest and the best
Of all heaven's creatures? for so Milton sung us,
And with such champions, who shall dare to wrong us?
Come forth, proud man, in all your powers ar­ray'd;
Shine out in all your splendor—who's afraid?
Who on French wit has made a glorious war,
Defended Shakespeare, and subdu'd Voltaire?
Woman*—who, rich in knowledge, knows no pride,
Can boast ten tongues, and yet not satisfied?
[Page 307] Woman*—who lately sung the sweetest lay?
A woman, woman, woman still I say.
Well then, who dares deny our pow'r and might?
Will any married man dispute our right?
Speak boldly, sirs, your wives are not in sight.
What, are you silent? then you are content;
Silence, the Proverb tells us, gives consent.
Critics, will you allow our honest claim?
Are you dumb too? This night has fix'd our fame.

THE Theatrical Candidates:



Followers of Tragedy, Comedy, and Harlequin.


I, GOD of wits and thieves—birds of a feather,
(For wit and thieving often go together)
Am sent to see this house's transformation,
Ask if the critics give their approbation,
Or as in other cases—"yawn at alteration."
Old lady Drury, like some other ladies,
To charm by false appearances, whose trade is,
By help of paint, new boddice, and new gown,
Hopes a new face to pass upon the town:
By such like art, stale toasts and maccaronies,
Have made out many a Venus and Adonis:
To business now—two Rival Dames above,
Have pray'd for leave to quit their father Jove;
And hearing in the papers—we have there,
Morning and Evening as you have 'em here;
Juno loves scandal, as all good wives do,
If it be fresh, no matter whether true;
[Page 311] Momus writes paragraphs, and I find squibs,
And Pluto keeps a press to print the fibs:
Hearing this house was now made good as new,
And thinking each that she was sure of you;
They came full speed, these Rival Petticoats,
To canvass for your int'rest and your votes:
They will not join, but sep'rate beg your favour,
To take possession, and live here for ever;
Full of their merits, they are waiting near;
Is it your pleasure that they now appear?
I'll call 'em in; and while they urge their claims,
And Critics, you examine well the dames,
I'll to Apollo, and beg his direction;
The God of Wisdom's new at an election!
Hark! the pipe, the trumpet, drum;
See, the Sister Muses come!
'Tis time to haste away!
When the female tongues begin,
Who has ears to hear the din,
And wings to fly, will stay?
I'll away, I'll away.
When the female tongues begin,
Who has ears to hear the din,
And wings to fly, will stay?
[runs off.
[Page 312] Enter TRAGEDY and followers.
Britons, your votes and int'rest, both I claim,
They're mine by right—Melpomene my name.
If still your hearts can swell with glory,
These passions feel, your sires have known;
Can glow with deeds of ancient story,
Or beat with transport at your own!
Success is mine,
My rival must resign,
And here I fix my empire, and my throne!
My nobler pow'rs shall Britons move,
If Britons still they are;
And softer passions melt the fair,
To pity, tenderness and love!
My merits told—who dares contend with me?
Enter COMEDY and Followers.
I dare, proud dame; my name is Co­medy!
Think you, your strutting, straddling, puffy pride,
Your rolling eyes, arms kimbo'd, tragic stride,
Can frighten me?—Britons, 'tis yours to chuse,
That murd'ring lady, or this laughing muse.
Now make your choice—with smiles I'll strive to win ye:
If you chuse her, she'll stick a dagger in ye.
'Tis wit, love, and laughter, that Britons controul,
Away with your dungeons, your dagger and bowl;
Sportive humour is now on the wing!
'Tis true comic mirth
To pleasure gives birth,
As sunshine unfolds the sweet buds of the spring:
No grief shall annoy
Our hearts light as air,
In full tides of joy
We drown sorrow and care.
Away with your dungeons, &c.
Such flippant flirts, grave Britons will despise,
No but they won't;—they're merry and are wise.
You can be wise too; nay, a thief can be!
Wife with stale sentiments all stol'n from me:
Which long cast off, from my heroic verses,
Have stuff'd your motley, dull sententious farces:
The town grew sick!
For all this mighty pother,
Have you not laugh'd with one eye, cry'd with t'other?
In all the realms of nonsense, can there be
A monster, like your comic-tragedy?
O yes, my dear! your tragic-comedy.
Would you lose your pow'r and weight?
With this flirt-gill, laugh and prate.
Let this lady rage and weep;
Would you chuse to go to sleep?
You're a thief, and whip'd should be.
You're a thief, have stol'n from me.
Ever distant will we be.
Never can, or will agree.
I beg relief—such company's a curse!
And so do I—I never yet kept worse.
Which will you chuse?
Sour Her, or smiling Me?
There are but two of us.
Enter Hariequin, &c.
O yes, we're three!
Your votes and int'rest, pray, for me!
[to the pit.
What fall'n so low to cope with thee!
Ouy, ouy!
Alas, poor we!
(shrugs her shoulders and laugh;)
Tho' this maid scorns me, this with passion flies out,
Tho' you may laugh, and you may cry your eyes out;
For all your airs, sharp looks, and sharper nails,
Draggled you were, till I held up your tails:
[Page 315] Such friend I have above, whose voice so loud is,
Will never give me up for two such dowdies;
She's grown so grave, and she so cross and bloody,
Without my help, your brains will all be muddy:
Deep thought, and politicks, so stir your gall,
When you come here, you should not think at all;
And I'm the best for that; be my protectors!
And let friend Punch here talk to the electors.
Should Harlequin be banish'd hence,
Quit the place to wit and sense,
What would be the consequence?
Empty houses,
You and spouses,
And your pretty children dear,
Ne'er would come,
Leave your home,
Unless that I came after;
Frisking here,
Whisking there;
Tripping, skipping, ev'ry where,
To crack your sides with laughter.
Tho' Comedy may make you grin,
And Tragedy move all within,
Why not poll for Harlequin?
[Page 316] My patch'd jacket,
Makes a racket,
O, the joy when I appear!
House is full?
Never dull!
Brisk, wanton, wild and clever!
Frisking here,
Whisking there,
Tripping, skipping, every where,
Harlequin for ever!
Enter MERCURY, out of breath.
Apollo, God of wisdom and this Isle,
Upon your quarrel Ladies deigns to smile,
With your permission, Sirs, and approbation,
Determines thus, this sister altercation.—
You, Tragedy, must weep, and love and rage,
And keep your turn, but not engross the stage;
And you, gay madam, gay to give delight.
Must not, turn'd prude, encroach upon her right:
Each sep'rate charm; you grave, you light as fea­ther,
Unless that Shakespeare bring you both together;
On both by nature's grant, that Conq'ror seizes,
To use you when, and where and how he pleases:
For you, Monsieur!
(to Har.)
whenever farce or song,
Are sick or tir'd—then you, without a tongue,
[Page 317] Or with one if you please—in Drury-Lane,
As Locum Tenens, may hold up their train.
Thus spoke Apollo—but he added too,
Vain his decrees until confirm'd by you!
[to the audience.
The Muses may sing and Apollo inspire,
But fruitless their song and his lyre,
Till you shall their raptures proclaim:
'Tis you must decree,
For your praise is the key
To open the Temple of Fame.
My thunders may roll, and my voice shake the stage,
But fruitless my tears and my rage,
Till you shall my triumph proclaim!
'Tis you must decree, &c.
Tho' poignant my wit, and my satire is true,
My fable and characters new;
'Tis you must my genius proclaim!
'Tis you must decree, &c.
With heels light as air, tho' about I may frisk,
No monkey more nimble and brisk,
Yet you must my merits proclaim;
'Tis you must decree,
You may send me to be,
Tom Fool to the Temple of Fame.

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK*.

LADIES, before I go, will you allow
A most devoted slave to make his bow?
Brought to your bar, ye most angelic Jury!
'Tis you shall try me for my am'rous fury.
Have I been guilty pray of indecorum?
My ardors were so fierce I could not lower 'em;
Such raging passions I confess an evil,
In flesh and blood like mine, they play the de­vil!
[Page 319] Bound on the rack of love poor I was laid,
Between two fires, a Widow and a Maid!
My heart, poor scorched dove, now pants for rest,
Where, Ladies, shall the flutt'rer find a nest?
Take pity, fair ones, on the tortur'd thing,
Heal it, and let it once more chirp, and sing:
Yet to approach you were infatuation;
If souls like mine so prone to inflammation,
Shou'd meet your tinder hearts—there wou'd be conflagration!
Indeed so prudent are most men of fashion,
They run no danger, for they feel no passion:
Tho' fairest faces smile, they can defy 'em,
Tho' softest tongues shou'd plead, they can deny 'm,
Mankind wou'd cease, but for such loving Fools as I am;
When I amongst them with my ardors glow,
I'm Mount Vesuvius in the midst of snow!
Had I the power, and of each sex were ruler.
I'd warm the one, and make the other cooler,
When I address the fair, no art can smother
The mutual flame we kindle in each other;
I'm now electrify'd!—therefore expedient,
To fly combustibles!—Ladies your obedient.

Spoken by Miss YOUNGE.

POST—haste from Italy arrives my lover!
Shall I to you, good friends, my fears discover?
Should foreign modes his virtues mar and man­gle,
And Caro Sposo prove—Sir Dingle Dangle;
No sooner join'd than separate we go,
Abroad—we never shall each other know,
At home—I mope above—he'll pick his teeth below.
In sweet domestic chat we ne'er shall mingle,
And, wedded tho' I am, shall still live single.
However modish, I detest this plan:
For me no maukish creatures, weak and wan:
He must be English, and an English—Man.
To Nature and his Country false and blind,
Shou'd Belville dare to twist his form and mind.
I will discard him—and to Britain true,
A Briton chuse—and, may be, one of you!
Nay, don't be frighten'd—I am but in jest;
Freemen in Love, or War, should ne'er be press'd.
If you would know my utmost expectation,
'Tis one unspoil'd by travell'd education;
With knowledge, taste, much kindness and some whim,
Good sense to govern me—and let me govern him:
Great love of me, must keep his heart from ro­ving;
Then I'll forgive him, if he proves too loving;
If in these times I should be bless'd by fate
With such a Phoenix, such a matchless mate,
I will by kindness, and some small discerning,
Take care that Hymen's torch continues burning:
At weddings, now-a-days, the torch thrown down,
Just makes a smoke, then stinks throughout the town!
No married puritan, I'll follow pleasure,
And ev'n the fashion—but in mod'rate measure;
I will of Opera extasies partake,
Tho' I take snuff to keep myself awake;
No rampant plumes shall o'er my temples play*,
Foretelling that my brains will fly away;
Nor from my head shall strange vagaries spring,
To shew the soil can teem with ev'ry thing!
No fruits, roots, greens, shall fill the ample space,
A kitchen garden, to adorn my face!
[Page 322] No rock shall there be seen, no windmill, foun­tain,
Nor curls like guns set round, to guard the mountain!
O learn, ye fair, if this same madness spreads,
Not to hold up, but to keep down, your heads:
Be not misled by strange fantastic art,
But in your dress let Nature take some part;
Her skill alone a lasting pow'r insures,
And best can ornament such charms as yours.

Spoken by Mr. KING.

THO' Prologues now, as blackberries are plenty,
And like them maukish too, nineteen in twenty,
Yet you will have them, when their date is o'er,
And Prologue, Prologue, still your honours roar;
Till some such dismal phiz as mine comes on,
Ladies and Gentlemen, indeed there's none,
The Prologue, Author, Speaker, all are dead and gone.
[Page 323] These reasons have some weight, and stop the rout,
You clap—I smile—and thus go cringing out;
" While living call me, for your pleasure use me,
" Should I tip off—I hope you'll then excuse me."
So much for Prologues—and now enter Farce,
Shall I a scene, I lately heard, rehearse?
The place, the Park; the Dramatis Personae,
Two female wits, with each a maccaroni.
Prithee, Lord Flimsey—what's this thing at Drury,
This Spleen? 'Tis low, damn'd low, ma'am, I affare ye,
Ce'st Vrai my Lor! We now feel no such evil,
Never are haunted with a vapourish devil.
In pleasures round we whirl it from the brain,
You rattle it away with seven's the main!
In upper life we have no spleen or gall;
And as for other life, it is no life at all!
What can I say in our poor bard's behalf?
He hopes that lower life may make you laugh;
May not a trader who shall business crop,
Quitting at once his old accustom'd shop,
In fancy through a course of pleasures run,
Retiring to his seat at Islington?
And of false dreams of happiness brim-full,
Be at his villa miserably dull?
Would not he Islington's fine air forego,
Could he again be choak'd in Butcher-row?
[Page 324] n showing cloth renew his former pleasure,
Surpass'd by none, but that of clipping measure?
The master of this shop * too, seeks repose,
Sells off his stock in trade, his verse and prose,
His daggers, buskins, thunder, lightning, and old cloaths.
Will he, in rural shades, find ease and quiet?
Oh, no; he'll sigh for Drury, and seek peace in riot.
Nature of yore prevail'd thro' human kind
To low and middle life—she's now confin'd.
'Twas there the choicest dramatists have sought her;
'Twas there Moliere, there Jonson, Shakespeare, caught her.
Then let our gleaning bard with safety come
To pick up straws, dropt from their harvest home.

The lines marked with inverted commas were not spoken at the Theatre.

An OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE, spoken by Mr. GARRICK, 10 June 1776. The last time of his performing, towards increasing a Fund for the relief of those who from their infirmi­ties shall be obliged to retire from the Stage.

A VETERAN see! whose last act on the stage
Intreats your smiles for sickness and for age;
Their cause I plead—plead it in heart and mind;
A fellow-feeling makes one wond'rous kind;
Might we but hope your zeal would not be less,
When I am gone, to patronise distress,
That hope obtain'd the wish'd-for end secures,
To soothe their cares, who oft have lighten'd yours.
Shall the great Heroes of celestial line,
Who drank full bowls of Greek and Roman wine,
Caesar and Brutus, Agamemnon, Hector,
Nay, Jove himself, who here has quaff'd his Nectar!
Shall they who govern'd Fortune cringe and court her,
Thirst in their age, and call in vain for porter?
Like Belisarius, tax the pitying street,
With 'Date obolum' to all they meet?
[Page 326] Shan't I, who oft have drench'd my hands in gore,
Stabb'd many, poison'd some, beheaded more:
Who numbers flew in battle on this plain;
Shan't I, the slayer, try to feed the slain?
Brother to all, with equal love I view
The men who slew me, and the men I slew:
I must, I will this happy project seize,
That those, too old to die, may live with ease.
Suppose the babes I smother'd in the Tower,
By chance, or sickness, lose their acting pow'r,
Shall they, once Princes, worse than all be serv'd!
In childhood murder'd, and, when murder'd, starv'd?
Matrons half ravish'd, for your recreation,
In age, should never want some cousolation:
Can I, Young Hamlet once, to Nature lost,
Behold, O h rrible! my father's ghost,
With grisly beard,—pale check—stalk up and down,
And he, the Royal Dane, want half a crown?
Forbid it, Ladies; Gentlemen, forbid it;
Give joy to age, and let 'em say—You did it:
To you, * ye Gods! I make my last appeal;
You have a right to judge, as well as feel;
[Page 327] Will your high wisdoms to our scheme incline,
That Kings, Queens, Heroes, Gods, and Ghosts may dine?
Olympus shakes!—that omen all secures;
May every joy you give be ten-fold yours.

Written for the Opening of DRURY-LANE THEATRE, September 21 1776, and intro­duced in the PRELUDE of NEW BROOMS*!
Spoken by Mr. King.

SCRIBBLERS are Sportsmen; and as Sports­men are,
Some hit, some miss, some poach, and some beat fair;
This wounds a str [...]ggling Bird; that often tries,
But never kills; he shoot, and shuts both Eyes:
Like our train'd bands, the mark he never hits,
He scorns to s [...] the murder he commits;
Some will whole [...] take, nineteen in twenty!
And then you smack your Lips—for Game is plenty.
[Page 328] In short, by you their merits must be try'd—
And woe to them who are not qualify'd!
Another simile, we mean to broach—
A new one too!—the stage is a stage coach.—
A stage coach!—why?—I'll tell you if you ask it—
* Here some take Places, and some mount the basket.
Our cattle too, that draw the stage along,
Are of all sorts and sizes—weak and strong,
Brown, grey, black, bay, brisk, tame, blind, lame, fat, lean, old and young!
If as we're jogging on, we sometimes stop,
Some scold within, and some asleep will drop,
While sailors and their doxies sing and roar a'top!
The coachman Manager will sometimes please ye—
But shou'd he stuff the coach too full, and squeeze ye,—
You then begin to swear,—"Zounds, shut the door,
" We're cramm'd already—here's no room for more—
" You're so damn'd fat—a little farther, Sir!
" Your elbow's in my stomach—I can't stir."
[Page 329] Hoit! Hoit! the coachman then drives on apace,
And smack! with other stages runs a race.
Thro' thick and thin we dash, now up now down;
Now raise a dust, now rattling through the town;
Now first, now last, now jolted, crack! we fall,
Laugh'd, pelted, hooted at, and damn'd by all!
Your late old coachman, tho' oft splash'd by dirt,
And out in many a storm, retires unhurt;
Enjoys your kind reward for all his pains,
And now to other hands resigns the reins.
But the new partners of the old Machine,
Hoping you'll find it snug, and tight, and clean,
Vow that with much civility they'll treat you,
Will drive you well, and pleasantly will seat you:
The road is not all turnpike—and what worse is,
They can't insure your watches or your purses;
But they'll insure you, that their best endea­vour
Shall not be wanting to obtain your favour;
Which gain'd—gee up! the old stage will run for ever!

Spoken by Mrs. MATTOCKS.

IF after Tragedy 'tis made a rule
To jest no more,—I'll be no titt'ring fool
To jog you with a joke, in Tragic doze,
Nor shake the dew-drops from the weeping rose.
Prudes of each sex affirm, and who denies?
That in each tear a whimp'ring Cupid lies:
To such wise, formal folk my answer's simple;
A thousand Cupids revel in a dimple!
From their soft nests with laughter out they rush,
Perch'd on your heads like small birds in a bush:
Beauty resistless in each smile appears;
Are you for dimples, ladies, or for tears?
Dare they with Comedy our mirth abridge?
Let us stand up for gigg'ling privilege;
Assert our rights, that laughter is no sin,
From the screw'd simper to the broad-fac'd grin.
So much for self;—now turn we to our Poet;
"Know your own Mind!"—Are any here who know it?
[Page 331] To know one's mind is a hard task indeed,
And harder still for us, by all agreed;
Cards, balls, beaus, feathers—round the eddy whirling,
Change ev'ry moment—while the hair is curling.
The Greeks say—"know thyself"—I'm sure I find
I know myself, that I don't know my mind.
Know you your minds, wise men?—come let us try;
I have a worthy cit there in my eye—
[looking up.
Tho' he to sneer at us takes much delight,
He cannot fix where he shall go to-night;
His pleasure and his peace are now at strise,
He loves his bottle, and he fears his wife.
He'll quit this house, not knowing what to do;
The Shakespear's-head first gives a pull or two,
But with a sideling struggle he gets thro'.
Darts across Russell-street; then with new charms,
The Siren Luxury his bosom warms,
And draws him in the vortex of the Bedford Arms.
Happy this night—but when comes wife and sor­row?
" To-morrw, and to-morrow, and to-morrow!"
I see some laughers here; pray which of you
Know your own minds? in all this house but few;
Wits never know their minds;—our minor bards,
Changing from bad to worse, now spin charades;
[Page 332] O'er law and physic we will draw a curtain;
There, nothing but Uncertainty is certain;
Grave looks, wigs, coats—the doctors now relin­quish 'em;
They're right—from undertakers to distinguish 'em.
The courtiers, do them justice, never doubt
Whether 'tis better to be in or out;
Some patriots, too, know their own mind and plan;
They're firmly fix'd—to get in when they can;
Gamesters don't waver; they all hazards run;
For some must cheat, and more must be undone.
Great statesmen know their minds, but ne'er re­veal 'em;
We never know their secrets 'till we feel 'em.
Grant me a favour, Critics; don't say nay!
Be of one mind with me and like this Play;
Thence will two wonders rise;—Wits will be kind—
Nay, more—behold, a Woman knows her mind!

Spoken by Mrs. BARRY, March 3d, 1777, the first time she appeared on the Stage after the Death of her Husband, and before the Tra­gedy of DOUGLAS*.

