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THE POETICAL WORKS OF DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.

VOL. II.

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THE POETICAL WORKS OF DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.

NOW FIRST COLLECTED INTO TWO VOLUMES. WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES.

VOL. II.

[printer's device for George Kearsley]

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

[]GARRICK's POEMS.

VOLUME THE SECOND.

LVI. PROLOGUE to DIDO^*.
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?
[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.

LVII. LINCO's TRAVELS^*.

[227]

Linco,: Mr. KING.
Dorcas,: Mrs. BRADSHAW.

Enter Arcadian Men and Women; and among them Dorcas, gathering about Linco.

CHORUS of ARCADIANS.

WELCOME Linco, welcome home.

Linco.

Happy am I, that am come;

Tho' I've been in countries rare,

Seen ſuch ſights would make you ſtare!

Arcadian.

Tell us, tell us!

Linco.

Give me air to blow my bellows.

Arcadian.

Tell us, tell us!

Linco.

A moment ſpare.

Arcad.

Make your neighbours ſome amends.

Linco.

Never more I'll wander,

Simple, ſilly gander,

From my flock and cackling friends.

(Shakes hands, and kiſſes the women.)

Chorus.

Welcome, Linco, welcome home.

Linco.

[228]

Don't crowd ſo, neighbours, you con⯑found 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.

Dorcas.

I am ſo deaf, I muſt come near thee.

(Approaches.

Linco.

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—

(ironically)

Dorcas.

Thoſe Engliſh folks are very ſtrange.

Linco.

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.

Dorcas.

'Tis ſaid they are ſo ſierce and bold!

No woman's ſafe.

Linco.

Unleſs ſhe's old.

Dorcas.

I hate ſuch wantonneſs and riot!

Linco.

You'd live among 'em very quiet.

(loud)

Arcadian.

[229]

But are they ſo prodigious ſtout?

Linco.

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.

AIR.

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.

[230]II.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.

III.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.

IV.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.

Arcadian.

[231]

Of England tell more, what their ſport and their trade is.

Dorcas.

And tell us, good Linco, ſome news of their ladies.

Linco.

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 al⯑moſt dead.

Of all human things there, a traffic is made;

Religion, law, phyſick—nay, beauty's a trade.

Arcadian.

[232]

Beauty!

(ſtarts)

Linco.

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 ap⯑proaches;

Such females are hir'd, as they hire hackney coaches.

Dorcas.

Fye for ſhame! for their kingdom they ſhould not have me.

Linco.

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:

[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.

Dorcas.

To forſake all your friends was a ſhame and a ſin.

Leave roving, and make your own country your wife.

Linco.

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.

SONG.

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?

Chorus.

See nine in ten, &c. &c.

[234]II.

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?

Chorus.

See nine in ten, &c. &c.

III.

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.

Chorus.

See nine in ten, &c. &c.

LVIII. PROLOGUE to the TAYLORS^*.
Spoken by Mr. FOOTE.

[235]

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
[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 de⯑fence?
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.

LIX. PROLOGUE To A PEEP BEHIND THE CURTAIN*.
Spoken by Mr. KING.[237]
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.
[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, diſ⯑ſected.
'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 EPI⯑LOGUE to A PEEP behind the CURTAIN.
Spoken by Mr. KING.[239]
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 approba⯑tion;
Which frees the poor poet from care and vexa⯑tion:
Should want make his miſtreſs too keen to diſ⯑pute,
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.
[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.

LXI. PROLOGUE to FALSE DELICACY*.
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.
[241] Do, ladies, look upon me—nay, no ſimp'ring—
Think you this face was ever made for whim⯑p'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;
[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 pre⯑tences,
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.

LXII. EPILOGUE to FALSE DELICACY.
Spoken by Mrs. DANCER.
WHEN with the Comic Muſe a bard hath deal⯑ing,
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!
[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 deal⯑ing:—
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!
[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.

LXIII. EPILOGUE to ZENOBIA*.
Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.[245]
(She peeps through the Curtain.)
HOW do you all, good folks?—in tears for cer⯑tain;
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 lei⯑ſure,
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†:
[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 re⯑proaches,
She vows her ſiſter Tragedy encroaches!
And, ſpite of all her virtue and ambition,
Is known to have an am'rous diſpoſition:
[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 ſmo⯑ther,
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.