WITH every hope a vessel sails away,
Soft swells the breeze, and cloudless breaks the day:
Till rising winds the raging deeps deform,
And the bark shatter'd sinks beneath the storm!
Such is my fate;—fair gales my canvas spread,
Till the charg'd tempest burst upon my head;
Of the lov'd pilot of my life bereft,
Save your protection, not a hope is left:
Without that peace your kindness can impart,
Nothing can calm this sorrow-beaten heart.
When bounty on the feeling mind first flow'd,
Then sprung the bosom's fairest flower, and blow'd;
Angels with rapture the blest produce view'd,
For from benevolence rose gratitude!
Urg'd by my duty, I have ventur'd here,—
But how for Douglas can I shed a tear?
[Page 334] When real griefs the burden'd bosom press,
Can it raise sighs feign'd sorrows to express?
In vain will Art from Nature help implore,
When Nature for her self exhausts her store!
The tree cut down to which she clung and grew,
Behold the propless Woodbine bends to you;
Your fost'ring pow'r will spread protection round,
And tho' she droops, may raise her from the ground.

Spoken by Mr. KING.

PRAY let me see, if what France says be true,
That smiling faces in this land are few.
I'll tell you how they mark you to a tittle;
They say, you think too much, and talk too little;
While you with scorh, cry out against their prate,
And swear, with heels so light, their heads want weight.
Be but some clouds of politics blown o'er,
England would shew its laughing face once more.
For this good end, our bard throws in his mite,
And hopes to steal you from your cares to night.
Now for our title—All the World's a stage.
The lively French, of every rank and age,
In acting scenes employ their laughing hours,
And life's rough path make gay by strewing flowers.
Let but the fashion spread throughout our isle,
And what makes Frenchmen grin, will make you smile.
The drama, would like Alkalis, protect you
From those four humours, which so much affect you;
Sweeten your blood, with its swift current mix,
And cure the crudities of polities.
Our farce exhibits such a scene as thie—
And low are our personae dramatis.
The various servants at a country feet,
As actors furnish out the curious treat.
In Alexander, will the Butler rave,
And nought can Clytus, the fat coachman, save,
From Philip's son—You'll see the hero soon,
Dealing death round him, with a silver spoon.
The Cock, Roxana, glowing with desire,
Burns as she bastes—her bosom all on fire!
The groom and footmen, act their parts so well,
No longer Tom and Dick, they hear no bell!
The butler mad—all's in consusion hurl'd,
He can't obey, for he commands the world!
His victories alone possess his brain—
So master bawls, and mistress scolds in vain.
Critics—indulge these heroes in their fancies—
Nor, by your frowns, restore 'em to their senses.

The VAUDEVILLE, introduced in the PRELUDE called Bundle of PROLOGUES, and sung by Mr. BANNISTER and others*:

MY brothers and sisters, of buskin and sock,
We now are not actors, to feign and to mock,
We give you passions,
No humours and fashions,
Save only our own native stock;
For the bounty with which you o'erflow,
Makes the sweet plant of gratitude grow.
In our bosoms our merry hearts leap,
We now are no play'rs,
But send up our pray'rs,
That the blessings you sow, you may reap.
My sisters and brothers who ost trod the stage,
Who now are declining with sickness and age,
You now see before ye,
The charms that restore ye,
[To the audience.
Whose bounty your griefs will assuage.
Tender beauty is fairest to view
As a rose is when sprinkled with dew.
[Page 337] The king and the cobler, by turns was my lot,
I mended old soals, and wore crowns on this spot;
Whatever my station,
Or high occupation,
My duty I never forgot;
When a tyrant with death in my stride,
My dependance on you was my pride.
I beg your old servant may throw in his mite,
Who loves, and would sarve you, by day and by night,
For you my dear creatures,
And you with sweet features,
[To the Ladies.
I'm ready to sing or to fight.
As by you all distress I defy,
So for you while I live, will I die.
In the change of each year, as this day will come round,
Our duty we'll pay, as in duty we're bound.
Our old hearts with pleasure,
Their thanks without measure,
From earth to the sky will resound;
In our faces your bounty is seen,
Smiles of age, speak the comfort within!
In our bosoms our merry hearts leap, &c.

Spoken by Mr. KING.

A SCHOOL for Scandal! tell me, I beseech you,
Needs there a School—this modish art to teach you?
No need of lessons now,—the knowing think—
We might as well be taught to eat and drink;
Caus'd by a dearth of Scandal, should the vapours
Distress our fair ones—let 'em read the papers:
Their pow'rful mixtures such disorders hit,
Crave what they will, there's quantum sufficit.
[...]ord! cries my Lady Wormwood! (who loves tattle,
And puts much salt and pepper in her prattle)
Just ris'n at noon, all night at cards, when threshing
Strong tea and Scandal—bless me, how refresh­ing!
[Page 339] " Give me the papers, Lisp—how bold and free—
" Last night Lord L,"—
—"was caught with Lady D."
" For aching heads, what charming Sal volu­tile—
" If Mrs. B. will still continue flirting,
" We hope she'll draw, or we'll undraw the Curtain."
Fine satire p [...]z—In public all abuse it,
But by ourselves—
—our praise we can't re­fuse it.
Now, Lisp, read you—there at that dash and star—
Yes, Ma'am—"A certain Lord had best be­ware,
" Who lives not twenty miles from Grosv'nor square:
" For should he Lady W—find willing—
" Wormwood is bitter."—Oh! that's me—the Villain!
Throw it behind the fire, and never more
Let that vile paper come within my door.
Thus at our friends we laugh, who feel the dart,
To reach cur feelings, we ourselves must smart.
Is our young bard so young—to think that he
Can stop the full Spring Tide of Calumny?
[Page 340] Knows he the world so little, and its trade?
Alas! the devil's sooner rais'd than laid.
So strong, so swift, the monster, there's no gag­ging;
Cut Scandal's head off—still the tongue is wag­ging.
Proud of your smiles, once lavishly bestow'd,
Again your young Don Quixote takes the road;
To shew his gratitude—he draws his pen,
And seeks this Hydra Scandal in its den;
From his fell gripe the frighted fair to save,
Tho' he should fall—th' attempt must please the brave;
For your applause, all perils he would through,
He'll fight—that's write—a Cavalliero true,
'Till ev'ry drop of blood—that's Ink—is spilt for you.

Spoken by Mr. FARREN.

WHAT various modes prevail in various parts,
And to indulge our passions what strange arts!
To cheat the old, the young exert their skill,
And often cheat themselves to have their will:
[Page 341] In Spain, to lock up girls it is their plan;
To pick the locks, the Barber is the man;
He, foe profest to age, friend to young bloods,
Oft leaves the blinded Argus in the suds;
And while warm youth with trembling beauty flies,
With news and lather fills his ears and eyes;
The old one chuckles, thinks all safe within,
Nor feels his forehead grow, while reap'd his chin!
In France, there needs no subtle go-between,
Husbands and wives are ne'er together seen;
Or should by chance those easy couples meet,
In bails, plays, operas, gardens, or the street,
No frowns exchang'd, each freedom gives and grants;
Monsieur his madams, madam her gallants.
In Italy, the climate is so warm,
Cupids, like gnats, throughout the country swarm,
And sting both old and young—but in that na­tion,
No patient suffers long an inflammation;
Husbands themselves the men of skill invite,
And Cecisbeo doctors cure the bite.—
For hearts inflam'd where get our fair their cure?
Here love's prime minister's a French frisseur:
To each commodious art politely bred,
Whil [...] [...] female head:
[Page 342] From the same land the millinery crew,
Finish the lady's head, and husband's too.—
Intrigues once dreadful, as our taste improves,
Now easy sit, and fit us like French gloves.—
But to be grave—if four old age with care,
Will lock up with their gold, the captive fair;
We hope the sons of freedom not so few,
Nor so be-devil'd, be-maccaronied too,
But some old-fashion'd folks will land their aid,
And with their country free each captive maid:
For what is gold or beauty in a nation,
Unless you give it a free circulation?
Should it be said, alas! with truth, that some
Among the fair ramble too far from home,
In giddy whirls forget their sex and state,
Then let each gadder feel a diff'rent fate!
Let there no female rakes in Britain be,
Nor female slaves—but let us all agree,
That those too loose be fast, and those too fast be free!

Spoken by Mrs. BULKELEY.

THO' I'm a female, and the rule is ever,
For us in Epilogue, to beg your favour,
Yet now I take the lead—and, leaving art
And envy to the men—with a warm heart,
A woman here I come—to take a woman's part;
No little jealousies my mind perplex,
I come the friend and champion of my sex;
I'll prove, ye fair, that let us have our swing,
We can, as well as men, do any thing;
Nay better too, perhaps—for now and then,
These times produce some bungling among men.
In spite of lordly wits—with force and ease,
Can't we write Plays, or, damn 'em, if we please?
The men, who grant not much, allow us charms—
Are eyes, shapes, dimples then, our only arms?
To rule this man our sex dame Nature teaches;
Mount the high horse we can, and make long speeches;
Nay, and with dignity, some wear the breeches;
[Page 344] And why not wear 'em?—We shall have your votes,
While some of t'other sex wear petticoats.
Did not a lady knight, late Chevalier,
A brave, smart soldier to your eyes appear?
Hey Presto! pass! his sword becomes a fan,
A comely woman rising from the man;
The French their Amazonian maid invite—
She goes—alike well skill'd to talk or write,
Dance, ride, negociate, scold, coquet, or fight.
If she should set her heart upon a rover,
And he prove false, she'd kick her faithless lover.
The Greeks and Romans own our boundless claim—
The Muses, Graces, Virtues, Fortune, Fame,
Wisdom and Nature too, they Women call,
With this sweet flatt'ry—yet they mix some gall—
'Twill out—the Furies too are females all.
The Pow'rs of Riches, Physic, War, and Wine,
Sleep, Death, and Devils too—are masculine.
Are we unfit to rule?—A poor suggestion!
Austria and Russia answer well that question.
If joy from sense and matchless grace arise,
With your own treasure, Britons, bless your eyes.
If such there are—sure—in an humbler way,
The sex, without much guilt, may write a Play:
[Page 345] That they've done nobler things, there's no denial;
With all your judgment then, prepare for trial—
Summon your critick pow'rs, your manhood summon,
A brave man will protect, not hurt a Woman;
Let us with modestly to share with men,
If not the force, the seather of the Pen.

Spoken by Mr. LEE LEWES.

I MUST, will speak—I hope my dress and air
Announce the man of fashion, not the player;
Tho' gentlemen are now forbid the scenes,
Yet have I rush'd thro' heroes, kings and queens;
Resolv'd, in pity to this polish'd age,
To drive these ballad heroes from the Stage—
" To drive the deer with hounds and horn,
" Earl Percy took his way,
" The child may rue that is unborn,
" The hunting of that day."
A pretty basis, truly, for a modern Play!
What? shall a scribbling, senseless woman dare
To your refinements offer such coarse fare?
[Page 346] Is Douglas, or is Percy, fir'd with passion?
Ready for love or glory, death to dash on,
Fit company for modern still-life men of fashion?
Such madness will our hearts but slightly graze,
We've no such frantic nobles now-a-days.
Heart strings, like fiddle strings, vibrate no tone,
Unless they're tun'd in petfect unison;
And youths of yore, with ours can ne'er agree;
They're in too sharp, ours in too flat a key.
Could we believe old stories, these strange follows
Married for love—could of their wives be jealous—
Nay, constant to 'em too—and, what is worse,
The vulgar souls thought cuckoldom a curse.
Most wedded pairs had then one purse, one mind,
One bed too—so preposterously join'd—
From such barbarity (thank heaven) we're much resin'd.
Old songs their happiness at home record,
From home they sep'rate carriages abhorr'd—
One horse serv'd both—my lady rode behind my lord.
'Twas death alone could snap their bonds a­sunder—
Now tack'd so slightly, not to snap's the wonder.
Nay, death itself could not their hearts divide,
They mix'd their love with monumental pride;
For cut in stone, they still lie side by side.
But why these Gothic ancestors produce?
Why scour their rusty armours? what's the use?
[Page 347] 'Twould not your nicer optics much regale,
To see us beaux bend under coats of mail;
Should we our limbs with iron doublets bruise,
Good heav'n! how much court-plaister we should use;
We wear no armour now—but on our shoes*.
Let not with barbarism true taste be blended,
Old vulgar virtues cannot be defended,
Let the Dead rest—we Living can't be mended.

Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON, at the Theatre-Royal in Dablin, Saturday, July 4, 1778*.

LORD! how I tremble, every atom shaking;
What! speak an Epilogue of my own making?
A task for me—presumptuous and absurd:
But I have promis'd, and must keep my word.
Yes, I did promise with a solemn face,
T' address my Patrons here, and sue for grace;
For your past favours had so warm'd my heart,
I thought to tell them needed little art.
How vain the thought! for, pondering day and night,
I found, tho' I could speak, I could not write:
[Page 348] Distress'd, to Garrick then I fly for aid,
' You can assist me, Sir, for wit's your trade;
When of your Epilogues I speak a line,
Each side-box cries, 'Oh charming, vastly fine,
It's quite delightful, monstrously divine!'
The pit, alive to every comic stroke,
With laughter loud anticipate the joke;
All but the modern fop to feeling dead,
With heart of adamant, and brains of lead:
Languid and lifeless, lolling yawns, takes snuff,
And cries, 'As God's my judge, it's flimsey staff;
Heav'n knows, I monstrously abhor a play,
It's a vile bore—what brought me here to-day;
Dear Lady Mary how can you attend,
Will Garrick's nonsense never have an end?'
Not so, Sir Mac, who just has cross'd the Tweed,
Cries, 'vary weel, ridiculous indeed,
The chield has parts: Oh he'd been muckle keen,
If bred at Glasgow, or at Aberdeen.'
Sir Paddy cries, 'my jewel, that's mighty pretty,
Faith Garrick, you were once in Dublin city,
In sweet Smock-alley you have cut a figure,
Oh you'd be great, were you a little bigger?
Thus nations, parties, all in this agree,
And humour's palm, oh Garrick, yield to thee,
Then, good Sir, scribble something [...]
[Page 349] To Garrick thus in flattering strains I sue,
But all in vain, nor prayers nor flattery do;
Since thus obdurate all their aid refuse,
I, a mere novice, must invoke the muse.
Oh would immortal Shakespeare's muse of fire
Heave in this breast, each kindling thought in­spire;
Or could I mount on the Maeonian wing,
Or chaunt such songs as raptur'd Seraphs sing,
To you, my kind protector, would I raise
My fullest, loudest, warmest notes of praise;
The great, the brave, the fair, who now ap­pear
In bright array to grace this circle here,
My muse to latest ages should proclaim,
Their worth record, and consecrate their fame;
While gratitude, on rapt'rous pinions soars
And echoes loud the virtues she adores.

Spoken by Mrs. BARRY.

OUR bards of late, so tragic in their calling,
Have scarce preserv'd one heroine from falling:
Whether the dame be widow, maid, or wife,
She seldom from their hands escapes with life:
[Page 350] If this green cloth could speak, would it not tell,
Upon its well worn nap how oft I fell?
To death in various forms deliver'd up,
Steel kills me one night, and the next the cup:
The tragic process is as short as certain;
With * this,—or this, I drop—then drops the curtain:
No Saint can lead a better life than I,
For half is spent in learning how to aie:
The learn'd dispute, how tragedies should end;
O happily say some—some death defend:
Mild criticks with good fortune to the good;
While others hot-brain'd, roar for blood! blood! blood!—
The fair, tho' nervous, tragic to the soul,
Delights in daggers, and the poison'd bowl:
' I would not give a black-pin for a play,
' Unless in tenderness I melt away:
' From pangs, and death no lovers would I save,
' They should be wretched, and despair and rave;
" And ne'er together lie—but in the grave!'
[Page 351] The brave rough soldier, a soft heart discovers,
He swears and weeps at once, when dead the lovers.
As down his cheeks runs trickling nature's tide,
" Damn it—I wish those young ones had not dy'd:"
Tho' from his eyes the drop of pity falls,
He fights like Caesar, when his country calls:
In spite of critic laws, our bard takes part,
And joins in concert with the soldier's heart:
O let your feelings with this party side,
For once forgive me that I have not dy'd;
Too hard that fate, which kills a virgin bride!

Spoken by Miss FARREN.

THE Critics say, and constantly repeat,
That woman acting man's a silly cheat:
That ev'n upon the stage it should not pass;
To which I say—a Critic is an ass.
As man, true man we could not well deceive,
But we, like modish things, may make believe.
[Page 352] Would it be thought I give myself great airs,
To put my manhood on a foot with theirs?
Speak, you that are men, is my pride too great
To think you'd rather have with me—a tete-a-tete?
In this our Play what dangers have I run!
What hair-breath 'scapes! and yet the prize have won.
Is it a prize? He may prove cross or jealous,
In marriage lotteries the knowing tell us,
Among our modern youths much danger lies,
There are a hundred blanks for one poor prize.
Was I not bold, ye fair, to undertake
To tame that wildest animal—a rake?
To lead a tyger in a silken string,
Hush the loud storm, and clip the whirlwind's wing?
My pride was piqued, all dangers I would through,
To have her way what would not woman do?
The papers swarm each day with patent puffers
For smoaky chimneys—powders—mouse-traps—snuffers;
And I could fame as well as fortune raise,
To cure by patent, La Folie Angloise.
I'm sure you all my nostrum will approve,
By nature's guidance let your passions move,
Drive out that Demon gaming, by the angel love.
[Page 353] But ladies, if you wish to know my plan,
By stratagem, not force, attack your man.
By open war the danger is increas'd;
Use gentle means to soothe the savage beast.
If when his blood boils o'er, your's bubbles too,
Then all is lost, and there's the devil to do.
Piff, puff, blown up at once the lover's part,
He snaps his chain—and madam—breaks her heart—
Hymen puts out his torch, and Cupid blunts his dart.
Thus ends the Farce, or Tragedy of Love;
But ladies, if your sparks are given to rove,
From my experience take one general rule—
Cool as he warms, and love will never cool.
If smoak prevails, and the choak'd flame is dying,
Then gently fan it with some little sighing;
Then drop into the flame a tear or two,
And, blazing up like oil, 'twill burn him thro';
Then add kind looks, soft words, sweet smiles—no pout,
And take my word the slame will ne'er go out.
These, with good humour mix'd, the balm of life,
Will be the best receipt for maid or wife.

Spoken by Mr. PALMER.

TO modern Britons let the old appear
This night to rouse 'em for this anxious year:
To raise that spirit, which of yore when rais'd,
Made even Romans tremble while they prais'd:
To rouse that spirit, which thro' every age
Has wak'd the lyre, and warm'd th' historian's page:
That dauntless spirit, which on Cressy's plain
Rush'd from the heart, thro' ev'ry British vein;
Nerv'd ev'ry arm the numerous host to dare,
Whilst Edward's valor shone the guiding star,
Whose beams dispers'd the darkness of despair.
Whate'er the craft, or number of the foes,
Ever from danger Britain's glory rose;
To the mind's eye let the fifth Harry rise,
And in that vision, boasting France despise;
Then turn to later deeds your sires have wrought,
When Anna rul'd, and mighty Marlb'rough fought.
Shall Chatham die, and be forgot*?—O no!
Warm from its source let grateful sorrow slow;
His matchless ardor [...]r'd each fear-struck mind,
His genius soar'd, when Britons droop'd and pin'd;
Whilst each State Atlas sunk beneath the load,
His heart unshook, with patriot virtue glow'd;
Like Hercules, he freed 'em from the weight,
And on his shoulders fix'd the tottering state;
His strength the monsters of the land defy'd,
To raise his country's glory was his pride,
And for her service, as he liv'd, he dy'd.
O for his powers, those feelings to impart,
Which rous'd to action every drooping heart!
Now, while the angry trumpet sounds alarms,
And all the nation cries "to arms, to arms!"
Then would his native strength each Briton know,
And scorn the threats of an invading foe:
Hatching, and seeding every civil broil,
France looks with envy on our happy soil;
When mischief's on the wing she cries for war,
Insults distress, and braves her conqueror.
But Shakespeare sung—and well this land he knew,
O hear his voice! that nought shall make us rue,
" If England to itself do rest but true."

Spoken by Mr. KING.

WHEN from the world departs a son of fame,
His deeds or works embalm his precious name;
Yet not content, the Public call for art,
To rescue from the Tomb his mortal part;
Demand the painter's and the sculptor's hand,
To spread his mimic form throughout the land:
A form, perhaps, which living, was neglected,
And when it could not feel respect, respected.
This night no bust or picture claims your praise,
Our claim's superior, we his spirit raise:
From time's dark storehouse, bring a long-lost play,
And drag it from oblivion into day.
But who the Author? Need I name the wit?
Whom nature prompted as his genius writ;
Truth smil'd on fancy for each well-wrought story,
Where characters, live, act, and stand before ye:
Suppose these characters, various as they are,
The knave, the fool, the worthy, wise, and fair,
For and against the Author pleading at your bar.
[Page 357] First pleads Tom Jones—grateful his heart and warm;
Brave, gen'rous Britons—shield this Play from harm:
My best friend wrote it; should it not succeed,
Tho' with my Sophy blest—my heart will bleed—
Then from his face he wipes the manly tear;
Courage, my Master, Partridge cries, don't fear:
Should envy's serpents hiss, or malice frown,
Tho' I'm a coward, zounds! I'll knock 'em down:
Next, sweet Sophia comes—she cannot speak—
Her wishes for the Play o'erspread her cheek;
In ev'ry look her sentiments you read;
And more than eloquence her blushes plead.
Now Blifil bows—with Smirk his false heart gilding,
He was my foe—I beg you'll damn this FIELD­ING;
Right, Thwackum roars—no mercy, Sirs, I pray
—Scourge the dead Author, thro' his orphan Play.
What words! (cries Parson Adams) fie, fie, dis­own 'em;
Good Lord!—de mortuis nil nisi bonum:
If such are christian teachers, who'll revere 'em—
And thus they preach, the dev'l alone should hear 'em.
[Page 358] Now Slipslop enters—tho' this seriv'ning Vag­rant,
'Saited my virtue, which was ever flagrant,
Yet, like black 'Thello, I'd bear scorns and whips,
Slip into poverty to the very hips,
T' exult this Play—may it decrease in favour,
And be it's fame immoraliz'd for ever!
'Squire Western, reeling, with October mellow,
Tall, yo!—Boys!—Yoax—Critics! hunt the fellow!
Damn'en, these wits are varmint not worth breed­ing.
What good e'er came of writing and of reading?
Next comes, brim-full of spite and politics,
His Sister Western—and thus deeply speaks:
Wits are arm'd pow'rs—like France attack the foe;
Negotiate 'till they sleep—then strike the blow!
All worthy last, pleads to your noblest passions—
Ye gen'reus leaders of the taste and fashions;
Departed genius left his orphan Play
To your kind care—what the dead wills obey:
O then respect the FATHER's fond bequest,
And make his widow smile, his spirit rest.

Spoken by Miss YOUNGE.

PROLOGUES and Epilogues—to speak the phrase
Which suits the warlike spirit of these days—
Are cannon charg'd, or should be charg'd with wit,
Which, pointed well, each rising folly hit;—
By a late Gen'ral who commanded here,
And fought our bloodless battles many a Year!
'Mongst other favours were conferr'd on me,
He made me Captain of Artillery!—
At various follies many guns I fir'd,
Hit 'em point blank, and thought the foe re­tir'd—
But vainly thought—for to my great surprise,
They now are rank and file before my eyes!
Nay to retreat may even me oblige;—
The works of folly stand the longest siege!
With what brisk firing, and what thunder claps,
Did I attack those high-built Castles—caps!
But tow'ring still, they swell in lofty state,
Nor strike one ribband to capitulate;—
[Page 360] Whilst beaux behind, thus peeping, and thus bent,
Are the besieg'd, behind the battlement:
But you are conquerors, ladies—have no dread,
Henceforth in peace enjoy the cloud-cap'd head!
We scorn to ape the French, their tricks give o'er,
Nor at your rigging fire one cannon more!
And now ye Bucks, and Bucklings of the age,
Tho' caps are clear, your hats shall feel my rage;
The high-cock'd, half-cock'd, quaker, and the slouch,
Have at ye all! I'll hit you, tho' ye crouch;
We read in history—one William Tell,
An honest Swiss, with arrows shot so well,
On his son's head he aim'd with so much care,
He'd hit an apple, and not touch one hair:
So I, with such like skill, but much less pain,
Will strike your hats off, and not touch your brain:
To curse our head-dress! a'nt you pretty fellows!
Pray who can see thro' your broad-brim'd um­brellas?
That pent-house worn by stim sir Dainty Dandle!
Seems to extinguish a poor farthing candle—
We look his body thro'—But what fair she,
Thro' the broad cloud that's round his head can see?
Time was, when Britons to the boxes came,
Quite spruce, and chapeau bras! address'd each dame.
[Page 361] Now in flap'd hats, and dirty boots they come,
Look knowing thus—to every female dumb;
But roar out—Hey, Jack! so, Will! you there, Tom?
Both sides have errors, that there's no conceal­ing;
We'd low'r our heads, had but men's hearts some feeling.
Valence, my spark, play'd off his modish airs,
But nature gave his wit to cope with theirs;
Our sex have some small faults wonn't bear de­fending,
And tho' near persect, want a little mending;
Let love step forth, and claim from both alle­giance,
And bring back caps and hats to due obedience.


SONG, sung by Mr. LOWE, at Drury-lane Theatre, 20th November, 1740*

COME, my lads, with souls befitting,
Let us never be dismay'd,
Let's avenge the wrongs of Britain,
And support her injur'd trade.
The true spirit of the nation,
In our honest hearts we bring,
True, tho' in an humble station,
To our country and our king.
[Page 363] Spain no longer shall assume, boys,
The free ocean as her own;
For the time at last is come, boys,
We'll their topsails lower down;
Tho' in politicks contesting,
Round and round they veer about,
All their ships and manifesting,
With our broadsides we will rout.
[Page 364] Hark, the roaring cannons thunder,
See, my lads, six ships appear!
Ev'ry Briton acting wonders,
Strikes the southern world with fear.
Porto Bello, fam'd in story,
Now at last submits to fate,
VERNON's courage gains us glory,
And his mercy proves us great.
On our naval strength depending,
Let us steer Old England's course,
When affronted, vengeance sending,
Shew the world Old England's force.
Then loud peals of British thunder,
Rattling on each hostile shore,
Shall make haughty Dons knock under,
Nor shall dare insult us more.
May all English Tars, like you, boys,
Prove on shore true hearts of gold,
To their king and country true, boys,
And be neither bought nor sold;
Let the landmen, without party,
Act like brethren of the flood,
To one cause alone be hearty,
And be that their country's good.
Then thro' all the mighty ocean,
Th' English cross shall honour find,
Far as we can feel a motion,
Far as flag can move with wind.
Then insulting monarchs shewing
More regard, shall humbler be,
The old truth of Britons knowing,
As they're brave they will be free.


IF truth can fix thy wav'ring heart,
Let Damon urge his claim;
He feels the passion void of art,
The pure, the constant flame.
Though sighing swains their torments tell,
Their sensual love contemn:
They only prize the beauteous shell,
But slight the inward gem.
Possession cures the wounded heart,
Destroys the transient fire;
But when the mind receives the dart,
Enjoyment whets desire.
By age your beauty will decay,
Your mind improves with years;
As when the blossoms fade away,
The rip'ning fruit appears:
May Heav'n and Sylvia grant my suit,
And bless the future hour,
That Damon, who can taste the fruit,
May gather ev'ry flow'r!


Once more I'll tune the vocal shell,
To hills and dales my passion tell,
A flame which time can never quell
That burns for thee, my Peggy:
Yet guittar bards the lyre shall hit,
Or say what subject is more fit,
Than to record the sparkling wit
And bloom of lovely Peggy.
The sun first rising in the morn,
That paints the dew-bespangled thorn,
Does not so much the day adorn,
As does my lovely Peggy:
And when in Thetis' lap to rest,
He streaks with gold the ruddy west,
She's not so beauteous as undrest
Appears my lovely Peggy.
When Zephyr on the vi'let blows,
Or breathes upon the damask rose,
He does not half the sweets disclose
As does my lovely Peggy:
I stole a kiss the other day,
And trust me, nought but truth I say,
The fragrance of the blooming May
Is not so sweet as Peggy.
Were she array'd in rustic weed,
With her the bleating flocks I'd feed,
And pipe upon the oaten reed,
To please my lovely Peggy.
With her a cottage would delight,
All's happy when she's in my sight;
But when she's gone, it's endless night—
All's dark without my Peggy!
While bees from flower to flower shall rove,
And linnets warble thro' the grove,
Or stately swans the rivers love,
So long shall I love Peggy:
And when death with his pointed dart
Shall strike the blow that rives my heart,
My words shall be, when I depart,
" Adieu, my lovely Peggy!"

Sung by Mr. BEARD in the Character of Mercury.

Ye mortals whom fancies and troubles perplex,
Whom folly misguides, and infirmities vex;
Whose lives hardly know what it is to be blest,
Who rise without joy, and lie down without rest;
Obey the glad summons, to Lethe repair,
Drink deep of the stream, and forget all your care.
Old maids shall forget what they wish for in vain,
And young ones the rover, they cannot regain;
The rake shall forget how last night he was cloy'd,
And Chloe again be with passion enjoy'd;
Obey then the summons, to Lethe repair,
And drink an oblivion to trouble and care.
The wife at one draught may forget all her wants,
Or drench her fond fool to forget her gallants;
The troubled in mind shall go chearful away,
And yesterday's wretch be quite happy to-day.
Obey then the summons, to Lethe repair,
Drink deep of the stream, and forget all your care.

Sung by Mrs. CLIVE in the character of the Fine Lady in LETHE.

The card invites, in crowds we fly
To join the jovial rout, full cry;
What joy from cares and plagues all day,
To hie to the Midnight Hark-away!
Nor want, nor pain, nor grief, nor care,
Nor dronish husbands enter there;
The brisk, the bold, the young, the gay,
All hie to the Midnight Hark-away.
Uncounted strikes the morning clock,
And drowsy watchmen idly knock;
Till day-light peeps, we sport and play,
And roar to the jolly Hark-away.
When tir'd with sport to bed we creep,
And kill the tedious day with sleep;
To-morrow's welcome call obey,
And again to the Midnight Hark-away.

Sung by Mr. BEARD in the Character of Mercury.

Come mortals, come, come follow me,
Come follow, follow, follow me,
To mirth, and joy, and jollity;
Hark, hark, the call, come, come and drink,
And leave your cares by Lethe's brink.
Away then come, come, come away,
And life shall hence be holiday;
Nor jealous fears, nor strife, nor pain,
Shall vex the jovial heart again.
To Lethe's brink then follow all,
Then follow, follow, follow all,
'Tis pleasure courts, obey the call;
And mirth, and jollity, and joy,
Shall every future hour employ.
Away then come, come, come away,
And life shall hence be holiday;
Nor jealous fears, nor strife, nor pain,
Shall vex the jovial heart again.

DIRGE, introduced into the Fifth Act of ROMEO and JULIET.

RISE, rise!
Heart-breaking sighs,
The woe-fraught bosom swell;
For sighs alone,
And dismal moan,
Should echo Juliet's knell.
She's gone—the sweetest flow'r of May,
That blooming blest our sight;
Those eyes which shone like breaking day,
Are set in endless night!
CHORUS—Rise, rise, &c.
She's gone, she's gone, nor leaves behind
So fair a form, so pure a mind;
How couldst thou, Death, at once destroy
The Lover's hope, the parent's joy?
CHORUS—Rise, rise, &c.
Thou spotless soul, look down below,
Our unfeign'd s rrow see;
Oh give us strength to bear our woe,
To bear the loss of thee!
CHORUS—Rise, rise, &c.

Sung by Mr. BEARD in Harlequin Ranger, acted at Drury-lane, Dec. 1751.

LEAVE neighbours your work, and to sport and to play;
Let the tabor strike up, and the village be gay;
No day thro' the year shall more chearful be seen,
For Ralph of the Mill marries Sue of the Green.
I love Sue, and Sue loves me,
And while the wind blows,
And while the mill goes,
Who'll be so happy, so happy as we!
Let lords, and fine folks who for wealth take a bride,
Be marry'd to-day, and to-morrow be cloy'd;
My body is stout, and my heart is as sound,
And my love, like my courage, will never give ground.
CHORUS—I love Sue, &c.
Let ladies of fashion the best jointures wed,
And prudently take the best bidders to bed;
Such signing and sealing's no part of our bliss,
We settle our hearts, and we seal with a kiss.
CHORUS—I love Sue, &c.
Tho' Ralph is not courtly, nor none of your beaus,
Nor bounces, nor flatters, nor wears your fine cloaths,
In nothing he'll follow the folks of high life,
Nor e'er turn his back on his friend, or his wife.
CHORUS—I love Sue, &c.
While thus I am able to work at my mill,
While thus thou art kind, and thy tongue but lies still,
Our joys shall continue, and ever be new,
And none be so happy as Ralph and his Sue.
CHORUS—I love, &c.

SONG, written in 1756.

THE lilies of France, and the fair English rose,
Cou'd never agree, as old history shews;
But our Edwards and Henrys those lilies have torn,
And in their gay standards such ensigns have borne,
To shew that Old England, beneath her strong lance,
Has humbled the pride and the glory of France.
What would those monsieurs, would they know how they ran?
Let them look at the annals of glorious queen Anne.
We heat them by sea, and we beat them by land,
When Marlbro' and Russel enjoy'd the command,
And we'll beat 'em again boys: so let 'em ad­vance:
Old England despises the insults of France.
Why let the grand monarch assemble his host,
And threaten invasions on Englands fair coast,
We bid them defiance: so let 'em come on,
Have at 'em; their business shall quickly be done;
Monsieurs, we will teach ye a new English dance
T' our grenadier-march, which shall frighten all France.
Our sov'reign, his soldiers, his sailors, are brave;
They'll triumph on land, or they'll triumph by wave;
What cause is so glorious to claim our last blood,
A country so blest, and a monarch so good:
Fair freedom smiles on us whose soul-chearing glance
Ne'er beam'd on the slaves, or the nobles of France.
Let us take up our muskets, and gird on our swords,
And monsieurs, ye'll find us as good as our words;
Beat drums, trumpets sound, and huzza for our king,
Then welcome, Bellcisle, with what troops thou can'st bring.
Huzza for Old England, whose strong-pointed lance
Shall humble the pride and the glory of France.

Sung by Mrs. CIBBER, in the character of PER­DITA, 1756.

COME come, my good shepherds, our flocks we must shear;
In your holiday suits, with your lasses appear:
The happiest of folk, are the guiltless and free,
And who are so guiltless, so happy as we?
We harbour no passions, by luxury taught,
We practise no arts, with hypocrisy fraught;
What we think in our hearts you may read in our eyes;
For knowing no falshood, we need no disguise.
By mode and caprice are the city dames led,
But we, as the children of nature are bred;
By her hand alone we are painted and dress'd;
For the roses will bloom, when there's peace in the breast.
That giant, ambition, we never can dread;
Our roofs are too low, for so lofty a head;
Content and sweet chearfulness open our door,
They smile with the simple, and feed with the poor.
When Love has possess'd us, that love we reveal;
Like the flocks that we feed, are the passions we feel;
So harmless and simple we sport and we play,
And leave to fine folks to deceive and betray.


YE true, honest Britions, who love your own land,
Whose sires were so brave, so victorious and free,
Who always beat France when they took her in hand,
Come join, honest Britons, in chorus with me.
Let us sing our own treasures, Old England's good cheer,
The profits and pleasures of stout British beer;
Your wine-tippling, dram-sipping fellows retreat,
But your beer-drinking Britons can never be beat.
The French, with their vineyards, are meagre and pale,
They drink of the squeezing of half ripen'd fruit,
But we, who have hop-grounds to mellow our ale,
Are rosy and plump, and have freedom to boot.
Let us sing, &c.
Should the French dare invade us, thus arm'd with our poles,
We'll bang their bare ribs, make their lanthorn jaws ring;
For your beef-eating, beer-drinking Britons are souls,
Who will shed their last drop for their country and king.
Let us sing, &c.


Enter Villeroy.
My friends, let me embrace you:
Welcome all—
What means this preparation!
[Seeing the Music.
1st. Fr.
A slight token
Of our best wishes for your growing happiness—
You must permit our friendship—
You oblige me—
1st Fr.
[Page 379]
But your lovely bride,—
That wonder of her sex, she must appear,
And add new brightness to this happy morning.
She is not yet prepar'd; and let her will,
My worthiest friend, determine her behaviour;
To win, and not to force her disposition,
Has been my seven years task. She will anon,
Speak welcome to you all. The music stays.
[Villeroy and his friends seat themselves.
Let all, let all be gay,
Begin the rapt'rons lay;
Let mirth, let mirth and joy,
Each happy hour employ,
Of this fair bridal day.
Ye love-wing'd hours, your flight,
Your downy flight prepare,
Bring every soft delight
To sooth the brave and fair.
Hail happy pair, thus in each other blest:
Be ever free from care, of ev'ry joy possest.
I thank you for this proof of your affection:
[...] am so much transported with the thoughts
Of what I am, I know not what I do.
[Page 380] My Isabella!—but possessing her,
Who wou'd not lose himself?—You'll pardon me—
Oh! there was nothing wanting to my soul,
But the kind wishes of my loving friends—
But our collation waits; where's Carlos now?
Methinks I am but half myself, without him.
2d Fr.
This is wonderful! Married a night and a day, and yet in raptures.
Oh! when you all get wives, and such
(If such another can be found)
You will rave too, doat on the dear content,
And prattle in their praise out of all bounds.
I cannot speak my bliss! 'Tis in my head,
'Tis in my heart, and takes up all my soul—
The labour of my fancy. You'll pardon me;
About some twelve months hence I may begin
To speak plain sense—Walk in, and honour me.
Enter Isabella.
My Isabella! Oh! the joy of my heart,
That I have leave at last to call you mine!
When I give up that title to the charms
Of any other wish, be nothing mine,
But let me look upon you, view you well.
This is a welcome gallantry indeed!
I durst not ask, but it was kind to grant,
Just at this time: dispensing with your dress
Upon this second day to greet our friends.
Black might be ominous;
I would not bring ill luck along with me.
[Page 381]
Oh! if your melancholy thoughts could change
With shifting of your dress—Time has done cures
Incredible this way, and may again.
I could have wish'd, if you had thought it fit,
Our marriage had not been so public.
Do not you grudge me my excess of love:
That was a cause it could not be conceal'd:
Besides, 'twould injure the opinion
I have of my good fortune, having you;
And lessen it in other peoples thoughts,
Busy on such occasions to enquire,
Had it been private.
I have no more to say.—
Enter Carlos.
My Carlos too, who came in to the sup­port
Of our bad fortune, has an honest right,
In better times, to share the good with us.
I come to claim that right, to share your joy;
To wish you joy; and find it in myself;
For a friend's happiness reflects a warmth,
A kindly comfort, into every heart
That is not envious.
He must be a friend,
Who is not envious of a happiness
So absolute as mine; but if you are,
[Page 382] (As I have reason to believe you are)
Concerned for my well-being, there's the cause;
Thank her for what I am, and what must be.
[Musick flourish.
I see you mean a second entertainment.
My dearest Isabella, you must hear
The rapture of my friends; from thee they spring;
Thy virtues have diffus'd themselves around,
And made them all as happy as myself.
I feel their favours with a grateful heart,
And willingly comply.
Take the gifts the gods intend ye,
Grateful meet the proffer'd joy;
Truth and honour shall attend ye;
Charms that ne'er can change or cloy.
Oh, the raptures of possessing,
Taking beauty to thy arms!
Oh the joy, the lasting blessing,
When with virtue beauty charms!
Purer flames shall gently warm ye;
Love and honour both shall charm thee.
Oh the raptures of, &c. &c.
[Page 383]
Far from hence be care and strife,
Far, the pang that tortures life:
May the circling minutes prove
One sweet round of peace and love.
'Tis fine, indeed!
You'll take my advice another time, sister.
What have you done? A rising smile
Stole from her thoughts, just redd'ning on her cheek,
And you have dash'd it.
I am sorry for't.
My friends, will you forgive me, when I own,
I must prefer her peace to all the world?
Come, Isabella, let us lead the way:
Within we'll speak our welcome to our friends,
And crown the happy festival with joy.

Sung by Mr. BEARD, and set to Music by Mr. OSWALD.*

GOOD Sir, do not start, I'll teach you an art,
By which you will ne'er miss your aim,
Be not squeamish or nice, to cut cards or cog dice,
All the world plays the best of the game.
See how each profession, and trades thro' the nation,
Will dupe all the world without shame,
Then why shou'd not we, in our turn be as free?
All the world plays the best of the game.
The lawyers of note, who squabble and quote,
Are expecting both riches and fame,
And all is but trick, the poor client to nick,
For the law plays the best of the game.
To gain his base ends, each lover pretends
To talk of his darts and his flame,
By which he draws in, the poor maiden to sin,
Who is left with the worst of the game.
And so the coy maid, with modesty's aid,
To foolish fond man does the same:
When the fool's in the net, the prude turns co­quette,
And her spouse has the worst of the game.
Then since the great plan, is cheat who cheat can,
Pray think not my notions to blame:
Join lawyers and proctors, maids, lovers and doctors,
All the world plays the best of the game.



I burn! I burn!—
Where e'er I turn
Each object feeds my flame;
The hinds that whistle care away,
The birds that sing, the beasts that play,
Shew what a wretch I am!
A wretch of reason and of power,
Who in this trying hour
Cannot conquer or retreat;
Passion all my pow'r disarms,
Moroc yields to woman's charms,
And trembles at her feet.


Intruder sleep! In vain you try
To hush my breast, and close my eye;
The morning dews refresh the flow'r,
That unmolested blows;
But ineffectual falls the show'r
Upon the canker'd rose.