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

[248]

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."

[249]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.

LXV. PROLOGUE to ZINGIS*.
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,—
You're(To the Boxes.
 too polite for Epilogue to call;
[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;
[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:

LXVI. PROLOGUE to the SCHOOL for RAKES^*.
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!
[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!
[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!

LXVII. EPILOGUE to the FATAL DISCOVERY^*.
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.

[254]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, well⯑plac'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;
[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.

LXVIII. PROLOGUE to Dr. LAST in his CHARIOT*.
Spoken by Mr. FOOTE.[256]
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.
[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 man⯑kind—
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?
[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.

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

[259]

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 fa⯑ſhion;
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!
[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;
[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.

LXX. PROLOGUE to the JUBILEE*.
Spoken by Mr. KING.
FROM London, your honours, to Stratford I'm come;
I'm a waiter, your honours—you know buſt⯑ling 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.
[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 laugh⯑ter*,—
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 bro⯑ther,
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.
[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 in⯑gredient,
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— (bellrings)
 I'm com⯑ing, ſir, coming! [Exit running.

LXXI. PROLOGUE To 'TIS WELL IT'S NO WORSE*.
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:
[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!
[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.

LXXII. An ADDRESS to the TOWN, by way of EPI⯑LOGUE to 'TIS WELL IT'S NO WORSE.
Spoken by Mr. KING.[266]
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.

LXXIII. EPILOGUE to ALMIDA*.
Spoken by Mrs. BARRY.[267]
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, peti⯑tion,
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!
[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!*
[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 diſ⯑grace,
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.

LXXIV. EPILOGUE to the WEST INDIAN^*.
Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

[270]

N.B. The Lines in Italics are to be ſpoken in a catechiſe tone.

CONFESS, good folks, has not Miſs Ruſport ſhewn
Strange whims for SEVENTEEN HUNDRED SE⯑VENTY ONE?
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.
[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!— (laughs)
 —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.
[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.

LXXV. PROLOGUE to the MAID of BATH*.
Spoken by Mr. FOOTE.[273]
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:
[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 mum⯑bling.

LXXVI. EPILOGUE SONG to the IRISH WIDOW^*.
Sung by Mrs. BARRY.

[275]

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!

II.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:
[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.

III.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.

IV.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:
[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;
[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.

LXXVIII. EPILOGUE to ALONZO*.
Spoken by Mrs. BARRY.[279]
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 paſ⯑ſion,
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.
[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 pran⯑cing,
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:
[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.

LXXIX. PROLOGUE To SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER^*.
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.
[282] Pray wou'd you know the reaſon why I'm cry⯑ing—
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."

[283]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 mo⯑tion,
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.

LXXX. PROLOGUE to ALBUMAZAR*.
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,
[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 with⯑in—
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 crea⯑tures.
Who has not laughter in his ſoul's a wretch,
And fit for treaſon, ſtratagems, Jack Ketch!
[285] Your meagre hollow eye ſpeaks ſpleen and va⯑pors,
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.

LXXXI. EPILOGUE.
Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

[286]

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!
[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 car⯑ries 'em,
The ſtars lend light, and inclination marries 'em:
When paſſion cools, and flame is turn'd to ſmo⯑ther,
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 gin⯑gerbread!
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.

LXXXII. PROLOGUE To A CHRISTMAS TALE*.[288]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:
To the AUDIENCE.
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:
[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 de⯑ſire)
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-por⯑ridge.
I have no ſauce to quicken lifeleſs ſinners
My food is meant for * honeſt hearty grinners!
[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.

LXXXIII. EPILOGUE to SETHONA*.
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;
[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 patriot⯑veer?
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;
[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.

LXXXIX. PROLOGUE to the COZENERS^*.
Spoken by Mr. FOOTE.

[293]

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?
[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.

LXXXV. OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE
Upon Mr. LACY's firſt Appearance in the Cha⯑racter of Alexander.
Spoken by Mr. KING, October 1774, at Drury⯑lane Theatre.

[295]

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."
[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.