Sigh not your hours away,
Youth should be ever gay;
Ever should dance around
Pleasure's enchanted ground:
Reason invites you,
Passion excites you,
Raptures abound!
Spring shall her sweets display,
Nature shall vie with art;
No clouds shall shade the day,
No grief the heart.
Love shall his treasures bring,
Beauty shall sport and sing,
Free as the Zephyr's wing,
Soft as his kiss,
Changing and Ranging
From bliss to bliss.
Free as the Zephry's wing, &c.
Come then sweet liberty!
Let us be ever free,
What's life without love, what's love without thee?


Whate'er you say, whate'er you do,
My heart shall still be fix'd and true;
The vicious bosom love deforms,
And rages there in gusts and storms;
But love with us a constant gale,
Just swells the sea, and fills the sail;
Neither of winds or waves the sport,
We rule the helm, and gain the port,


When youthful charms
Fly pleasure's arms,
Kind nature's gifts are vain;
We should not save,
What nature gave,
But kindly give again.
Tho' scorn and pride
Our wishes hide,
And tho' the tongue says, nay;
The honest heart,
Takes Pleasure's part,
Denying all we say.
The birds in spring,
Will sport and sing,
And revel thro' the grove;
And shall not we,
As blith and free,
With them rejoice and love?
Let love and joy,
Our spring employ,
Kind nature's law fulfil;
Then sport and play
Now whilst we may,
We cannot when we will.


Would you taste the sweets of love,
Ever change, and ever rove,
Fly at pleasure, and away;
Love's the cup of bliss and woe,
Nectar if you taste and go,
Poison if you stay.
Would you taste the sweets of love,
Never change, and never rove,
Fly from pleasures that betray,
Love's the cup of bliss and woe,
Poison if you taste and go,
Nectar if you stay.


Ye sons of simplicity,
Love and felicity,
Ye shepherds who pipe on the plain,
Leave your lambs and your sheep,
Our revels to keep,
Which Zoreb and Zaida ordain.
Your smiles and tranquillity,
Hearts of humility,
Each fiend of the bosom destroy;
For virtue and mirth
To blessing give birth,
Which Zoreb and Zaida enjoy.


How happy the hour,
When passion and pow'r
No longer united, no longer oppress:
When beauty and youth
With love, and with truth,
For ever united, for ever shall bless.

Sung by Mrs. CIBBER in The Way to keep Him, in the Character of Widow Bellmour.

YE fair married dames, who so often deplore
That a lover once blest, is a lover no more;
Attend to my counsel, nor blush to be taught
That prudence must cherish what beauty has caught.
The bloom of your cheek, and the glance of your eye,
Your roses and lilies may make the men sigh:
But roses, and lilies, and fighs pass away,
And passion will die as your beauties decay.
Use the man that you wed like your fav'rite guittar,
Tho' musick in both, they are both apt to jar;
How tuneful and soft from a delicate touch,
Not handled too roughly, nor play'd on too much!
The sparrow and linnet will feed from your hand,
Grow tame by your kindness, and come at com­mand:
Exert with your husband the same happy skill,
For hearts, like your birds, may be tam'd to your will.
Be gay and good-humour'd, complying and kind,
Turn the chief of your care from your face to your mind;
'Tis thus that a wife may her conquests improve,
And Hymen shall rivet the fetters of LOVE.

Sung by Mr. DODD.

In Part First.

TO arms! ye brave mortals, to arms!
The road to renown lies before you!
The name of King Shakespeare has charms
To rouse ye to actions of glory.
Away! ye brave mortals, away!
'Tis Nature calls on you to save her;
What man but would Nature obey,
And fight for her Shakespeare for ever?

In Part the Second.

OLD women we are,
And as wise in the chair,
As fit for the Quorum as men;
We can scold on the bench,
Or examine a wench,
And like them can be wrong now and then.
For look the world thro',
And you'll find one in ten,
Old women can do
As much as old men.
We can hear a sad case,
With a no-meaning face,
And tho' shallow, yet seem to be deep:
Leave all to the clerk;
For when matters grow dark,
Their worships had better go sleep.
—For look the world thro' &c.
When our wisdom is task'd,
And hard questions are ask'd,
We'll answer them best with a snore:
We can mump a tid bit,
And can joke without wit,
And what can their worships do more?
—For look the world thro', &c.

In Part the Third.

THRICE happy the nation that Shakespeare has charm'd!
More happy the bosoms his Genius has warm'd!
Ye children of nature, of fashion, and whim!
He painted you all, all join to praise him.
Come away! come away!
His Genius calls—you must obey!
From highest to lowest, from old to the young,
All states and conditions by him have been sung;
All passions and humours were rais'd by his pen;
He could soar with the eagle, and sing with the wren.
Come away, &c.
To praise him, ye Fairies, and Genii repair,
He knew where ye haunted, in earth or in air:
No phantom so subtle could glide from his view,
The wings of his fancy were swifter than you.
Come away! Come away!
His Genius calls—you must obey.

Sung by Mr. DODD, in the Character of Sparkish.

TELL not me of the roses and lilies,
Which tinge the fair cheek of your Phillis,
Tell not me of the dimples and eyes,
For which silly Corydon dies:
Let all whining lovers go hang,
My heart would you hit,
Tip your arrow with wit,
And it comes to my heart with a twang, twang.
And it comes to my heart with a twang.
I am rock to the handsome and pretty,
Can only be touch'd by the witty;
And beauty will ogle in vain,
The way to my heart's thro' my brain.
Let all whining lovers go hang,
We Wits, you must know,
Have two strings to our bow,
To return them their darts with a twang, twang.
To return them the darts with a twang.

Sung by Mr. BANNISTER in the Character of Merlin.

IF pure are the springs of the fountain,
As purely the river will flow,
If noxious the stream from the mountain,
It poisons the valley below:
So of vice, or of virtue, possest,
The throne makes the nation,
Thro' ev'ry gradation,
Or wretched, or blest.

Sung by Mrs. BADDELEY, in the Character of Urganda.

WHAT is knowledge, and beauty, and power,
Or what is my magical art?
Can I for a day, for an hour,
Have beauty to make the youth kind,
Have pow'r o'er his mind,
Or knowledge to warm his cold heart?
O! no—a weak boy all my magic disarms,
And I sigh all the day with my power and my charms.

Sung by Mrs. ABINGTON, in the Character of Fatima,

HITHER, all my spirits bend,
With your magic powers attend,
Chase the mists that cloud his mind:
Music melt the frozen boy,
Raise his soul to love and joy;
Dullness makes the heart unkind.

Sung by Miss ROGERS, in the Character of Cupid.

O! Why will you call me again,
'Tis in vain, 'tis in vain;
The pow'rs of a god
Cannot quicken this clod,
Alas!—it is labour in vain:
O Venus, my mother, some new object give her!
This blunts all my arrows, and empties my quiver.

Sung by Mr. VERNON, in the Character of Cymon.

YOU gave me last week a young linnet,
Shut up in a fine golden cage;
Yet how sad the poor thing was within it,
Oh how it did flutter and rage!
Then he mop'd and he pin'd,
That his wings were confin'd
Till I open'd the door of his den;
Then so merry was he,
And because he was free,
He came to his cage back again.

Sung by Mr. VERNON, in the Character of Cymon.

Oh liberty, liberty!
Dear happy liberty!
Nothing's like thee!
So merry are we,
My linnet and I,
From prison we're free,
Away we will fly,
To liberty, liberty,
Dear, happy liberty!
Nothing's like thee!

Sung by Mr. KING in the character of LINCO.

CARE flies from the lad that is merry,
Who's heart is as sound,
And cheeks are as round,
As round and as red as a cherry.

Sung by Mr. KING, in the character of Linco,

I laugh, and I sing,
I am blithsome and free,
The rogue's little sting,
It can never reach me:
For with fal, la, la, la!
And ha, ha, ha, ha!
It can never reach me.
My skin is so tough,
Or so blinking is he,
He can't pierce my buff,
Or he misses poor me.
For with fal, la, la, la!
And ha, ha, ha, ha!
He misses poor me.
O, never be dull,
By the said willow tree:
Of mirth be brimful,
And run over like me.
For with fal, la, la, la!
And ha, ha, ha, ha!
Run over like me.

Sung by Mr. KING in the character of LINCO.

If you make it your plan,
To love but one man,
By one you are surely betray'd:
Shou'd he prove untrue,
Oh! what can you do?
Alas you must die an old maid.
And you too must die an old maid.
Wou'd you ne'er take a sup,
But out of one cup,
And it proves brittle ware, you are curst:
If down it shou'd tip,
Or thro' your hands slip,
O how wou'd you then quench your thirst.
O how, &c.
If your palate to hit,
You chuse but one bit,
And that dainty tit-bit should not keep:
Then restless you lie,
Pout, whimper and cry,
And go without supper to sleep.
And go, &c.
As your shepherds have chose,
Two strings to their bows.
Shall one for each female suffice?
Take two, three, or four,
Like me take a score,
And then you'll be merry and wise.

Sung by Mr. VERNON in the Character of Cymon.

All amaze!
Wonder, praise,
Here for ever could I gaze!
Creep still near it,
Yet I fear it,
I can neither stay nor go,
Can't forsake it,
Dare not wake it,
Shall I touch it?—no! no! no!
(advances and retires.)
Cymon, sure thou art possest,
Something's got into thy breast,
Gently stealing,
Strangely feeling,
And my heart is panting so,
I am sad and merry, sick and well,
What it is I cannot tell,
Makes me thus—heigho! heigho.

Sung by Mrs. ARNE, in the Character of Sylvia.

YET awhile, sweet sleep, deceive me,
Fold me in thy downy arms,
Let not care awake to grieve me,
Lull it with thy potent charms.
I, a turtle, doom'd to stray,
Quitting young the parent's nest,
Find each bird a bird of prey;
Sorrow knows not where to rest!

Sung by Mrs. ARNE and Mr. VERNON in Sylvia and Cymon.

O Take this nosegay, gentle youth,
And you, sweet maid, take mine;
Unlike these flow'rs, be thy fair truth;
Unlike these flow'rs be thine.
These changing soon,
Will soon decay,
Be sweet till noon,
Then pass away.
Fair for a time their transient charms appear;
But truth unchang'd shall bloom for ever here.

Sung by Mr. VERNON, in the Character of Cymon.

WHAT exquisite pleasure!
This sweet treasure
From me they shall never Sever;
In thee, in thee,
My charmer I see:
I'll sigh and caress thee,
I'll kiss thee and press thee,
Thus, thus, to my bosom for ever and ever.

Sung by Mrs. BADDELEY, in the Character of Urganda.

HENCE every hope, and every fear!
Awake, awake, my power and pride,
Let jealousy, stern jealousy appear!
With vengeance at her side!
Who scorns my Charms, my pow'r shall prove,
Revenge succeeds to slighted love!
Revenge!—But Oh, my sighing heart
With rebel love takes part;
Now pants again with all her fears,
And drowns her rage in tears.

Sung by Mrs. ARNE, in the Character of Sylvia.

THESE flowers, like our hearts, are united in one,
And are bound up so fast, that they can't be undone;
So well they are blended, so beauteous to sight,
There springs from their union a tenfold delight;
Nor poison, nor weed here, our passion to warn;
But sweet without Briar, the rose without thorn.

Sung by Mrs. ARNE, in the Character of Sylvia.

O Why should we sorrow, who never knew sin!
Let smiles of content shew our rapture within:
This love has so rais'd me, I now tread in air!
He's sure sent from heav'n to lighten my care!
Each shepherdess views me with scorn and disdain!
Each shepherd pursues me, but all is in vain:
No more will I sorrow, no longer despair,
He's sure sent from heav'n to lighten my care!

Sung by Mrs. BRADSHAW, in the Character of Dorcas.

WHEN I were young, tho' now am old,
The men were kind and true:
But now they're grown so false and bold,
What can a woman do?
Now what can a woman do?
For men are truly,
So unruly,
I tremble at seventy-two.
When I were fair—tho' now so, so,
No hearts were given to rove,
Our pulses beat nor fast nor slow,
But all was faith and love:
What can a woman do?
Now what can a woman do?
For men are truly,
So unruly,
I tremble at seventy-two!

Sung by Mr. KING in the character of Linco.

IF she whispers the judge, be he ever so wise,
Tho' great and important his trust is;
His hand is unsteady, a pair of black eyes
Will kick up the balance of justice.
If his passions are strong, his judgment grows weak,
For love thro' his veins will be creeping;
And his worship, when near to a round dimple cheek,
Tho' he ought to be blind, will be peeping.

Sung by Mr. PARSONS, in the Character of Dor [...].

SMILE, damsel, smile,
I'll frown upon your foe;
I'll pack her off, the vagrant vile,
This moment she shall go.
Smile, damsel, smile.
Sweet hazle nut,
The wicked slut
Shall trudge for many a mile;
And all that I shall ask for this,
Is now and then a harmless kiss,
Smile, damsel, smile.

Sung by Mrs. ARNE, in the Character of Sylvia.

FROM duty if the shepherd stray,
And leave his flocks to feed,
The wolf will seize the harmless prey,
And Innocence will bleed.
In me a harmless lamb behold,
Opprest with every fear;
O guard, good shepherd, guard the fold,
For wicked wolves are near.

Sung by Mr. KING, in the Character of Linco.

SING high derry derry,
The day is our own;
Be wise and be merry,
Let sorrow alone:
Alter your tone,
To high derry derry,
Be wise and be merry,
The day is our own.

Sung by Mr. CHAMPNESS, in the Character of the Demon of Revenge.

WHILE mortals charm their cares by sleep,
And demons howl below,
Urganda calls us from the deep;
Arise, ye sons of woe!
Ever busy, ever willing,
All these horrid tasks fulfilling,
Which draw from mortal breasts the groan,
And make their torments like our own.
CHORUS of Demons under Ground,
We come, we come, we come!

Sung by Mr. KING, in the character of Linco.

WHEN peace here was reigning,
And love without waining,
Or care or complaining,
Base passions disdaining;
This, this was my way,
With my pipe and my tabor,
I laugh'd down the day,
Nor envy'd the joys of my neighbour.
Now sad transformation
Runs thro' the whole nation;
Peace, love, recreation,
All chang'd to vexation;
This, this is my way,
With my pipe and my tabor,
I laugh down the day,
And pity the cares of my neighbour.
While all are designing,
Their friends undermining,
Reviling, repining,
To mischief inclining;
This, this is my way,
With my pipe and my tabor,
I laugh down the day,
And pity the cares of my neighbour.

Sung by Mr. BANNISTER, in the character of Merlin.

BE sure you regard what I say,
My commands to a tittle obey,
Beware, beware,
I ride in the air,
And will watch you by night and by day;
Tho' I raise both the sea and the wind,
The tempest in fetters can bind,
Yet my magic, more pow'rful and strong,
Can stop the full tide of a woman's tongue.

Sung by Mrs. ABINGTON, in the character of Fatima.

TAX my tongue, it is a shame:
Merlin, sure, is much to blame,
Not to let it sweetly flow.
Yet the favours of the great,
And the silly maiden's fate,
Oft depend on yes or no.
Poor Fatima!
Stinted so,
To yes or no.
Should I want to talk and chat,
Tell Urganda this or that,
How shall I about it go!
Let her ask me what she will,
I must keep my clapper still,
Striking only yes or no.
Poor Fatima!
Stinted so,
To yes or no!

Sung by Mr. VERNON, in the character of Cymon.

COME on, come on,
A thousand to one,
I dare you to come on.
Tho' unpractis'd and young,
Love has made me stout and strong;
[Page 411] Has giv'n me a charm,
Will not suffer me to fall;
Has steel'd my heart, and nerv'd my arm,
To guard my precious all.
(Looking at Sylvia
Come on, come on, &c.


TORN from me, torn from me, which way did they take her?
To death they shall bear me,
To pieces shall tear me,
Before I'll forsake her!
Tho' fast bound in a spell,
By Urganda and hell,
I'll burst thro' their charms,
Seize my fair in my arms,
Then my valour shall prove,
No magic like virtue, like virtue and love.

Sung by Mrs. BADDELEY, in the character of Urganda.

THO' still of raging winds the sport,
My shipwreck'd heart shall gain the port;
Revenge, the pilot steers the way;
No more of tenderness and love,
The eagle in her gripe has seiz'd the dove,
And thinks of nothing but her prey.

Sung by Mrs. ARNE, in the character of Sylvia.

Tho' various deaths surround me,
No terrors can confound me;
Protected from above,
I glory in my love!
Against thy cruel might,
And in this dreadful hour,
I have a sure defence,
'Tis innocence!
That heav'nly right,
To smile on guilty power!


Each heart and each voice
In Arcadia rejoice;
Let gratitude raise
To Merlin our praise:
Long, long may we share
The joys of this pair!
Long, long may they live,
To share the bliss they give!

Concluding AIRS, and CHORUSSES to Cymon.

Each shepherd again shall be constant and kind,
And ev'ry stray'd heart shall each shepherdess find.
If faithful our shepherds, we always are true,
Our faith and our falshood we borrow from you.
While we're virtuous, while we're free,
Ever happy shall we be.
Let those who the sword and the balance must hold,
To interest be blind, and to beauty be cold:
When justice has eyes her integrity fails,
Her sword becomes blunted, and down drop her scales.
While we're virtuous, &c.
[Page 414]
The bliss of your heart no rude care shall molest;
While innocent mirth is your bosom's sweet guest;
Of that happy pair let us worthy be seen,
Love, honour, and copy your king and your queen.
While we're virtuous, &c.
Let love, peace and joy still be seen hand in hand,
To dance on this turf, and again bless the land.
Love and Hymen of blessings have open'd their store,
For Cymon with Sylvia can wish nothing more.
Love and Hymen of blessings have open'd their store,
For Cymon with Sylvia can wish nothing more.
For Sylvia with Cymon can wish nothing more.
While we're virtuous, while we're free,
Ever happy shall we be!