LXXXVI. PROLOGUE to the MAID of the OAKS*.
Spoken by Mr. KING in the Character of Mo⯑dern Fame.[297]
UNLIKE to ancient fame, all eyes, tongues, ears,
See Modern Fame dreſs'd cap-a-pee appears,
In Ledgers, Chronicles, Gazettes and Ga⯑zetteers.
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;
[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.

LXXXVII. EPILOGUE
Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON*.[299]
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!
[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 De⯑cember 1774, on the firſt appearance of Miſs COLE in The COUNTRY GIRL.
Spoken by Mr. KING.[301]
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;
[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!

LXXXIX. EPILOGUE to The CHOLERIC MAN*.
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!
[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;
[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 pic⯑tures.

XC. EPILOGUE To The INFLEXIBLE CAPTIVE*.[305]
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 nodd⯑ling)
" A woman write? Learn, madam, of your betters,
" And read a noble Lord's Poſthumous Letters †.
[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 ar⯑ray'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?
[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:
A MUSICAL PRELUDE, UPON THE OPENING and ALTERATIONS OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, Sept. 1775.

[]

CHARACTERS.

MEN.

Mercury,: Mr. VERNON.
Harlequin,: Mr. DODD.

WOMEN.

Tragedy,: Mrs. SMITH,
Comedy,: Mrs. WRIGHTEN.

Followers of Tragedy, Comedy, and Harlequin.

XCI. The THEATRICAL CANDIDATES.

[310]

Enter MERCURY.

Mercury.

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;

[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!

SONG.

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.

[312] Enter TRAGEDY and followers.

Trag.

Britons, your votes and int'reſt, both I claim,

They're mine by right—Melpomene my name.

SONG.

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.

Com.

I dare, proud dame; my name is Co⯑medy!

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.

[313]SONG.

'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.

Trag.

Such flippant flirts, grave Britons will deſpiſe,

Com.

No but they won't;—they're merry and are wiſe.

Trag.

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!

Com.

For all this mighty pother,

Have you not laugh'd with one eye, cry'd with t'other?

Trag.

In all the realms of nonſenſe, can there be

A monſter, like your comic-tragedy?

Com.

O yes, my dear! your tragic-comedy.

[314]DUETTO.

Trag.

Would you loſe your pow'r and weight?

With this flirt-gill, laugh and prate.

Com.

Let this lady rage and weep;

Would you chuſe to go to ſleep?

Trag.

You're a thief, and whip'd ſhould be.

Com.

You're a thief, have ſtol'n from me.

Both.

Ever diſtant will we be.

Never can, or will agree.

Trag.

I beg relief—ſuch company's a curſe!

Com.

And ſo do I—I never yet kept worſe.

Trag.

Which will you chuſe?

Com.

Sour Her, or ſmiling Me?

There are but two of us.

Enter Hariequin, &c.

Har.

O yes, we're three!

Your votes and int'reſt, pray, for me!

[to the pit.

Trag.

What fall'n ſo low to cope with thee!

Har.

Ouy, ouy!

Com.

Alas, poor we!

(ſhrugs her ſhoulders and laugh;)

Har.

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:

[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.

I.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.

II.Tho' Comedy may make you grin,
And Tragedy move all within,
Why not poll for Harlequin?
[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.

MER.

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 fea⯑ther,

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,

[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.

SONG AND CHORUS.

MELCURY,

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.

MELPOMENE

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.

THALIA.

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.

[318]

HARLEQUIN.

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.

XCII. Sir ANTHONY BRANVILLE's ADDRESS to the LADIES.
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 de⯑vil!
[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.

XCIII. EPILOGUE to The RUNAWAY^*.
Spoken by Miſs YOUNGE.

[320]

POST—haſte from Italy arrives my lover!
Shall I to you, good friends, my fears diſcover?
Should foreign modes his virtues mar and man⯑gle,
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.

[321]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 ro⯑ving;
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!
[322] No rock ſhall there be ſeen, no windmill, foun⯑tain,
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.

XCIV. PROLOGUE to The SPLEEN;
Or, ISLINGTON SPA*.
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.
[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?
[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.

XCV.
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 infirmi⯑ties ſhall be obliged to retire from the Stage.[325]
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?
[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;
[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.

XCVI. PROLOGUE,
Written for the Opening of DRURY-LANE THEATRE, September 21 1776, and intro⯑duced in the PRELUDE of NEW BROOMS*!
Spoken by Mr. King.
SCRIBBLERS are Sportſmen; and as Sportſ⯑men 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.
[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."
[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 endea⯑vour
Shall not be wanting to obtain your favour;
Which gain'd—gee up! the old ſtage will run for ever!

XCVII. EPILOGUE to KNOW YOUR OWN MIND^*.
Spoken by Mrs. MATTOCKS.

[330]

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?
[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 ſor⯑row?
" 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;
[332] O'er law and phyſic we will draw a curtain;
There, nothing but Uncertainty is certain;
Grave looks, wigs, coats—the doctors now relin⯑quiſh '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 re⯑veal '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!

XCVIII. ADDRESS TO THE PUBLIC,
Spoken by Mrs. BARRY, March 3d, 1777, the firſt time ſhe appeared on the Stage after the Death of her Huſband, and before the Tra⯑gedy of DOUGLAS^*.

[233]

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?
[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.

XCIX. PROLOGUE To ALL THE WORLD's A STAGE!^*
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.

[335]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.

C.
The VAUDEVILLE, introduced in the PRELUDE called Bundle of PROLOGUES, and ſung by Mr. BANNISTER and others*:[336]
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.
[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.

CI. PROLOGUE.
To the SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.^*
Spoken by Mr. KING.

[338]

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 refreſh⯑ing!
[339] " Give me the papers, Liſp—how bold and free— (ſips)
" Laſt night Lord L,"— (ſips)
 —"was caught with Lady D."
" For aching heads, what charming Sal volu⯑tile— (ſips)
" 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— (ſips)
 —our praiſe we can't re⯑fuſe it.
Now, Liſp, read you—there at that daſh and ſtar—
Yes, Ma'am—"A certain Lord had beſt be⯑ware,
" 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?
[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 gag⯑ging;
Cut Scandal's head off—ſtill the tongue is wag⯑ging.
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.

CII. EPILOGUE to the SPANISH BARBER^*.
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:
[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 na⯑tion,
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:
[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!

CIII. PROLOGUE to PERCY.*
Spoken by Mrs. BULKELEY.[243]
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;
[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:
[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.

CIV. EPILOGUE to PERCY.
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?
[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 a⯑ſunder—
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?
[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.

CV. EPILOGUE,
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:
[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  [...]
[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 in⯑ſpire;
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 ap⯑pear
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.

CVI. EPILOGUE to ALFRED*.
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:
[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!'
[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!

CVII. EPILOGUE to THE SUICIDE^*.
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.
[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.
[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.

CVIII. PROLOGUE to BONDUCA^*.
Spoken by Mr. PALMER.

[354]

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.

[355]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."

CIX. PROLOGUE to the FATHERS^*.
Spoken by Mr. KING.

[356]

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.
[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 FIELD⯑ING;
Right, Thwackum roars—no mercy, Sirs, I pray
—Scourge the dead Author, thro' his orphan Play.
What words! (cries Parſon Adams) fie, fie, diſ⯑own '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.
[358] Now Slipſlop enters—tho' this ſeriv'ning Vag⯑rant,
'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 breed⯑ing.
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.

CX. EPILOGUE.
Spoken by Miſs YOUNGE.[359]
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 re⯑tir'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;—
[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 um⯑brellas?
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.
[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 conceal⯑ing;
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 de⯑fending,
And tho' near perſect, want a little mending;
Let love ſtep forth, and claim from both alle⯑giance,
And bring back caps and hats to due obedience.

SONGS.

[362]

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.
[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.
[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.

SONG.
SYLVIA.

[365]

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!

PEGGY^*.

[366]

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.

[367]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!"

[368]

SONG in LETHE,
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.

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

[369]

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.

SONG in LETHE,
Sung by Mr. BEARD in the Character of Mercury.

[370]

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.

CHORUS.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.

II.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.

CHORUS.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.

[371]

CHORUS.RISE, riſe!
Heart-breaking ſighs,
The woe-fraught boſom ſwell;
For ſighs alone,
And diſmal moan,
Should echo Juliet's knell.