The Curtain rises to soft Music after the Overture, and discovers Orpheus asleep upon a Couch with his Lyre near him—after the Symphony—
RECITATIVE accompanied.
ORPHEUS (dreaming.)
I COME—I go—I must—I will.
(half awake.)
Bless me!—Where am I?—Here I am still—
(quite awake.)
Tho' dead, she haunts me still, my wife!
In death my torment, as in life;
By day, by night, whene'er she catches
Poor me asleep—she thumps and scratches;
No more, she cries, with harlots revel,
But fetch me, Orpheus, from the devil.
[Page 416]
Tho' she scolded all day, and all night did the same,
Tho' she was too rampant, and I was too tame;
Tho' shriller her notes than the ear-piercing fife,
I must and I will go to hell for my wife.
As the sailor can't rest, if the winds are too still,
As the miller sleeps best by the clack of his mill,
So I was most happy in tumult and strife;
I must and I will go to hell for my wife.
[Going out.]
Your wife, you driv'ler!—is it so?
But I'll play hell before you go.
ORPHEUS (aside.)
With fear and shame my cheeks are scarlet;
I've prais'd my wife before my harlot.
Go, fetch your wife, thou simple man;
What, keep us both?—is that your plan?
And dar'st thou, Orpheus, think of two?
When one's too much by one for you.
[Page 417]
My mind is fix'd—in vain this strife;
To hell I go to fetch my wife.—
(Going, Rhodope holds him.)
RHODOPE (in tears.)
Is this your affection,
Your vows and protection
To bring back your wife to the house?
When she knows what I am,
As a wolf the poor lamb,
As a cat she will mumble the mouse.
Air and Recit.
Pray cease your pathetic,
And I'll be prophetic,
Two ladies at once in my house;
Two cats they will be,
And mumble poor me:
The poor married man is the mouse.
Yet hear me, Orpheus, can you be,
So vulgar as to part with me,
[Page 418] And fetch your wife?—am I forsaken?
O give me back what you have taken!
In vain I rave, my fate deplore,
A ruin'd ma d, is maid no more!
Your love alone is reparation,
Give me but that, and this for reputation.
(Snaps her fingers.)
When Orpheus you
Were kind and true,
Of joy I had my fill;
Now Orpheus roves,
And faithless proves,
Alas! the bitter pill!
As from the bogs
The wounded flogs
Call'd out, I call to thee;
O naughty boy,
To you 'tis joy,
Alas! 'tis death to me.
In vain are all your sobs and sighs,
In vain the rhet'rick of your eyes;
To wind and rain my heart is rock;
The more you cry—the more I'm block.
[Page 419]
Since my best weapon, crying, fails,
I'll try my tongue, and then my nails.
Mount if you will, and reach the sky,
Quick as lightning would I fly,
And there would give you battle;
Like the thunder I would rattle.
Seek if you will the shades below,
Thither, thither will I go,
Your faithless heart appall!
My rage no bounds shall know—
Revenge my bosom stings,
And jealousy has wings,
To rise above 'em all!
[Orpheus snatches up the Lyre.]
This is my weapon, don't advance,
I'll make you sleep, or make you dance.
One med'cine cures the gout,
Another cures a cold,
This can drive your passions out,
Nay even cure a scold.
Have you gout or vapours,
I in sleep,
Your senses steep,
Or make your legs cut capers.
DUETTO. (accompanied with the Lyre.)
I cannot have my swing,
Ting, ting, ting.
My tongue has lost its twang,
Tang, tang, tang.
My eyes begin to twinkle,
Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,
My hands dingle dangle,
Tangle, tangle, tangle.
My spirits sink,
Tink, tink, tink.
Alas my tongue,
Ting, tang, tong,
Now 'tis all o'er,
I can no more.
But go-to-sleep—and—sno-o-re.
[Sinks by degrees upon a couch, and falls asleep.
'Tis done, I'm free,
And now for thee,
Behold what's seldom seen in life,
I leave my mistress for my wife.
[Page 421] Who's there?
(Calls a servant who peeps in,)
Come in—nay never peep;
The danger's o'er—she's fast asleep,
Do not too soon her fury rouse,
I go to hell—to fetch my spouse.
AIR. (Repeated.)
Tho' she scolded all day, and all night did the same,
Tho' she was too rampant, and I was too tame;
Tho' shriller her notes than the ear-piercing fife,
I must and I will go to hell for my wife.
[Exit singing.
Scene changes to a mountainous Country, cows, sheep, goats, &c.
After a short symphony,
Enter ORPHEUS, playing upon his lyre.
Thou dear companion of my life,
My friend, my mistress and my wife,
Much dearer than all three;
Should they be saithless and deceive me,
Thy grand specific can relieve me,
All med'cines are in thee,
Thou veritable Beaume de vi [...]!
[Page 422]
Now wake my lyre, to sprightlier strains,
Inspire with joy both beasts, and swains,
Give us no soporific potion,
But notes shall set the fields in motion.
Breathe no ditty,
Soft and pretty,
Charming female tongues to sleep;
Goats shall flaunt it,
Cows currant it,
Shepherds frisk it with their sheep
Enter OLD SHEPHERD with others.
Stop, stop your noise you fiddling fool,
We want not here a dancing school.
Shepherd, be cool, forbear this vap'ring,
Or this* shall set you all a cap'ring.
Touch it again, and I shall strait,
Beat time with this upon your pate.
[Page 423]
I dare you all, your threats, your blows,
Come one and all, we now are foes.
Zounds! what's the matter with my toes?
(Begins to dance
From top to toe,
Above, below,
The tingling runs abou me
I feel it here,
I feel it there,
Within me, and without me.
From top to toe,
Above, below,
The charm shall run about you;
Now tingle here,
Now tingle there,
Within you, and without you.
[Page 424]
O cut those strings,
Those tickling things,
Of that same cursed scraper;
Chorus of SHEPHERDS.
We're dancing too,
And we like you,
Can only cut a caper.
They cut the strings,
Those foolish things,
They cannot hurt the scraper!
They're dancing too,
And they like you,
Can only cut a caper.
Chorus of SHEPHERDS.
We're dancing too,
And we like you,
Can only cut a caper.
As I'm alive,
I'm sixty-five,
And that's no age for dancing;
I'm past the game,
O sie for shame,
Old men should not be prancing:
[Page 425] O cut the strings,
Those tickling things,
Of that same cursed scraper;
Chorus of SHEPHERDS.
We're dancing too,
And we like you,
Can only cut a caper.
They cut the strings,
Those foolish things,
They cannot hurt the scraper;
They're dancing too,
And they like you,
Can only cut a caper.
We're dancing too,
And we like you,
Can only cut a caper.

SONGS at the JUBILEE, at Stratford upon Avon, September 1769*.

To the LADIES.
Sung by Mr. VERNON.

LET beauty with the sun arise,
To SHAKESPEARE tribute pay,
With heavenly smiles and speaking eyes,
Give grace and lustre to the day.
Each smile she gives protects his name,
What face shall dare to frown?
Not envy's self can blast the fame,
Which beauty deigns to crown:

Sung by Messrs. VERNON and DIEDEN.

YE Warwickshire lads, and ye lasses,
See what at our Jubilee passes,
Come revel away, rejoice and be glad,
For the lad of all lads, was a Warwickshire lad,
Warwickshire lad,
All be glad,
For the lad of all lads, was a Warwickshire lad.
Be proud of the charms of your county,
Where nature has lavish'd her bounty,
Where much she has giv'n, and some to be spar'd
For the bard of all bards, was a Warwickshire bard,
Warwickshire bard,
Never pair'd,
For the bard of all bards, was a Warwickshire bard.
Each shire has its different pleasures,
Each shire has its different treasures;
But to rare Warwickshire, all must submit,
For the wit of all wits, was a Warwickshire wit.
Warwickshire wit,
How he writ!
For the wit of all wits, was a Warwickshire wit.
Old Ben, Thomas Otway, John Dryden,
And half a score more we take pride in,
Of famous Will Congreve, we boast too the skill,
But the Will of all Wills, was Warwickshire Will.
Warwickshire Will,
Matchless still,
For the Will of all Wills, was a Warwickshire Will.
Our SHAKESPEARE compar'd is to no man,
Nor Frenchman, nor Grecian, nor Roman,
Their swans are all geese, to the Avon's sweet swan,
And the man of all men, was a Warwickshire man,
Warwickshire man,
Avon's swan,
And the man of all men, was a Warwickshire man.
As ven'son is very inviting,
To steal it our bard took delight in,
To make his friends merry he never was lag,
And the wag of all wags, was a Warwickshire wag,
Warwickshire wag,
Ever brag,
For the wag of all wags, was a Warwickshire wag.
There never was seen such a creature,
Of all she was worth, he robb'd nature;
He took all her smiles, and he took all her grief,
And the thief of all thieves, was a Warwickshire thief,
Warwickshire thief,
He's the chief,
For the thief of all thieves, was a Warwickshire thief.

Sung by Mrs. BADDELEY.

THE pride of all nature was sweet Willy O,
The first of all swains,
He gladden'd the plains,
None ever was like to sweet Willy O.
He sung it so rarely the sweet Willy O,
He melted each maid,
So skilful he play'd,
No shepherd e'er pip'd like the sweet Willy O.
All nature obey'd him, this sweet Willy O,
Wherever he came,
Whate'er had a name,
Whenever he sung follow'd sweet Willy O.
He would be a * soldier, this sweet Willy O,
When arm'd in the field,
With sword and with shield,
The laurel was won by the sweet Willy O,
He charm'd 'em when living, the sweet Willy O,
And when Willy dy'd,
'Twas Nature that sigh'd,
To part with her all in the sweet Willy O.

Sung with a Cup in his Hand made of the Tree,
By Mr. VERNON, and others.

BEHOLD this fair goblet, 'twas carv'd from the tree,
Which, O my sweet Shakespeare, was planted by thee;
As a relick I kiss it, and bow at the shrine,
What comes from thy hand must be ever divine!
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree,
Bend to thee,
Blest Mulberry,
Matchless was he
Who planted thee,
And thou like him immortal shall be!
Ye trees of the forest, so rampant and high,
Who spread round their branches, whose heads sweep the sky,
Ye curious exotics, whom taste has brought here,
To root out the natives at prices so dear,
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. &c.
The oak is held royal, is Britain's great boast,
Preserv'd once our king, and will always our coast,
But of fir we make ships, we have thousands that fight,
While one, only one, like our Shakespeare can write.
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. &c.
Let Venus delight in gay myrtle bowers,
Pomona in fruit trees, and Flora in flowers,
The garden of Shakespeare all fancies will suit,
With the sweetest of flowers, and fairest of fruit,
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. &c.
With learning and knowledge the well-letter'd birch,
Supplies law and physic, and grace for the church,
But law and the gospel in Shakespeare we find,
And he gives the best physick for body and mind.
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. &c.
The fame of the Patron gives fame to the tree,
From him and his merits this takes its degree;
Let Phoebus and Bacchus their glories resign,
Our tree shall surpass both the laurel and vine.
All shall yield to the Mulberry-tree, &c. &c.
The genius of Shakespeare outshines the bright day,
More rapture than wine to the heart can convey,
So the tree that he planted, by making his own,
Has laurel, and bays, and the vine all in one.
All shall yield to the mulberry tree, &c.
Then each take a relick of this hallow'd tree,
From folly and fashion a charm let it be
Fill fill to the planter, the cup to the brim,
To honour the country, do honour to him.
All shall yield to the mulberry tree,
Bend to thee,
Blest mulberry,
Matchless was he
Who planted thee,
And thou like him immortal shall be.


THIS is the day, a holiday! a holiday!
Drive spleen and rancour far away,
This is the day, a holiday! a holiday!
Drive care and sorrow far away.
[Page 434] * Here Nature nurs'd her darling boy,
From whom all care and sorrow fly,
Whose harp the muses strung:
From heart to heart let joy rebound,
Now, now, we tread enchanted ground,
Here Shakespeare walk'd, and sung!

To the immortal Memory of SHAKESPEARE.

IMMORTAL be his name,
His memory, his fame!
Nature and her works we see!
Matchless Shakespeare, full in thee!
Join'd by everlasting tyes,
Shakespeare but with Nature dies.
Immortal be his name,
His memory, his fame!

Sung by Mrs. BADDELEY and Miss RADLEY.

PRITHEE tell me, cousin Sue,
Why they make so much to do,
Why all this noise and clatter?
Why all this hurry, all this bustle,
Law how they crowd, and bawl and justle,
I caunno' guess the matter:
For whom must all this puther be?
The Emperor of Garmanee,
Or Great Mogul is coming,
Such eating, drinking, dancing, singing,
Such cannon firing, bells a ringing,
Such trumpetting and drumming!
All this for a Poet—O no—
Who liv'd lord knows how long ago!
How can you jeer one,
How can you fleer one,
A poet, a poet, O no,
'Tis not so,
Who liv'd lord knows how long ago.
[Page 436] It must be some great man.
A prince, or a state-man,
It can't be a poet—O no:
Your poet is poor,
And nobody sure
Regards a poor poet I trow:
The rich ones we prize,
Send 'em up to the skies,
But not a poor poet—O no—
Who liv'd lord knows how long ago.
Yet now I can call to mind,
Our larned doctor boasted,
One SHIKSPUR did of all mankind
Receive from heav'n the most-head—
That he could wonders do,
And did 'em o'er and o'er,
Raise sprites, and lay 'em too,
The like ne'er seen before.
A conjuror was he!
Who with a pen in hond,
Had earth, and air, and sea,
And all things at commaund.
O'er each heart he was ruler,
Made 'em warmer or cooler,
Could make 'em to laugh or to cry:
What we lock'd in our breasts,
Tho' as close as in chests,
Was not hid from the conjuror's eye:
Tho' sins I have none,
I am glad he is gone,
No maid could live near such a mon.
If he saw ye he knew ye,
Would look thro' and thro' ye,
Thro' skin, and your flesh and your cloaths,
Had you vanity, pride,
Fifty follies beside,
He would see 'em, as plain as your nose:
Tho' sins I have none,
I am glad he is gone,
No maid would live near such a mon.
Let us sing it, and dance it,
Rejoice it, and prance it,
That no man has now such an art;
What would come of us all,
Both the great ones, and small,
Should he live to peep now in each heart?
Tho' sins I have none,
I am glad he is gone,
No maid could live near such a mon.

Sung by Mr. VERNON in The Installation of the Garter, a Masque, acted at Drury-lane 1771, in the Character of The Fool.

O the glorious Installation!
Happy nation!
You shall see the King and Queen,
Such a scene!
Valour he, sir,
Virtue she, sir,
Which our hearts will ever win;
Sweet her face is,
With such graces,
Shew what goodness dwells within.
O the glorious Installation!
Happy nation!
You shall see the noble Knights!
Charming fights!
Feathers wagging,
Velvet dragging,
Trailing, sailing on the ground;
Loud in talking,
Proud in walking,
Nodding, ogling, smirking round—
O the glorious, &c.

Sung by Mrs. WRIGHTEN in the character of Robinette.

MY eyes may speak pleasure,
Tongue flow without measure,
Yet my heart in my bosom lies still;
Thus the river is flowing,
The mill-clapper going,
But the miller's asleep in his mill.
Though lovers surround me,
With speeches confound me,
Yet my heart in my bosom lies still;
Thus the river is flowing,
The mill-clapper going.
But the miller's asleep in his mill.
The little God eyes me,
And thinks to surprise me,
But my heart is awake in my breast;
Thus boys silly creeping,
Would catch the bird sleeping,
But the linnet's awake in his nest.

Sung by Mrs. WRIGHTEN in the character of Robinette.

O THE freaks of womankind!
As swift as thought we breed 'em:
No whims will starve in woman's mind,
For vanity will feed 'em;
Teazing ever,
Steady never;
Who the shifting clouds can bind?
O the freaks of womankind! &c.
[Page 441] Quick of ear, and sharp of eye,
Others faults we hear and spy,
But to our own,
We are both deaf and blind.
O the freaks of womankind! &c.

Sung by Mrs. SMITH in the character of Camilla.

WOMAN should be wisely kind,
Nor give her passion scope;
Just reveal her inclination,
Never wed without probation,
Nor in the lover's mind,
Blight the sweet blossom, hope.
Youth and beauty kindle love,
Sighs and vows will fan the fire;
Sighs and vows may traitors prove,
Sorrow then succeeds desire;
Honour, faith, and well-earn'd fame,
Feed the sacred lasting flame!

Sung by Mr. VERNON in the character of Florida.

'TIS beauty commands me, my heart must obey;
'Tis honour that calls me, and fame leads the way!
From the soft silken fetters of pleasure I fly,
With my love I must live, or with honour, will die.
I wake from my trance,
Bring the sword, shield, and lance,
My name shall be famous in story;
Now danger has charms,
For love sounds to arms,
And love is my passion and glory!

Sung by Mrs. SMITH, in the character of Camilla.

O TAKE this wreath my hand has wove,
The pledge and emblem of my love;
These flow'rs will keep their brightest hue,
Whilst you are constant, kind, and true.
But should you, false to love and me,
Wish from my fondness to be free,
Foreboding that my fate is nigh,
Each grateful flow'r will droop and die!

CHORUS of EVIL SPIRITS, from the prisons

MIGHTY master, hear our sighs!
Let thy slaves be free!
With folded hands and lifted eyes
We call to thee!
O end the strife!
You grant us life;
Grant us still more—sweet liberty!
BONORO, Mr. Bannister.
Wretched, base and blind,
Evil spirits peace!
Your clamours cease;
By guilt confin'd,
In vain the mind
Pants for freedom's happy hour;
In pity to your pains,
I loos'd your chains,
But circumscrib'd your pow'r,
In pity to mankind.

Sung by Mr. BANNISTER, in the character of Bonoro.

THOUGH strong your nerves to poise the spear,
Or raise the massy shield;
Though swift as lightning through the air
The sword of death you wield;
'Tis from the heart, the pow'r must flow,
To conquer, and forgive the foe.
[Page 444] Though edg'd by spells, and magic charms,
Your sword may reap renown;
'Tis honour consecrates your arms,
And gives the laurel crown!
'Tis from the heart, the pow'r must flow,
To conquer, and forgive the foe.

Sung by Mr. VERNON in the Character of Floridor.

THO' honour loudly strikes my ear,
The softer notes of love prevailing,
Every sense assailing,
Swell with hope, or sink with fear!
Who for the goal of glory start,
To love, as honour true,
Would ne'er forbid this trembling heart
To sigh a last adieu!
I go—my faith and troth to prove,
Valor ne'er was foe to love;
I will, I must obey the call,
Love's triumphant over all!


O hear me, kind and gentle swain,
Let love's sweet voice delight you;
The ear of youth should drink each strain,
When beauty's lips invite you.
As love and valor warm your heart,
And faith and honour guard you;
From wounded breasts extract the dart,
And beauty will reward you:
Our tear-stain'd eyes their wish disclose,
Can cruel you refuse 'em?
O wipe the dew from off the rose,
And place it in your bosom.

CHORUS of Evil Spirits in A Christmas Tale.

'Tis done! 'tis done! 'tis done!
We break the galling chain!
We fly, we sink, and run,
From tyranny,
To liberty!
To liberty—again!
Revel, riot, dance and play,
Folly sleeps, and Vice keeps holiday!

DIALOGUE SONG in A Christmas Tale.
Sung by Mrs. SMITH and Mr. VERNON in the Characters of Camilla and Floridor.

Look round the earth, nor think it strange
To doubt of you when all things change;
The branching tree, the blooming flower,
Their form and hue, change every hour;
While all around such change I see,
Alas! my heart must fear for thee.
Blighted and chill'd by cruel frost,
Their vigor droops, their beauty's lost;
My cheek may fade by your disdain,
To change my heart, all pow'r is vain;
Look round the earth, the flow'r and tree,
To nature's true as I to thee.
Look up to heav'n—nor think it strange,
To doubt of you, when all things change;
Sun, moon, and stars, those forms so bright,
Are changing ever to the sight!
While in the heav'ns such change I see,
Alas! my heart must fear for thee!
[Page 447]
Clouded or bright, the moon and sun
Are constant to the course they run;
So gay, or sad, my heart as true,
Rises and sets to love and you:
Look in the heav'ns, each star you see,
True to its orb, as I to thee.

Sung by Mr. Bannister, Mrs. Smith, and Mr. Vernon, in the Characters of Bonoro, Camilla, and Floridor.

May heav'ns blessing blend with mine!
To crown thy deeds at virtue's shrine,
Be love's best gift, Camilla, thine.
May ev'ry sigh that's heav'd by me,
And ev'ry wish that's breath'd for thee,
Be prosp'rous gales on fortune's sea.
[Page 448]
O when my bark, the tempest o'er,
With pilot, love, shall gain this shore,
Ambition cannot ask for more!
Of ev'ry blessing love's the source,
Valor but an empty name,
A roving, wild, destructive flame,
'Till love and justice guide its course,
And then it mounts to fame!

Sung by Mrs. WRIGHTEN, in the Character of Robinette.

THRO' all our hearts philosophers have taught,
A subtle vapour flies,
Warm'd in the veins, it kindles quick as thought,
And sparkles in the eyes.
Be warn'd, ye fair, and retire,
Fly far from the flash,
You'll repent if you're rash,
O never play with fire!
If a youth comes, with a grace and a song,
Like Phoebus deck'd in rays,
Then to your heart the fiery atoms throng,
And set it in a blaze.
Be warn'd, ye fair, &c.
But should the youth come with honour and truth,
Fly not your lover's rays,
His heart in a flame, let your's be the same,
And make a mutual blaze!
From him we need not retire,
When such can be found,
We may stand our ground,
O then we may play with fire.

Sung by Mrs. SMITH in the character of Ca­milla.

O how weak will power and reason
To this bosom tyrant prove,
Every act is fancied treason,
To the jealous sovereign Love!
Passion urg'd the youth to danger,
Passion calls him back again;
Passion is to peace a stranger,
Seek I must my bliss or bane.
So the fever'd minds that languish,
And in scorching torments rave,
Thus to end or ease their anguish,
Headlong plunge into the wave.

Sung by Mr. PARSONS in the character of Fa­ladel.

You would not stay,
I follow'd gay,
Like faithful Tray,
With you to play,
Or here to stay,
At feet to lay;
For by my fay,
I will obey,
Whate'er you say,
By night or day,
Whilst I am clay,
For ever aye,
Take pity—pray—

Sung by Mr. PARSONS in the character of Fa­ladel.

BY my faith and wand,
Gracing now my hand,
I'm at your command,
For ever and for aye.
Heart within my breast,
Never shall have rest,
'Till of yours possest;
Do you want a Knight?
Ready, brisk and tight,
Foes and friends to sight,
For ever and for aye.
If you want a slave,
Whom you will not save,
Send me to my grave,
I'm dead—alack-a-day!

Intended to have been sung by Mr. PARSONS in the Character of Faladel.

ONCE as merry as the lark
I mounted to the sky,
But now I'm grown a sober spark,
And like an owl,
The wisest fowl,
Will roll a dismal eye;
For Robinette will have it so,
And what she will shall be,
I therefore take to ho! ho! ho!
And turn off he! he! he!
Once as merry as the kid,
I frisk'd it o'er the ground,
But since I am to laugh forbid,
An ass I am,
A sheep, a lamb,
Shut up in dismal pound:
For Robinette will have it so,
And what she will shall be,
I therefore take to ho! ho! ho!
And turn off he! he! he!

Sung by Mrs. Wrighten and Mr. Parsons in the characters of Robinette and Faladel.

O the delight!
To be an errant knight!
O'er mountain, hill and rock,
In rain, and wind, and snow,
All dangers he must mock,
And must with pleasure go.
Quivering and quaking,
Shivering and shaking,
Dismal nights,
Horrid sprites,
Lions roaring,
Monsters snoring,
Castles tumbling,
Thunder grumbling:
O the delight!
To be an errant knight!
Damsels squeaking,
Devils shrieking,
Clubs and giants,
Hurl defiance,
[Page 454] Night and day,
Lose the way,
Spirits sinking,
Nothing drinking,
Beat and beating,
Little eating,
Broken bones,
Beds of stones,
O the delight!
To be an errant knight!