AIR.

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.

AIR.

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.

AIR.

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.

The MILLER's WEDDING.
A SONG.
Sung by Mr. BEARD in Harlequin Ranger, acted at Drury-lane, Dec. 1751.

[372]

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.

CHORUS.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!

II.

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.

[373]III.

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.

IV.

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.

[374]

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.

II.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 ad⯑vance:
Old England deſpiſes the inſults of France.

III.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.

[375]IV.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.

V.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.

SONG in the WINTER's TALE.
Sung by Mrs. CIBBER, in the character of PER⯑DITA, 1756.

[376]

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?

II.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.

III.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.

IV.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.

[377]V.

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.

The BEER-DRINKING BRITON
A SONG^*.

I.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.

[378]II.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.

III.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.

SONGS in the MASQUE in ISABELLA.

Enter Villeroy.

Vil.

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—

Vil.

You oblige me—

1ſt Fr.

[379]

But your lovely bride,—

That wonder of her ſex, ſhe muſt appear,

And add new brightneſs to this happy morning.

Vil.

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.

EPITHALAMIUM.AIR.

Woman.
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.

Man.
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.

Vil.

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.

[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.

Vil.

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.

Iſa.

Black might be ominous;

I would not bring ill luck along with me.

Vil.

[381]

Oh! if your melancholy thoughts could change

With ſhifting of your dreſs—Time has done cures

Incredible this way, and may again.

Iſa.

I could have wiſh'd, if you had thought it fit,

Our marriage had not been ſo public.

Vil.

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.

Iſa.

I have no more to ſay.—

Enter Carlos.

Vil.

My Carlos too, who came in to the ſup⯑port

Of our bad fortune, has an honeſt right,

In better times, to ſhare the good with us.

Car.

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.

Vil.

He muſt be a friend,

Who is not envious of a happineſs

So abſolute as mine; but if you are,

[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.

Iſa.

I feel their favours with a grateful heart,

And willingly comply.

RECITATIVE.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.

DUETTO.

Man.

Oh, the raptures of poſſeſſing,

Taking beauty to thy arms!

Woman.

Oh the joy, the laſting bleſſing,

When with virtue beauty charms!

Man.

Purer flames ſhall gently warm ye;

Woman.

Love and honour both ſhall charm thee.

Both.

Oh the raptures of, &c. &c.

[383]

CHORUS.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.

Car.

'Tis fine, indeed!

You'll take my advice another time, ſiſter.

Vil.

What have you done? A riſing ſmile

Stole from her thoughts, juſt redd'ning on her cheek,

And you have daſh'd it.

Car.

I am ſorry for't.

Vil.

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.

SONG.
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.

[384]II.

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.

III.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.

IV.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.

V.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 co⯑quette,
And her ſpouſe has the worſt of the game.

VI.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.

SONGS in the ENCHANTER.

[385]

AIR.
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.

AIR.

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.

AIR.

[386]

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?

AIR.

[387]

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,

AIR.

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.

[388]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.

DUET.

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.

AIR.

[389]

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.

CHORUS.

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.

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

[390]

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 com⯑mand:
Exert with your huſband the ſame happy ſkill,
For hearts, like your birds, may be tam'd to your will.

[391]

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.

SONGS in HARLEQUIN'S INVASION.
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.

II.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.

[392]

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.

CHORUS.For look the world thro',
And you'll find one in ten,
Old women can do
As much as old men.

II.

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.

Chorus.

—For look the world thro' &c.

III.

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?

Chorus.

—For look the world thro', &c.

In Part the Third.

[393]

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.

Chorus.

Come away! come away!

His Genius calls—you muſt obey!

II.

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.

Chorus.

Come away, &c.

III.

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.

Chorus.

Come away! Come away!

His Genius calls—you muſt obey.

SONG in THE COUNTRY GIRL.
Sung by Mr. DODD, in the Character of Sparkiſh.

[394]

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.

II.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.

[395]

AIR in CYMON.
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.

AIR in CYMON.
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.

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

[396]

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.

AIR in CYMON.
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.

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

[397]

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.

AIR in CYMON.
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!

AIR in CYMON.
Sung by Mr. KING in the character of LINCO.

[398]

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.