Sung by Mr. VERNON in the character of Floridor.

CRUEL fiends pursue me!
Torment me, and undo me!
My rising hopes are crost,
My sword and shield are lost!
My breast with valor glow'd,
Fame her temple shew'd,
Fiends have interpos'd,
The gates are ever, ever clos'd!
Away with despair to the wind,
Nothing daunts the noble mind;
Crown'd with these flowers I'll take the field,
My foes with this charm I will face,
Love alone shall supply the place,
Of helmet, sword, and shield!

Sung by Mrs. SMITH in the character of Camilla.

YOUNG man, young man,
Be this your plan,
Wisdom get where'er you can;
See, see,
The humble bee,
Draws wealth from the meanest of flowers,
Then hies away,
With his precious prey,
No passion his prudence sours.
Young man, young man,
Be this your plan,
Wisdom get where'er you can.
Wild youth,
Passion and truth,
So opposite never agree;
Be prudent, sage,
Draw wit from old age,
And be wise as the humble bee.
Young man, young man,
Be this your plan,
Wisdom get where'er you can.

Sung by Mr. VERNON in the character of Floridor.

BY my shield and my sword,
By the chaplet that circles my brow,
By a knight's sacred word;
Whatever you ask,
How dreadful the task,
To perform it, 'fore heav'n I vow.

Sung by Mrs. Smith and Mr. Vernon in the cha­racters of Camilla and Floridor.

REMEMBER, young knight, remember,
Remember the words that I say,
Don't laugh at my age,
Nor scorn at my rage,
For tho' I have past my May,
I'm not frozen up in December.
[Page 457] Remember, I will remember,
Remember the words that you say.
I honour your age,
Nor scorn at your rage,
And tho' you are past your May,
Your heart is still warm in December.

Sung by Mr. BANNISTER in the character of Bonoro.

NO pow'r can calm the storm to rest,
No magic charm the father's breast,
Which beats with doubts and fears:
No more for active scenes I burn,
My pow'r and strength to weakness turn,
My manhood melts to tears!
I will not doubt—thro' stormy skies,
My son shall break his way;
Shall cloudless o'er his errors rise,
And fame shall hail the day!

Sung by Mr. Champness in the character of Ne­gromant, and Mr. Vernon in Floridor.

STRIPLING, traitor; victim of my rage!
Stripling, traitor; offspring of sedition!
Dar'st thou with Nigromant engage,
Nothing shall my wrath asswage,
But vengeance and perdition!
Triumphant joy my bosom swells;
Vain are your magic charms and spells,
Revenge that ne'er could sleep,
Her crimson standard rears,
Here on this fiery flood!
Revenge shall soon her laurels steep,
In the son's blood,
And in the father's tears.
Thy terrors, threats, and boasts are vain,
Phantoms of a heated brain;
Let all thy fiends surround thee,
The elements conspire,
Thro' water, earth and fire,
I'll follow and confound thee!
[Page 459] On the whirlwind if you ride,
Thro' all your spells I'll break,
Confound your guilt and pride,
And plunge into the siery lake,
With virtue for my guide!

Sung by Eunuchs.

TOUCH the thrilling notes of pleasure,
Let the softest, melting measure,
Calm the conqu'rer's mind;
Let myrtle be with laurel twin'd,
Beauty with each smiling grace,
The sparkling eye, and speaking face,
Attended by the laughing loves,
Around the hero play;
The toil, and danger, valor proves,
Love and beauty will repay.

SONG in DIALOGUE in A Christmas Tale,
Sung by Mrs. Smith and Mr. Vernon in the cha­racters of Camilla and Floridor.

The storm shall beat my breast no more,
The vessel safe, the freight on shore,
No more my bark shall tempt the sea,
Scap'd from the rock of jealousy.
Bright are the flow'rs which form this wreath,
And fresh the odours which they breathe;
Thus ever shall our loves be free,
From cruel blights of jealousy.
With roses and with myrtles crown'd,
The conqu'ror, Love, smiles all around,
Triumphant reigns by heav'n's decree,
And leads in chains grim jealousy.

Sung by Mr. VERNON in the character of Floridor.

LET the loud thunder rattle,
Flash lightning round thy head,
Place me in the front of battle,
By rage and horror led;
Tho' death in all her ghastly forms appear,
My heart, that knows no crime, can know no fear.

Sung by Mrs. Smith and Mr. Vernon in the cha­racters of Camilla and Floridor.

Take my hand, my heart is thine,
My hand and heart they are not mine,
May love and all its joys be thine!
Ye gods above!
Are these the promis'd joys of love!
These are the raptures call'd divine!
My hand and heart they are not mine.
May love for many, many years,
Without its doubts, its cares and fears,
Each moment of our life controul.
What anguish tears my tortur'd soul?
[Page 462]
Let me, sweet youth, thy charms behold,
And in these arms thy beauties fold.
I cannot hold, I cannot hold!
No more can I, no more can I,
I blush for shame, O fye! O fye!
I am all on fire!
And so am I, and so am I.
It burns, destroys,
What can I do?
I feel it too!
O let's retire,
And hide our loves!
Ye gods above!
Are these the promis'd joys of love?

Sung by Mr. BANNISTER, in the character of Bonoro.

CLOUDS that had gather'd o'er the day,
Now leave the heav'ns more bright,
Vice before virtue's pow'rful ray,
Sinks to the shades of night.
These evil sprites, that late rush'd sorth,
Are now in darkness bound;
While beauty, valor, matchless worth,
Spread wide their sunshine round.

Sung by Mr. BANNISTER in the character of Bonoro.

YE once most wretched of mankind,
By tyrant pow'r and lust confin'd,
From vice and slavery free,
Come join our sports, and this way move,
To celebrate their virtuous love,
And your own liberty!


Honour is to beauty plighted,
Heart with hands shall be united,
Hymen comes, his torch is lighted!
Honour, truth, and beauty call,
Attend the nuptial festival.
Love in my breast, no storm blowing,
Feels each tide is fuller growing,
And in grateful strains o'erflowing.
Honour, truth, &c.
[Page 464]
Love in my breast, tho' a rover,
Calmly sporting with each lover,
Will to-day with love run over!
Honour, truth, &c.
Love in my breast knows no measure,
Swells and almost bursts with pleasure,
Here to share its boundless treasure.
Flor. Cam.
Love in my breast, &c.
Let the written page,
Thro' ev'ry age,
Record the wond'rous story;
'Tis decreed from above,
Her virtue should be crown'd with love,
And his with love and glory.

SONG in MAY-DAY, or The Little Gipsey.
Sung by Mrs. WRIGHTEN in the Character of Dolly.

WOULD women do as I do,
With spirit scorn dejection,
The men no arts could fly to,
They'd keep 'em in subjection:
But if we sigh or simper,
The love-sick farce is over,
They'll bring us soon to whimper,
And then good night the lover.
Would women do as I do,
No knaves or fools could cheat 'em,
They'd passion bid good bye to,
And trick for trick would meet 'em:
But if we sigh or simper,
The love-sick farce is over,
They'll bring us soon to whimper,
And then good night the lover.

Sung by Mr. VERNON in the Character of William.

HOW can my heart rest, when I see from the land
Fanny's arms open'd wide to receive me?
If hope cast her anchor to six on the sand,
The winds and the waves both deceive me.
My love to its duty still constant and true,
Tho' of fortune and tempest the sport,
Shall beat round the shore, the dear object in view,
'Till it sinks, or is safe in the port.


O lovely sweet May!
The first of sweet May!
Spring opens her treasure
Of mirth, love and pleasure;
The earth is dress'd gay,
We see all around, and we hear from each spray,
That nature proclaims it a festival day.

Sung by Mr. BANNISTER in the Character of Clod.

What's a poor simple clown
To do in the town?
Of their freaks and vagaries I'll none;
The folks I saw there
Two faces did wear,
An honest man ne'er has but one.
Let others to London go roam,
I love my neighbour,
To sing and to labour,
To me there's nothing like country and home.
Nay the ladies, I vow,
I cannot tell how,
Were now white as curd, and now red;
Law! how you would stare,
At their huge crop of hair,
'Tis a haycock o'top of their head!
Let others, &c.
Then 'tis so dizen'd out,
An with trinkets about,
With ribbands and flippets between;
They so noddle and toss,
Just like a sore horse,
With tassels and bells in a team.
Let others, &c.
Then the fops are so fine,
With lank-wasted chine,
And a little skimp bit of a hat;
Which from sun, wind, and rain
Will not shelter their brain,
Tho' there's no need to take care of that.
Let others, &c.
" Would you these creatures ape,
" In looks, and their shape,
" Teach a calf on his hind legs to go;
" Let him waddle in gait,
" A skim-dish on his pate,
" And he'll look all the world like a beau.
" Let others, &c.
" To keep my brains right,
" My bones whole and tight,
" To speak, nor to look, would I dare;
" As they bake they shall brew,
" Old Nick and his crew,
" At London keep Vanity Fair."
Let others, &c.

Sung by Mr. WRIGHTEN in the Character of the Cryer.

IS there a maid, and maid she be,
But how to find her out, who knows?
Who makes a choice that's sit and free,
To buy the wedding cloaths;
If such rare maid and match be found,
The first of May
Shall be the day,
I give this pair a hundred pound,
God save the King!

Sung by Mr. VERNON in the Character of William.

YES, I'll give my heart away,
To her will not forsake it;
Softly, maidens, softly, pray,
You must not snatch,
Nor fight nor scratch,
But gently, gently take it.
Ever constant, warm and true,
The toy is worth the keeping,
'Tis not spoil'd with fashions new,
But full of love,
It will not rove—
The corn is worth the reaping.
Maidens, come, put in your claim,
I will not give it blindly:
My heart a lamb, tho' brisk is tame;
So let each lass
Before me pass,
Who wins, pray use it kindly.
All have such bewitching eyes,
To give to one would wrong ye;
In turns to each my fancy strays;
So let each fair
Take equal share,
I throw my heart among ye.

Sung by Miss ABRAMS in the Character of the Gipsey.

HAIL, Spring! whose charms make nature gay,
O breathe some charm on me,
That I may bless this joyful day,
Inspir'd by Love and thee!
O Love! be all thy magic mine,
Two faithful heart to save;
The glory as the cause be thine,
And heal the wounds you gave.

Sung by Miss ABRAMS in the Character of the Gypsey.

O spread thy rich mantle, sweet May, o'er the ground,
Drive the blasts of keen winter away;
Let the birds sweetly carol, thy flow'rets smile round,
And let us with all nature be gay.
Let spleen, spight and envy, those clouds of the mind,
Be dispers'd by the sunshine of joy;
The pleasures of Eden had bless'd human kind,
Had no fiend enter'd there to destroy.
As May with her sunshine can warm the cold earth,
Let each fair with the season improve;
Be widows restor'd from their mourning to mirth,
And hard-hearted maids yield to love.
With the treasures of spring let the village be dress'd,
Its joys let the season impart;
When rapture swells high, and o'erflows from each breast,
'Tis the May of the mind and the heart.

Sung by Mrs. WRIGHTEN in the Character of Dolly.

Young maids, and young swains, if you're curious to know
What husbands you'll have, and what wives;
From above I can know, what you'll do here be­low,
And what you have done all your lives:
Don't blush and don't fear,
As I'm old I am wife,
And I read in your eyes—
I must whisper the rest in your ear.
If you, a false man, should betray a fond maid,
I'll read what the stars have decreed;
If you, a fond maid, should be ever betray'd,
You'll be sorry that page I should read.
Don't blush and don't fear, &c.
If youth weds old age, tho' it wallows in gold,
With sattins, and silks, and fine watch;
Yet when for base gold youth and beauty is sold,
The devil alone makes the match.
Don't blush and don't fear, &c.
" If an old man's so rash to wed a young wife,
" Or an old woman wed a young man,
" For such husband and wife, I read danger and strife,
" For nature detests such a plan.
" Don't blush and don't fear, &c."

Sung by Mr. VERNON and Miss ABRAMS in the Characters of William and Gipsey.

PASSION of the purest nature,
Glows within this faithful breast,
While I gaze on each lov'd feature,
Love will let me know no rest.
Thus the ewe her lamb caressing,
Watches with a mother's fear,
While she eyes her little blessing,
Thinks the cruel wolf is near.

Sung by Miss ABRAMS in the Character of Gipsy.

Love reigns this season, makes his choice,
And shall not we with birds rejoice?
O calm your rage, hear nature say,
Be kind with me the first of May.
Would you, like misers, hate to bless,
Keep wealth from youth you can't possess?
To nature hark, you'll hear her say,
Be kind with me the first of May.
O then be bounteous like the spring,
Which makes creation sport and sing,
With nature let your heart be gay,
And both be kind this first of May.

Sung by Mr. Bannister, Mr. Vernon, Miss Abrams and Mr. Parsons, in the Characters of Clod, William, Gipsy and Furrow.

Shall our hearts on May-day,
Lack and a well a-day!
Want their recreation?
No, no, no, it can't be so,
Love with us must bud and blow,
Unblighted by vexation.
Shall a maid on May-day,
Lack and a well a-day!
Die of desperation?
No, no, no, for pity's sake,
To your care a couple take,
And give 'em consolation.
Shall a youth on May-day,
Lack and a well a-day!
Lament a separation?
No, no, no, the lad is true,
Let him have of love his due,
Indulge his inclination.
[Page 477]
Shall my heart on May-day,
Lack and a well a-day!
Refuse its approbation?
No, no, no, within our breasts,
Rage, revenge, and such like guests,
Should ne'er have habitation.
We no more on May-day,
O what a happy day!
Shall never know vexation:
No, no, no, your worth we'll sing,
Join your name to bounteous spring,
In kind commemoration!
" Cold winter will fly,
" When spring's warmer sky
" The charms of young nature display;
" When the heart is unkind,
" With the frost of the mind,
" Benevolence melts it like May."

Set to Musick by Mr. SHIELD.

THO' I'm slim, and am young, and was lively and fair,
Could sing a sweet song, and in others kill care,
Yet I'm surely bewitch'd, for I can't drive away
What makes me so restless by night and by day.
In vain I perplex my poor fancy
To find out the grief,
But alas no relief,
Heigho! what can be the matter with Nancy?
With my head on my pillow I seek for repose,
Which comes to the wretched, and softens their woes:
But sleepless, tho' blameless, I sleep thro' the night;
And the day can't relieve me tho' ever so bright.
In vain I perplex, &c.
So evil a spirit that haunts a poor maid,
By the grave sons of physick can never be laid:
If a youth vers'd in magic would take me in hand,
I'm sure of a cure if he waves but his wand.
In vain I perplex, &c.
A young Oxford scholar knows well my sad case,
For he look'd in my eyes, and read over my face;
So learned he talk'd, that I felt at my heart,
He must have great skill in the magical art.
In vain I perplex, &c.
O send for this scholar, and let him prescribe,
He'll do me more good than the medical tribe;
Then the rose with the lily again shall appear,
And my heart, now so heavy, dance thro' the whole year.
No more I'll perplex my poor fancy
To find out the grief,
For he'll soon bring relief,
Heigho!—he knows what's the matter with Nancy!


An EPITAPH upon the celebrated CLAUDY PHILIPS*, Musician, who died very poor.

PHILIPS, whose touch harmonious could re­move
The pangs of guilty pow'r and hapless love,
Rest here, distress'd by poverty no more,
Here find that calm, thou gav'st so oft before.
Sleep, undisturb'd, within this peaceful shrine,
'Till angels wake thee, with a note like thine.

INSCRIPTIONS on a Monument to the me­mory of a Lady's Bullfinch.
By the Same.

On the Front of the Stone.

Blandientis Volucris
Hunc Lapidem
et hoc
Nobilissimae Luciae
Officii sui
quale quale est

On the Right Side.

THE goddesses of wit and love
Have patroniz'd the owl and dove;
From whose protection both lay claim
To immortality and fame:
Could wit alone, or beauty, give
To birds the same prerogative;
My double claim had fate defy'd,
And * Lucy's fav'rite ne'er had dy'd.

[Page 482]On the Left Side.

THOUGH here my body lies interr'd,
I still can be a tell-tale bird:
If DAVID* should pollute these shades,
And wanton with my lady's maids;
Or DICK sneak out to field or park,
To play with Mopsy in the dark;
Or WILL§, that noble, generous youth,
Should err from wisdom, taste, and truth;
And bless'd with all that's fair and good,
Should quit a feast for grosser food:
I'll rise again a restless sprite,
Will haunt my lonely cage by night;
There swell my throat, and plume my wing,
And every tale to Lucy sing.

An EPITAPH upon a Clergyman, passionately fond of Musick.

HERE Trillo lies, a laughing, merry priest,
Who lov'd good ale, a fiddle, and a jest;—
Death took him in the middle of a song,
Ty'd all his singers, and untun'd his tongue;
Low rest his bones, his soul ascends on high,
In sure and certain hopes its heav'n is nigh,
Where he may sing and play to all eternity!

EPITAPH on WILLAM HOGARTH*, in Chiswick Church-Yard.

FAREWEL, great painter of mankind,
Who reach'd the noblest point of art;
Whose pictur'd morals charm the mind,
And thro' the eye correct the heart!
If genius fire thee, reader stay;
If nature touch thee, drop a tear:—
If neither move thee, turn away,
For Hogarth's honour'd dust lies here.

EPITAPH on JAMES QUIN, in Bath Cathedral.

THAT tongue, which set the table on a roar,
And charm'd the public ear, is heard no more!
Clos'd are those eyes, the harbingers of wit,
Which spoke, before the tongue, what Shakes­peare writ.
Cold are those hands, which, living, were stretch'd forth,
At friendship's call to succour modest worth.
Here lies James Quin! deign, reader, to be taught
(Whate'er thy strength of body, force of thought,
In nature's happiest mould however cast)
To this complexion thou must come at last.


Shall pride a heap of sculptur'd marble raise,
Some worthless, unmourn'd titled fool to praise;
And shall we not by one poor grave-stone learn
Where genius, wit, and humour sleep with Sterne?

EPITAPH on Mr. HOLLAND, in Chiswick Church.

If talents
To make entertainment, instruction,
To support the credit of the Stage
By just and manly action,
And to adorn Society by Virtues
Which would honour any rank and profession,
Deserve remembrance,
Let him, with whom these talents were long exerted,
To whom these virtues were well known,
And by whom the loss of them will be long lamented,
Bear testimony to the worth and abilities of his departed friend,
Who was born March 12, 1733,
Dy'd the 7th of December, 1769,
And was bury'd near this place.

EPITAPH on Mr. BEIGHTON, who had been Vicar of Egham forty-five Years.

NEAR half an age, with every good man's praise,
Among his flock the shepherd pass'd his days;
The friend, the comfort of the sick and poor,
Want never knock'd unheeded at his door;
Oft when his duty call'd, disease and pain
Strove to confine him, but they strove in vain:
All moan his death, his virtues long they try'd,
They knew not how they lov'd him 'till he dy'd:
Peculiar blessings did his life attend,
He had no foe, and CAMDEN was his friend.


Near this place
Are deposited the remains
Who was born January 25, 1710,
And died Dec. 30, 1774,
Aged 65.
Here lies a man, misfortune could not bend;
Prais'd as a poet, honour'd as a friend:
Tho' his youth kindled with the love of fame,
Within his bosom glow'd a brighter flame.
Whene'er his friends with sharp affliction bled,
And from the wounded deer the herd was fled,
Whitehead stood forth—the healing balm apply'd,
Nor quitted their distresses—'till he dy'd.

A Tribute, by Mr. Garrick, to the Memory of a Character he long knew and respected.

EPITAPH on Mr. HAVARD, Comedian*.

" An honest man's the noblest work of God!"
HAVARD from sorrow rests beneath this stone;
An honest man—belov'd as soon as known:
Howe'er defective in the mimic art,
In real life he justly play'd his part!
The noblest character he acted well,
And heaven applauded—when the curtain fell.


An EPIGRAM upon a young Gentleman refusing to walk with the Author in the Park, because he was not dress'd well.

Friend Col and I, both full of whim,
To shun each other oft agree;
For I'm not beau enough for him,
And he's too much a beau for me.
Then let us from each other fly,
And arm in arm no more appear;
That I may ne'er offend your eye,
That you may ne'er offend my ear.

EPIGRAM on Mr. Quin's saying that "Garrick was a new religion," and that "Whitefield was followed for a time, but they would all come to church again."

Pope Quin, who damns all churches but his own,
Complains that heresy corrupts the town:
" That Whitefield Garrick has misled the age,
" And taints the sound religion of the stage;
" Schism, he cries, has turn'd the nation's brain;
" But eyes will open, and to church again!"
Thou great infallible, forbear to roar,
Thy bulls and errors are rever'd no more;
When doctrines meet with gen'ral approbation,
It is not heresy, but reformation.

EPIGRAM on Mrs. Clive's resenting being put out of the Part of Portia, and saying she was surely as well qualified to wear Breeches as Mr. Garrick was to play Ranger.

Dear Kate, it is vanity both us bewitches,
Since I must the truth on't reveal,
For when I mount the ladder, and you wear the breeches,
We shew—what we ought to conceal.

EPIGRAM on Mr. Quin.

Says Epicure Quin, should the devil in hell
In fishing for men take delight,
His hook bait with ven'son, I love it so well,
By G— I am sure I should bite.

Extempore, on hearing a certain impertinent Address in the Newspapers.
By Garrick, Thomson, &c.

Thou essence of dock, of valerian and sage,
At once the disgrace and the pest of this age,
The worst that we wish thee for all thy damn'd crimes,
Is to take thy own physic and read thy own rhimes.

Answer to the Junto.

Their wish must be in form revers'd,
To suit the doctor's crimes;
For, if he takes his physic first,
He'll never read his rhimes.

Dr. Hill's Reply to the Junto's Epigram.

Ye desperate junto, ye great or ye small,
Who combat dukes, doctors, the devil and all!
Whether gentlemen, scribblers, or poets in jail,
Your impertinent curses shall never prevail:
I'll take neither sage, dock, nor balsam of honey;
Do you take the physic, and I'll take the money.

EPIGRAM, written soon after Dr. Hill's Farce, called The Rout, was acted.

For physic and farces,
His equal there scarce is;
His farces are physic,
His physic a farce is.

To Dr. Hill upon his Petition of the Letter I to Mr. Garrick.

If 'tis true, as you say, that I've injur'd a letter,
I'll change my note soon, and I hope for the better;
May the right use of letters, as well as of men,
Hereafter be fix'd by the tongue and the pen;
Most devoutly I wish that they both have their due,
And that I may be never mistaken for U.


You should call at his house, or should send him a card,
Can Garrick alone be so cold?
Shall I a poor player, and still poorer bard,
Shall folly with Camden make bold?
[Page 491] What joy can I give him, dear Wilmot declare?
Promotion no honours can bring;
To him the Great Seals are but labour and care,
Wish joy to your Country and King.

To Mr. Hart, upon his Academy for Grown Gen­tlemen.

Marseilles * no more shall boast his art,
Which form'd the youth of France;
While you instruct (ingenious Hart)
Grown Gentlemen to dance.
He only bent the pliant twig;
You strike a bolder stroke:
You soften rocks, make mountains jig,
And bend the knotted oak.

To Mr. Derrick, upon his recalling his Orders against dancing Minuets in Sacks.

Lycurgus of Bath,
Be not given to wrath,
Thy rigours the fair should not feel:
Still fix them your debtors,
Make laws like your betters,
And as fast as you make them—repeal.

Or, The POWER of RIOT:
In honour of the 25th and 26th of January, and 24th February, 1763.

I AM a theatrical politician, and can talk as learnedly in my field of politics as you, or any of your correspondents, can do in your's. I can remember the day when a Gray's-Inn Journalist, or a Herald, has mauled a manager weekly, as ably as the Monitor or the North Briton has lately attacked the Minister. Some of your po­liticians allow Mr. Pitt to be a great man, but think he has been too fond of continental con­nections. In like manner, I not only allow Garrick to be the greatest actor the world ever saw, but also am of opinion that he is an excel­lent manager; and yet I must, as a true patriot, blame him for his encouragement of pantomime. Two Pantomimes in one winter, and the town had only sense enough to damn one. O tempora! O mores! but I shall conclude what I have to say at present, with taking notice, that the revo­lutions of theatres are as extraordinary as those [Page 493] of states and republics; and tumults in king­doms are scarce attended with greater confusion than riots at the Playhouse. On these occasions great patriots, theatrical and political, chiefly shew themselves. Hampden, who opposed ship­money, is not more celebrated than Thady Fitz­patrick, who demolished full price. The fol­lowing poem is a parody on that celebrated ode of Dryden's, which that great orator, Mr. She­ridan, has so often recited with uncommon ap­plause at Spring-gardens, Pewterers-hall, Drury­lane Theatre, Oxford, Cambridge, and Bath; and I most heartily wish, that it were in my power to prevail with that gentleman to employ his noble powers of elocution on the following parody.

'TWAS at the rabble rout, when Mima won
Thro' Fizgig Fizgig's son!
Below in aukward state
The blust'ring ruffian fate
On his audacious throne;
His noisy peers were plac'd around,
Their brows with malice and with rapine frown'd,
So footpads in the dark are found!
The blarneying Burky by his side,
In impudence and ignorance ally'd,
With brazen front was seen in riot's pride,
Shameless, shameless, shameless pair,
Well do your heads your hearts declare!
Our Garrick's voice on high
A while the rout confounds,
He runs with rapid skill thro' elocution's bounds:
The lofty sounds ascend the sky,
And in the sons of poetry
Celestial joys inspire!
From Shakespeare's self the lore he caught,
From him the glowing pow'r possest,
Who gaz'd on nature's charms with eager ardour fraught,
And to her pliant form with warmth resistless prest,
(Ecstatic warmth, by which his lays
Have been deriv'd to modern days!)
Then, while he sought her lovely breast,
While round her yielding waste he curl'd,
He stamp'd an image of himself—a Garrick for the world.
[Page 495] The sons of taste admire the lofty sound;
A present Shakespeare—hark! they shout around,
A present Shakespeare—hark! the vaulted roofs rebound.
With dubious fears
The General hears,
Assumes the rod,
The critic nod,
And shakes his Midas' ears.
Thalia's beauties then the mighty master drew,
Thalia, ever fair and ever new.
" See the pleasing nymph advance,"
" Breathe the flute, and lead the dance."
Flush'd with bewitching grace,
She shews her lovely face.
While the prevailing verse he strives to raise,
And bids descriptive pow'r grow lavish in her praise.
Thalia, ever fair and young,
Mirthsome joys did first ordain;
Thalia's blessings are a treasure,
Never-sating stream of pleasure,
Which she pours from charmed cup,
O'er souls, "who've ta'en their freedom up."
Rich the treasure,
Sweet the pleasure,
To souls, "who've ta'en their freedom up."
[Page 496] Wex'd at the sound, the General's pride wax'd low,
Too weak to ward off Reason's blow;
Yet thrice he drown'd fair Justice' voice, yet thrice he bawl'd
YES, or NO!
The master saw the madness rise,
His swelling cheeks, his envious eyes,
And, while he heav'n and earth defy'd,
His ready hand he chang'd, and try'd to check his pride.
He chose the mournful muse,
Soft pity to infuse;
He sung Melpomene divine,
By too severe a fate,
Fallen, fallen, fallen, fallen,
Fallen from her high estate,
Dethron'd by Pantomime!
Deserted in her utmost need
By those her sacred labours fed,
On the bare stage distrest she lies,
With not a friend to bid her rise.
With downcast looks the joyless Gen'ral sate,
Revolving in his alter'd soul
The various merits of the stage,
And now and then a groan he stole,
And shouts began to rage.
[Page 497] BEARD, sweet musician, then essay'd
The pow'r of harmony to prove,
To poetry a kindred aid,
With pity melting as with love!
Softly sweet in Lydian measures,
He try'd to sooth his soul to pleasures:
Jars, he sung, are toil and trouble,
Faction a misleading bubble,
Path to discontent and frenzy,
Fighting still, and still destroying,
Tho' the stage be worth thy envy,
Think, oh think it worth enjoying:
Let thy friendly fears advise thee,
Think my Lord Chief Justice spies thee!
Fitzgig, unable to conceal his pain,
Gaz'd on the man,
Who check'd his plan,
And groan'd and hiss'd, and groan'd and hiss'd,
Groan'd and hiss'd, and groan'd again.
At length with fear and shame at once opprest,
Away the Gen'ral slunk, and left the rest.
Lo! now the russians roar amain,
A louder yet, and yet a louder strain,
Break his bands of shame asunder,
Recall him with a rattling peal of thunder!
[Page 498] Hark! hark! at the clattering sound,
Burky rears up his head,
And cries, "Is he fled?"
And amaz'd he stares round—
Revenge! Revenge! then Burky cries,
Lo! the plunderers rise!
See the sconces they tear,
How they clash in the air,
And the rapine that glares in their eyes!
Behold a dirty band,
Each a club in his hand,
Those are hireling slaves, who to eating are strangers,
Who obey the command,
Tho' shock'd at the dangers;
Give the vengeance due
To the blust'ring crew,
Behold how they toss up the benches on high,
(O Fitzgig, return, and our victory spy!)
How they break the orchestral abodes,
How the instruments shatter by loads!
The ruffians applaud with a furious joy,
And a buck seiz'd a candle with zeal to destroy.
Burky led the way,
To guide them to their prey,
And, like another Ganymede, reduc'd another Troy.
Not long ago
Ere bouncing braggarts dealt the blow,
While blockheads yet were mute,
Our Garrick to the feeling mind could suit
His various art, each passion could inspire,
Could kindle manly rage, or melt with soft desire.
At last enormous Fitzgig came,
Inspirer of the robber's claim,
The strange enthusiast impositions gives;
Quenching the fire of magic sounds,
Adds length and strength to mimic bounds,
With impudence, and pride, and arts unknown to thieves.
Let judgment then resign the prize,
And mourn her mangled crown;
She rais'd a Shakespeare to the skies,
He threw a Garrick down.
The plund'rers rend the roof with loud applause
So Merit lost, and Riot won the cause.

To the Author of the Farmer's Letters, which were written in Ireland in the Year of the Rebellion, by Henry Brooke, Esq * 1745.

OH thou, whose artless, free-born genius charms,
Whose rustic zeal each patriot bosom warms;
Pursue the glorious task, the pleasing toil,
Forsake the fields, and till a nobler soil;
Extend the Farmer's care to human kind,
Manure the heart, and cultivate the mind;
There plant religion, reason, freedom, truth,
And sow the seeds of virtue in our youth:
Let no rank weeds corrupt, or brambles cheak,
And shake the vermin from the British oak:
From northern blasts protect the vernal bloom,
And guard our pastures from the wolves of Rome.
On Britain's liberty ingraft thy name,
And reap the harvest of immortal fame!

VERSES written in a Book, called, Fables for the Female Sex, by Edward Moore.

WHILE here the poet paints the charms
Which bless the perfect dame,
How unaffected beauty warms,
And wit preserves the flame:
How prudence, virtue, sense agree,
To form the happy wife:
In LUCY, and her book, I see
The Picture, and the Life.

Verses written in Sylvia's PRIOR.

UNTOUCH'd by love, unmov'd by wit,
I found no charms in MATTHEW'S lyre,
But unconcern'd read all he writ,
Though love and Phoebus did inspire:
'Till SYLVIA took her favourite's part,
Resolv'd to prove my judgment wrong;
Her proofs prevail'd, they reach'd my heart,
And soon I felt the poet's song.

Upon a LADY'S Embroidery.

ARACHNE once, as poets tell,
A goddess at her art defy'd;
But soon the daring mortal fell
The hapless victim of her pride.
O then beware Arachne's fate,
Be prudent, CHLOE, and submit;
For you'll more surely feel her hate,
Who rival both her Art and Wit.

Occasioned by a Physician's lampooning a Friend of the Author.

AS Doctor ** musing sat,
Death saw, and came without delay:
Enters the room, begins the chat
With, "Doctor, why so thoughtful pray?"
The Doctor started from his place,
But soon they more familiar grew:
And then he told his piteous case,
How trade was low, and friends were few.
" Away with fear," the phantom said,
As soon as he had heard his tale:
" Take my advice, and mend your trade;
" We both are losers if you fail.
" Go write, your wit in satire show,
" No matter, whether smart or true;
" Call ** names, the greatest foe
" To dullness, folly, pride, and you.
" Then copies spread, there lies the trick,
" Among your friends be sure you send 'em;
" For all who read will soon grow sick,
" And when you're call'd upon, attend 'em.
" Thus trade increasing by degrees,
" Doctor, we both shall have our ends:
" For you are sure to have your fees,
" And I am sure to have your friends."

Upon Mr. MASON's taking Orders. 1754.

TO Holdernesse*, the Muses three,
Of Painting, Music, Poetry,
To him, their long-lov'd patron, friend,
In grievous pet this letter send—
Give ear, my lord, while we complain,
Our sex to you ne'er sigh'd in vain.
'Tis said—A youth by you befriended,
Whom to your smiles we recommended;
Seduc'd by you, abjures our charms,
And flies for ever from our arms!
Could D'Arcy, whom we lov'd, caress'd,
In whose protection we were bless'd,
Could he, to whom our Sire imparts
That secret rare to taste our arts,
Could he, ungrateful, and unkind!
From us estrange our Mason's mind?
Could he, who serves and loves the nation,
So little weigh its reputation,
As in this scarcity of merit,
To damp with grace poetic spirit?
But be assur'd your scheme is vain—
He must, he shall be ours again:
[Page 505] Nor crape nor lawn shall quench his fires,
We'll fill his breast with new desires.
In vain you plead his ordination,
His cassock, gown, and grave vocation,
Whate'er he now has sworn, he swore,
With stronger zeal to us before:
He pass'd our forms of consecration,
His lips receiv'd our inspiration;
To him were all our rites reveal'd,
From him no myst'ry was conceal'd—
Each kindred pow'r obey'd our call,
And grac'd the solemn festival!
The Loves forsook their Cyprian bow'rs,
And round his temples wreath'd their flow'rs;
The Graces danc'd their mystic maze,
Our Father struck him with his rays;
And all our Sisters one by one,
Gave him full draughts of Helicon!
Thus bound our servant at the shrine,
Ordain'd he was, and made divine.


TALK of war with a Briton, he'll boldly ad­vance,
That one English soldier will beat ten of France;
Would we alter the boast from the sword to the pen,
Our odds are still greater, still greater our men:
In the deep mines of science tho' Frenchmen may toil,
Can their strength be compar'd to Locke, New­ton, and Boyle?
Let them rally their heroes, send forth all their pow'rs,
Their verse-men, and prose-men; then match them with ours!
First Shakespeare and Milton, like gods in the fight,
Have put their whole drama and epic to flight;
In satires, epistles, and odes would they cope,
Their numbers retreat before Dryden and Pope;
And Johnson, well arm'd, like a hero of yore,
Has beat forty* French, and will beat forty more.


KITTY, a fair, but frozen maid,
Kindled a flame I still deplore;
The hood-wink'd boy I call'd in aid,
Much of his near approach afraid,
So fatal to my suit before.
At length, propitious to my pray'r,
The little urchin came;
At once he sought the midway air,
And soon he clear'd, with dextrous care,
The bitter relicks of my flame.
To Kitty, Fanny now succeeds,
She kindles slow, but lasting fires;
With care my appetite she feeds;
Each day some willing victim bleeds,
To satisfy my strange desires.
Say, by what title, or what name,
Must I this youth address?
Cupid and he are not the same,
Tho' both can raise, or quench a flame—
I'll kiss you, if you guess.

VERSES sent to Sir GEORGE LYTTELTON, on his asking Mr. Garrick if he did not intend being in Parliament. 1755.

MORE than content with what my labours gain,
Of public favour tho' a little vain;
Yet not so vain my mind, so madly bent,
To wish to play the fool in parliament;
In each dramatic unity to err;
Mistaking time and place, and character;
Were it my fate to quit the mimic art,
I'd "strut and fret" no more in any part;
No more in public scenes would I engage,
Or wear the cap and mask on any stage.

VERSES written for Mr. Hogarth's Prints of France and England. 1756.

With lanthorn jaws and croaking gut,
See how the half-starv'd Frenchmen strut,
And call us English dogs!
But soon we'll teach these bragging foes,
That beef and beer give heavier blows
Than soup and roasted frogs.
The priests inflam'd with righteous hopes,
Prepare their axes, wheels and ropes,
To bend the stiff-neck'd finner;
But should they sink in coming over,
Old Nick may fish 'twixt France and Dover,
And catch a glorious dinner.
See John the soldier, Jack the tar,
With sword and pistol arm'd for war,
Should Monsieur dare come here!
The hungry slaves have smelt our food,
They long to taste our flesh and blood,
Old England's beef and beer!
Britons to arms! and let 'em come,
Be you but Britons still, strike home,
And lion-like attack 'em;
No power can stand the deadly stroke
That's given from hands and hearts of oak,
With liberty to back 'em.


TWO drachms of stale sense, and a scruple of wit,
A lump of old learning; of taste a small bit;
A line or two out of Aristotle's rules,
And a satchel of nonsense glean'd up from the schools:
Of Lethe's thick stream, a full gallon well shook;
Of sarcasms two hundred from any old book;
Of candour a grain, and of scandal a ton;
Of knowledge two ounces, of merit not one:
A handful of rue, and of onions a load;
The brain of a calf, and the breast of a toad:
The eye of a mole, and the nail of a cat,
The tooth of a mouse, and the wing of a bat;
The purse of old poverty, hunger's lank jaw;
The gander's long windpipe, the monkey's crimp maw:
Take this dose, my good author, you quickly will do
For Critical, Monthly, or any Review.

To Mr. GRAY, on the Publication of his ODES in 1757.

REPINE not, GRAY, that our weak dazzled eyes
Thy daring heights and brightness shun;
How few can track the eagle to the skies,
Or like him gaze upon the sun!
The gentle reader loves the gentle muse
That little dares, and little means,
Who humbly sips her learning from Reviews,
Or flutters in the Magazines.
No longer now from learning's sacred store
Our minds their health and vigour draw;
Homer and Pindar are rever'd no more,
No more the Stagyrite is law.
Tho' nurst by these, in vain thy muse appears
To breathe her ardours in our souls;
In vain to sightless eyes, and deaden'd ears,
The lightning gleams, and thunder rolls!
Yet droop not, GRAY, nor quit thy heav'n-born art,
Again thy wond'rous powers reveal;
Wake slumb'ring virtue in the Briton's heart,
And rouse us to reflect and feel!
With antient deeds our long chill'd bosoms fire,
Those deeds which mark'd Eliza's reign!
Make Britons Greeks again—then strike the lyre,
And Pindar shall not sing in vain.

Written at Hampton, Dec. 20, 1765, in Mr. Colman's Translation of TERENCE.

JOY to my friend; as English wit
Which Jonson, Congreve, Vanbrugh writ,
Thy Terence shall be known:
Joy to myself! for all the fame
Which ever shall attend thy name,
I feel as half my own.

Upon the Back of his own Picture, which was sent to a Gentleman of the University of Oxford.

THE mimic form on t'other side,
That you accepted is my pride;
Resembles one so prompt to change,
Through ev'ry mortal whim to range,
You'd swear the lute so like the case,
The mind as various as the face.
Yet to his friends be this his fame,
His heart's eternally the same.

QUIN's SOLILOQUY on seeing Duke Humphry at St. Alban's. 1765.

A plague on Egypt's arts, I say!
Embalm the dead! on senseless clay
Rich wines and spices waste!
Like sturgeon, or like brawn, shall I
Bound in a precious pickle, lie,
Which I can never taste?
Let me embalm this flesh of mine
With turtle-fat, and Bourdeaux wine,
And spoil th' Egyptian trade!
Than Humphry's duke more happy I—
Embalm'd alive, old Quin shall die
A mummy ready made.

ADVICE to the Marquis of ROCKINGHAM, upon a late Occasion. Written in 1765.

WELL may they, Wentworth, call thee young:
What hear and feel! sift right from wrong,
And to a wretch be kind!
Old statesmen would reverse your plan,
Sink, in the minister, the man,
And be both deaf and blind.
If thus, my lord, your heart o'erflows,
Know you, how many mighty foes
Such weakness will create you?
Regard not what Fitzherbert says,
For tho' you gain each good man's praise,
We older folks shall hate you.
You should have sent, the other day,
Garrick, the player, with frowns away;
Your smiles but made him bolder:
Why would you hear his strange appeal,
Which dar'd to make a statesman feel?
I would that you were older.
You should be proud, and seem displeas'd,
Or you for ever will be teaz'd,
Your house with beggars haunted:
What, ev'ry suitor kindly us'd?
If wrong, their folly is excus'd,
If right, their suit is granted.
From pressing crowds of great and small
To free yourself, give hopes to all,
And fail nineteen in twenty:
What, wound my honour, break my word!
You're young again.—You may, my lord,
Have precedents in plenty!
Indeed, young statesman, 'twill not do—
Some other ways and means pursue,
More sitted to your station:
What from your boyish freaks can spring,
Mere toys!—the favour of your king,
And love of all the nation.

Upon a certain Lord's giving some Thousand Pounds for a House.

SO many thousands for a house
For you, of all the world, lord Mouse!
A little house would best accord
With you, my very little lord!
And then exactly match'd would be
Your house and hospitality.