AIR in CYMON.
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.

II.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.

[399]III.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.

AIR in CYMON.
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.

II.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.

[400]III.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.

IV.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.

AIR in CYMON.
Sung by Mr. VERNON in the Character of Cymon.

All amaze!
Wonder, praiſe,
Here for ever could I gaze!
Creep ſtill near it, (advancing.)
Yet I fear it, (retiring.)
I can neither ſtay nor go,
Can't forſake it, (advancing.)
Dare not wake it,
Shall I touch it?—no! no! no! (advances and retires.)

[401]II.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.

AIR in CYMON.
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!

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

[402]

Syl.

O Take this noſegay, gentle youth,

Cym.

And you, ſweet maid, take mine;

Syl.

Unlike theſe flow'rs, be thy fair truth;

Cym.

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.

AIR in CYMON.
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.

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

[403]

HENCE every hope, and every fear!
Awake, awake, my power and pride,
Let jealouſy, ſtern jealouſy appear!
With vengeance at her ſide!

II.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.

AIR in CYMON.
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.

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

[404]

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!

II.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!

AIR in CYMON.
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.

[405]II.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!

AIR in CYMON.
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.

II.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.

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

[406]

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.

AIR in CYMON.
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.

II.In me a harmleſs lamb behold,
Oppreſt with every fear;
O guard, good ſhepherd, guard the fold,
For wicked wolves are near.

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

[407]

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.

AIR in CYMON.
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!

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

[408]

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.

II.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.

III.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.

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

[409]

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.

AIR in CYMON.
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.

[410]

Lack-a-day!

Poor Fatima!

Stinted ſo,

To yes or no.

II.

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.

Lack-a-day!
Poor Fatima!
Stinted ſo,
To yes or no!

AIR in CYMON.
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;
[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.

AIR in CYMON.
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.

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

[412]

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.

AIR in CYMON.
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!

CHORUS in CYMON.

[413]

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.

DAMON.

Each ſhepherd again ſhall be conſtant and kind,

And ev'ry ſtray'd heart ſhall each ſhepherdeſs find.

DELIA.

If faithful our ſhepherds, we always are true,

Our faith and our falſhood we borrow from you.

CHORUS.

While we're virtuous, while we're free,

Ever happy ſhall we be.

FATIMA.

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.

CHORUS.

While we're virtuous, &c.

LINCO.

[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.

CHORUS.

While we're virtuous, &c.

SYLVIA.

Let love, peace and joy ſtill be ſeen hand in hand,

To dance on this turf, and again bleſs the land.

CYMON.

Love and Hymen of bleſſings have open'd their ſtore,

For Cymon with Sylvia can wiſh nothing more.

BOTH.

Love and Hymen of bleſſings have open'd their ſtore,

HE.

For Cymon with Sylvia can wiſh nothing more.

SHE.

For Sylvia with Cymon can wiſh nothing more.

CHORUS.

While we're virtuous, while we're free,

Ever happy ſhall we be!

ORPHEUS.
A BURLETTA^*.

[415]

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.

[416]

AIR.

I.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.

II.

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.]

Enter RHODOPE.

Recit.

Your wife, you driv'ler!—is it ſo?

But I'll play hell before you go.

ORPHEUS (aſide.)

Recit.

With fear and ſhame my cheeks are ſcarlet;

I've prais'd my wife before my harlot.

RHODOPE.

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.

ORPHEUS.

[417]

Recit.

My mind is fix'd—in vain this ſtrife;

To hell I go to fetch my wife.—

(Going, Rhodope holds him.)

AIR.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.

ORPHEUS.

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.

RHODOPE.

Recit.
Yet hear me, Orpheus, can you be,
So vulgar as to part with me,
[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.)

AIR.

I.When Orpheus you
Were kind and true,
Of joy I had my fill;
Now Orpheus roves,
And faithleſs proves,
Alas! the bitter pill!

II.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.

ORPHEUS.

Recit.

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.

RHODOPE.

[419]

Recit.

Since my beſt weapon, crying, fails,

I'll try my tongue, and then my nails.

AIR.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.]

ORPHEUS.

Recit.

This is my weapon, don't advance,

I'll make you ſleep, or make you dance.