Upon seeing Mr. Taylor's Pictures of Bath, and hearing a Connoisseur swear that "they were finely painted for a Gentleman."

TELL me the meaning, you who can,
Of "finely for a gentleman!"
Is genius, rarest gift of heaven,
To the hir'd artist only given?
Or, like the Catholic salvation,
Pal'd in for any class or station?
Is it bound 'prent ce to the trade,
Which works, and as it works, is paid?
Is there no skill to build, invent,
Unless inspir'd by five per cent?
And shalt thou, Taylor, paint in vain,
Unless impell'd by hopes of gain?
Be wife, my friend, and take thy fee,
That Claud Loraine may yield to thee.

Mr. GARRICK, invited and strongly pressed to pass a week "en famille" at Warwick Castle, arrives, is shewn the curiosities like a common traveller, treated with chocolate, and dismissed directly; upon which he wrote the following Verses.

SOME strollers* invited by Warwick's kind earl,
To his castle magnificent came,
Prepar'd to respect both the owner and seat,
And to shew them due honour and fame.
His chambers, his kitchen, his cellars, they prais'd,
But, alas! they soon found to their cost,
That if they expected to feast at his house,
They reckon'd without their great host.
He shew'd them Guy's pot, but he gave them no soup,
No meat would his lordship allow,
Unless they had gnaw'd the blade-bone of the boar,
Or the rib of the famous dun cow.
" But since you're my friends, (says this com­plaisant peer)
" I'll give you a new-printed book,
" Which may to your tastes some amusement afford,
" 'Tis the hist'ry of Greville and Brooke."
Since your lordship's so civil, well-bred, and polite,
Pray pardon one curse from a sinner,
For our breakfast we thank you, our very good lord,
But a plague on your family dinner!

An Inscription for the Castle Gateway.

When Neville, the stout Earl of Warwick, liv'd here,
Fat oxen for breakfast were slain,
And his friends were all welcome to sport and good cheer,
And invited again and again;
His nerves are so weak, and his spirits so low,
This earl, with no oxen does feed 'em,
And all of the former great doings we know,
He gives us a book—and we read 'em.
D. G.

An old Prophecy in Gothic Characters, found upon a Stone in the Rubbish of the new Buildings (at Bath) April 1, 1769. Written on occasion of the Dispute relating to the Appointment of Master of the Ceremonies on the Death of Mr. Derrick.

IN the same year when six and nine,
To one and seven their forces join;
When priests, who preach and pray for peace,
With rancour fell the feuds increase;
And tho' they combat, play the devil,
That good may rise from rev'rend evil:
When Bristol smugglers shall invade
Their neighbour's rights, and hurt fair trade:
When money gives an unknown crew,
To judge of what they never knew,
To prate and vote for men and measures,
And chuse a master for our pleasures;
Then shall the realm be topsy turvy,
And those command who ought to serve ye;
Order and decency retreat,
And anarchy shall fill the street,
Shall all her hellish uproar bring,
E'en to the palace of the king.


The Hot-Bed's Advice to a certain Gardener.

THO' you to rival me presume,
Are warm, and hot, and love to fume,
The heat's no deeper than the skin,
You're cool, nay very cool, within:
The fruit too of my smoak and stir,
Is but the poor cool cucumber;
And though to some advantage shewn,
Our composition well is known,
Made up of dung, and dirt, and mire,
Tho' full of smoak, we boast no fire;
Then let us shun the public jest,
We are but dunghills at the best.
Be quiet, brother, wisely think,
The more we stir, the more we stink.

Mr. ANSTEY* to DAVID GARRICK, Esq on meeting him at a Friend's House.

THRO' ev'ry part, of grief or mirth,
To which the mimick stage gives birth,
I ne'er as yet with truth could fell,
Where most your various pow'rs excel.
Sometimes amidst the laughing scene,
Blith comedy with jocund mien,
[Page 521] By you in livelier colours drest,
With transport clasp'd you to her breast:
As oft the buskin'd muse appear'd,
With awful brow her sceptre rear'd;
Recounted all your laurels won,
And claim'd you for her darling son.
Thus each contending goddess strove,
And each the fairest garland wove.
But which fair nymph could justly boast
Her beauties had engag'd you most,
I doubted much; 'till, t'other day,
Kind fortune threw me in your way;
Where, 'midst the friendly joys that wait
* Philander's hospitable gate,
Freedom and genuine mirth I found,
Sporting the jovial board around.
'Twas there with keen, tho' polish'd jest,
You sat, a pleas'd and pleasing guest;
With social ease a part sustain'd,
More humorous far than e'er you feign'd.
" Take him, I cry'd, bright comic maid,
" In all your native charms array'd;
" No longer shall my doubts appear:"
When Clio whisper'd in my ear,
" Go, bid it be no more disputed,
" For what his talents best are suited:
" In mimic characters alone
" Let others shine—but Garrick in his own."

Mr. GARRICK's Answer.

AS late at Comus' Court I sat,
(Observe me well, I mean not that
Where ribaldry in triumph sits,
Delighting lords, and 'squires, and cits;
But there, where mirth and taste combine,
And Rigby gives more wit than wine)
Suspended for a while the joke,
With rapture of your muse we spoke;
But all blam'd me, cry'd out, oh fye!
What, send to verse a prose reply?
My friend the *Col'nel made th' attack,
And wicked Calvert clapp'd his back.
Nay, Pottinger, tho' low in feather,
And somewhat ruffled by the weather,
Would peek and crow; and Madam Hale
Flow at my manners, tooth and nail.
What! send to Anstey such dull stuff?
'Twas modesty, dear Hale; don't huff.
Could I but rhyme as much as you,
And think that much as charming too,
I'd write, and write again; I care not;
But, as I feel, indeed I dare not.
Then Cox let loose his silver tongue;
O d—n it, David, you are wrong.
[Page 523] While independent Plummer cry'd,
He'd not vote plump on either side.
E'en Boon, who ne'er inclines to satire,
With modest sense, and much good-nature,
Could not but say there was some blame,
And sweet *Eliza blush'd the same.
My wife look'd grave, but made it known
The right to vex me was her own.
Our landlord shook his sides and shoulders,
Both at the scolded and the scolders;
For that to him is always best,
Which raises and supports the jest.
No baited bear was e'er so worry'd;
I took my hat, and home I hurry'd,
Resolv'd, as well as I was able,
To ask your pardon in a Fable;
The best excuse my prudence knows,
For answ'ring your choice verse in prose.
A monkey of the sprightly kind
Could mock and mimic half mankind:
Could twist him to a thousand shapes;
In short, a perfect jackanapes.
As once our mimic Pug display'd
His talents in the summer shade,
By chance a nightingale was there,
Well pleas'd the farce to see and hear.
His joy began his notes to raise;
He warbled forth the monkey's praise.
[Page 524] Pug, too much flatter'd, thought it wrong,
Not to return his thanks in song;
And such a fit of squalling took him,
Beasts, birds, and nightingale forsook him.
An owl, who in a hole was dreaming,
Was rais'd at once with all this screaming;
Who-o-hoo! hoo! neighbour, curse your clatter!
Zounds! are you murder'd? what's the matter?
The monkey to his senses brought,
And must'ring what he had of thought,
Told to the owl his silly tale,
How he had scar'd the nightingale.
Grave Madge began to roll her eyes,
And being what she seem'd, most wise,
Thus spoke—Thou empty-headed thing,
Skip, grin, and chatter—never sing,
Would you, without a voice or ear,
Tune up, when Philomel is near?
Nature her pleasure has made known,
That nightingales should sing alone.

To Mr. GARRICK, from Mount Edgecombe,
By the Earl of Chatham.

LEAVE, Garrick, the rich landscape, proudly gay,
Docks, forts, and navies bright'ning all the bay.
To my plain roof repair, primeval seat!
Yet there no wonders your quick eye can meet;
Save, should you deem it wonderful, to find
Ambition cur'd, and an unpassion'd mind.
A statesman without pow'r, and without gall,
Hating no courtiers, happier than them all.
Bow'd to no yoke, nor crouching for applause,
Vot'ry alone to freedom, and the laws.
Herds, flocks, and smiling Ceres deck our plain,
And interspers'd, an heart-enliv'ning train
Of sportive children, frolick o'er the green:
Mean time, pure love looks on, and consecrates the scene.
Come then, immortal spirit of the stage,
Great nature's proxy, glass of every age,
Come, taste the simple life of patriarchs old,
Who, rich in rural peace, ne'er thought of pomp or gold.

Mr. GARRICK's Answer.

WHEN Peleus' son, untaught to yield,
Wrathful forsook the hostile field;
His breast still warm with heav'nly fire,
He tun'd the lay and swept the lyre.
So Chatham, whose exalted soul,
Pervaded and inspir'd the whole;
Where far, by martial glory led,
Britain her sails and banners spread,
Retires, tho' wisdom's God dissuades,
And seeks repose in rural shades.
Yet thither comes the God confess'd,
Celestial form, a well known guest.
Nor slow he moves with solemn air;
Nor on his brow hangs pensive care;
Nor in his hand th' historick page
Gives lessons to experienc'd age;
As when in vengeful ire he rose,
And plan'd the fate of Britain's foes:
While the wing'd hours obedient stand,
And instant speed the dread command.
Chearful he came, all blithe and gay,
Fair blooming like the son of May;
Adown his radiant shoulder hung
A harp, by all the muses strung;
Smiling he to his friend resign'd
This soother of the human mind.

TOM FOOL to Mr. HOSKINS, his Counsellor and Friend.

ON your care must depend the success of my suit,
The possession I mean of the house in dispute.
Consider, my friend, an attorney's my foe,
The worst of his tribe, and the best is so, so.
O let not his quiddits and quirks of the law,
O let not not this harpy your poor client claw;
In law as in life, I know well 'tis a rule,
That a knave should be ever too hard for a fool:
To this rule one exception your poor client im­plores,
That the fool may for once beat the knave out of doors.

The Petition of the Fools to Jupiter.
Addressed to the late Earl of Chesterfield.

FROM Grecian AESOP to our GAY,
Each fabulist is pleased to say,
That JOVE gives ear to all petitions
From animals of all conditions;
Like earthly kings he hears their wants,
And like them too, not always grants.
Some years ago—the Fools assembled,
Who long at STANHOPE'S wit had trembled,
And with repeated strokes grown sore,
Most zealously did JOVE implore,
That he should shield them from that wit,
Which, pointed well, was sure to hit:
'Twas hard, they said, to be thus baited,
They were not by themselves created;
And if they were to folly prone,
The fault, they hop'd, was not their own.
JOVE smil'd, and said—Not quite so fast:
You were, indeed, made up in haste;
With little care I form'd your brain,
But never made you pert and vain:
STANHOPE himself would be your friend,
Did you not strive my work to mend;
And wildly straying from my rules,
Make yourselves fops, whom I made fools:
But tell me how, for I am willing
To grant your wish, on this side killing,
And shield you for the time to come.—
" Strike CHESTERFIELD, deaf, blind, and dumb."
" First, in his tongue, such terrors lie,
" If that is stopp'd he can't reply:
" To stop his tongue, and not his ears,
" Will only multiply our fears;
" He'll answer both in prose and verse,
" And they will prove a lasting curse:
[Page 529] " Then stop, O sire of gods and men!
" That still more dreadful tongue, his pen:
" Spare not, good JOVE, his lordship's sight,
" We ne'er shall rest, if he can write."
Hold, hold—cries JOVE, a moment stay;
You know not, fools, for what you pray:
Your malice, shooting in the dark,
Has driv'n the arrow o'er the mark.
Deaf, dumb, and blind, ye silly folk!
Is all this rancour for a joke?
Shall I be pander to your hate,
And mortals teach to rail at fate?
To mend a little your condition,
I'll grant one third of your petition;
He shall be deaf, and you be free
From his keen, brilliant [...],
Which, like high-temper'd, polish'd steel,
Will quicker wound than you can feel:
With fear, with weakness we comply,
But still what malice [...], deny:
How would APOLLO, HERMES, swear,
Should I give ear to all your pray'r,
And blast the man, who from his birth
Has been their favourite care on earth?
What, tie his tongue, and cloud his sight,
That he no more can talk than write!
I can't indulge your fe [...] pride,
And punish all the world b [...]de.

Answer, by Lord CHESTERFIELD.

GARRICK, I've read your Fools' Petition,
And thank you for the composition;
Tho' few will credit all you say,
Yet, 'tis a friendly part you play;
A part which you perform with ease,
Whate'er you act is sure to please.
But give me leave, on this occasion,
To make one little observation:
Though no good reason is assign'd,
At least not any I can find,
Why I should be deaf, dumb, or blind;
Yet since it was resolv'd above,
By this same fool-obeying JOVE,
I must not speak, or hear, or see,
Surely to soften the decree,
He might have left the choice to me.
Were that the case, I would dispense
With sight, and wit, and eloquence,
Still to retain my fav'rite sense;
For grant, my friend, we would admit
What some may doubt, that I have wit;
What are the mighty pow'rs of speech,
What useful purpose do they reach?
When vain and impotent you see,
Ev'n down from Socrates to me,
All the bons-mots that e'er were said
To mend the heart, or clear the head;
Fools will be fools, say what we will,
And rascals will be rascals still.
But rather I your case would be in,
Say you, than lose the pow'r of seeing?
The face of nature you will say
Is ever chearful, ever gay,
And beauty, parent of delight,
Must always charm the ravish'd sight.
This choice perhaps I might commend,
But here, you have forgot my friend,
That nature's face, and beauty's heav'n,
Lose all their charms at seventy-seven;
The brightest scenes repeated o'er,
As well you know, will please no more;
The prospect's darken'd o'er with age,
The drama can no more engage,
We wish, with you, to quit the stage.
In short, it is a point I'm clear in,
The best of senses is, our hearing:
Happy who keeps it still, and he
Who wants must mourn the loss like me;
For though I little should regret
The table's roar where fools are met,
The flatt'ring tribe who sing or say
The lies or tattle of the day;
Still have I cause for discontent,
Still lose what most I must lament,
The converse of a chosen few,
The luxury of—hearing you.

On Doctor GOLDSMITH'S Characteristical Cookery,

ARE these the choice dishes the Doctor has sent us?
Is this the great Poet whose works so content us?
This Goldsmith's fine feast, who has written fine books?
Heaven sends us good meat, but the Devil sends cooks.


HERE Hermes, says Jove who with nectar was mellow,
Go fetch me some clay—I will make an odd fellow:
Right and wrong shall be jumbled—much gold and some dross;
Without cause be he pleas'd, without cause be he cross;
Be sure as I work to throw in contradictions,
A great love of truth; yet a mind turn'd to fic­tions;
[Page 533] Now mix these ingredients, which warm'd in the baking,
Turn to learning, and gaming, religion and raking.
With the love of a wench, let his writings be chaste;
Tip his tongue with strange matter, his pen with fine taste;
That the rake and the poet o'er all may prevail,
Set fire to the head, and set fire to the tail:
For the joy of each sex, on the world I'll be­stow it:
This Scholar, Rake, Christian, Dupe, Game­ster and Poet,
Thro' a mixture so odd, he shall merit great fame,
And among brother mortals—be GOLDSMITH his name!
When on earth this strange meteor no more shall appear,
You, Hermes, shall fetch him—to make us sport here!

To the Printer of the Public Advertiser.


Notwithstanding the great sale and repu­tation of Lord Chesterfield's Letters, it is but lately that I had time, or indeed inclination to peruse them: When I was told, that his Lord­ship, as a part of polite Education, forbids his son to lough, (for I am vulgar enough to seek all opportunities to shew that distinction between us and brutes) I was not so eager, as the rest of the world, to be taught politeness at the expence of my pleasure: However his letters came in my way, and by reading them, I have learnt, what I hope soon to forget, viz. that laughter is a sure sign of ill-breeding, and that women have no Genius. Very luckily a full answer to his Lord­ship's last assertion was recommended to me; I mean a poem called Sir Eldred of the Bower, said to be written by a Miss Hannah More—The real pleasure I received in reading that, and the Bleeding Rock, a legendary tale, by the same Au­thor, was to me so point blank against his Lord­ship's doctrine, that I could not help shewing my gratitude to the Lady, and my disapprobation of the Lord, in the following lines:

Upon reading Sir ELDRED of the BOWER, by a Lady, after Lord Chesterfield's Letters.

FAR from the reach of mortal grief,
Well, Stanhope, art thou fled;
Nor couldst thou, Lord, now gain belief,
Tho' rising from the dead!
Thy wit a Female Champion braves,
And blasts thy critic pow'r:
She comes!—and in her hand she weaves
Sir Eldred of the Bow'r!
The victor's palm aloft she bears!
And sullen foes submit;
The laurel wreath from man she tears,
And routs each lordly wit!
A female work if this should prove,
Cries out the beaten soe;
'Tis Pallas from the head of Jove,
Compleat from top to toe!
With feeling, elegance and force,
Unite their various pow'r,
And prove, that from a heav'nly source
Springs Eldred of the Bow'r!
True—cries the God of Verse—'tis mine!
And now the farce is o'er;
To vex proud man I wrote each line,
And gave them HANNAH MORE!

From the Spanish.

FOR me, my fair, a wreath has wove,
Where rival flowers in union meet;
As oft she kiss'd the gift of love,
Her breath gave sweetness to the sweet.
A Bee within a damask rose
Had crept the nectar'd dew to sip;
But lesser sweets the thief foregoes,—
And sixes on Louisa's lip.
There, tasting all the bloom of Spring,
Wak'd by the ripening breath of May,
Th' ungrateful spoiler left his sting,
And with the honey flew away.


YE Beaux Esprits, say, what is GRACE?
Dwells it in motion, shape, or face?
Or is it all the three combin'd,
Guided and soften'd by the mind?
Where it is not, all eyes may see;
But where it is,—all hearts agree:
'Tis there, when easy in its state,
The mind is elegantly great;
Where looks give speech to ev'ry feature,
The sweetest eloquence of nature.
A harmony of thought and motion,
To which at once we pay devotion.
—But where to find this nonpareil!
Where does this female wonder dwell,
Who can at will our hearts command?
—Behold in public—CUMBERLAND!*


MUST I, Clorinda, ever court?
Why all these pains your flame to smother?
Or is it that I'm made your sport
To recommend you to another?
Whate'er the cause, of this be sure,
Love's keenest shaft has touch'd my heart;
Nor will the wound admit of cure,
Until we're either friends or—part.

VERSES on Mr. B— moving to clear the Gallery of the House of Commons when Mr. Garrick was present.

Squire B—n rose with deep intent,
And notified to Parliament,
That I, it was a shame and sin,
When others were shut out, got in;
Asserting in his wise oration,
I gloried in my situation.
I own my features might betray
Peculiar joy I felt that day;
I glory when my mind is feasted
With dainties it has seldom tasted;
When reason chuses Fox's tongue
To be more rapid, clear, and strong;
When from his classic urn Burke pours
A copious stream thro' banks of slow'rs;
When Barrè stern, with accents deep,
Calls up Lord North, and murders sleep;
And if his Lordship rise to speak,
Then wit and argument awake.
When Rigby speaks, and all may hear him,
Who can withstand, ridendo verum?
When Thurlow's words attention bind,
The spell's of a superior mind.
Now, whether I were whig or tory,
This was a time for me to glory:
[Page 539] My glory farther still extends,
For most of these I call my friends.
But if, 'Squire B—n, you were hurt,
To see me as you thought so pert,
You might have punish'd my transgression,
And damp'd the ardour of expression.
A brute there is, whose voice confounds,
And frights all others with strange sounds;
Had you, your matchless powers displaying,
Like him, 'Squire B—n, sat a braying,
I should have lost all exultation,
Nor gloried in my situation.

SONNET, left on the Dutchess of Devonshire's Breakfast-table, in consequence of calling on her Grace at Noon, and finding she had not left her Chamber.

" Past One o'Clock, and a cloudy Morning."
WHAT makes thy looks so fair and bright,
Divine Aurora, say?
" Because, from slumbers short and light,
" I rise to 'wake the day!"
O hide, for shame, thy blushing face!
'Tis all poetic fiction!
To tales like these see Devon's Grace
A blooming contradiction.
The old Watchman of Piccadilly.

Set to Musick by the different Candidates of the Catch Club Prize, which was adjudged to Mr. Webb.
(Said to be written by Mr. GARRICK.)

HAIL, Musick, sweet enchantment hail!
Like potent spells thy pow'rs prevail;
On wings of rapture borne away,
All nature owns thy universal sway.
For what is beauty, what is grace,
But harmony of form and face?
What are the beauties of the mind?
Heav'n's rarest gifts, by harmony combin'd.
From the fierce passions discord springs,
'Till nature strike the softer strings;
The softer strings the soul compose,
And love, harmonious love, from passion flows.
Affection's flame, and f iendship's ties,
And all the social pleasures rise.
From thee, O harmony divine!
Love! Concord! Beauty! ev'ry joy is thine!

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