AIR.

One med'cine cures the gout,

Another cures a cold,

This can drive your paſſions out,

Nay even cure a ſcold.

[420]

Have you gout or vapours,

I in ſleep,

Your ſenſes ſteep,

Or make your legs cut capers.

DUETTO. (accompanied with the Lyre.)

Rhod.

I cannot have my ſwing,

Orph.

Ting, ting, ting.

Rhod.

My tongue has loſt its twang,

Orph.

Tang, tang, tang.

Rhod.

My eyes begin to twinkle,

Orph.

Tinkle, tinkle, tinkle,

Rhod.

My hands dingle dangle,

Orph.

Tangle, tangle, tangle.

Rhod.

My ſpirits ſink,

Orph.

Tink, tink, tink.

Rhod.

Alas my tongue,

Orph.

Ting, tang, tong,

Rhod.

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.

ORPHEUS.

Recit.
'Tis done, I'm free,
And now for thee,
Euridice!
Behold what's ſeldom ſeen in life,
I leave my miſtreſs for my wife.
[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.

AIR.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 [...]!

[422]

RECITATIVE.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.

AIR.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.

RECIT.

Stop, ſtop your noiſe you fiddling fool,

We want not here a dancing ſchool.

ORPHEUS.

Recit.

Shepherd, be cool, forbear this vap'ring,

Or this^* ſhall ſet you all a cap'ring.

OLD SHEPHERD.

Recit.

Touch it again, and I ſhall ſtrait,

Beat time with this^† upon your pate.

ORPHEUS.

[423]

Recit.

I dare you all, your threats, your blows,

Come one and all, we now are foes.

OLD SHEPHERD.

Recit.

Zounds! what's the matter with my toes?

(Begins to dance

OLD SHEPHERD.

Air.
From top to toe,
Above, below,
The tingling runs abou me
I feel it here,
I feel it there,
Within me, and without me.

ORPHEUS.

Air.
From top to toe,
Above, below,
The charm ſhall run about you;
Now tingle here,
Now tingle there,
Within you, and without you.

OLD SHEPHERD.

[424]

Air.

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.

ORPHEUS.

Air.
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.

OLD SHEPHERD.

Air.
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:
[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.

ORPHEUS.

Air.
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.

We're dancing too,
And we like you,
Can only cut a caper.

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

[426]

THE MORNING ADDRESS.
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:

WARWICKSHIRE.
A SONG.
Sung by Meſſrs. VERNON and DIEDEN.

[427]

I.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.

II.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.

[428]III.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.

IV.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.

V.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.

[429]VI.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.

VII.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.

SWEET WILLYO^* A SONG.
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.

[430]II.

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.

III.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.

IV.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,

V.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.

SHAKESPEARE'S MULBERRY-TREE.
Sung with a Cup in his Hand made of the Tree,
By Mr. VERNON, and others.

[431]

I.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!

II.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.

[432]II.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.

III.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.

V.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.

VI.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.

[433]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.

VIII.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.

CHORUS from the CHURCH.
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.
[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!

The COUNTRY GIRL.
A COMIC SERENATA.
Sung by Mrs. BADDELEY and Miſs RADLEY.

[435]

RECITATIVO.

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!

AIR.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.
[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.

RECITATIVO.

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.

[437]AIR.

I.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.

II.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.

[438]III.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.

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

I.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.

[439]II.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.

SONG in A CHRISTMAS TALE.
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.

[440]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.

SONG in A CHRISTMAS TALE.
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.
[441] Quick of ear, and ſharp of eye,
Others faults we hear and ſpy,
But to our own,
Alone,
We are both deaf and blind.
O the freaks of womankind! &c.

SONG in A CHRISTMAS TALE.
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!

SONG in A CHRISTMAS TALE.
Sung by Mr. VERNON in the character of Florida.

[442]

'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!

SONG in A CHRISTMAS TALE.
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
In A CHRISTMAS TALE.

[443]

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.

SONG in A CHRISTMAS TALE.
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.
[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.

SONG in A CHRISTMAS TALE.
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!

DUETTE in A CHRISTMAS TALE.

[445]

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.

[446]

Camilla.

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.

Floridor.

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.

Camilla.

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!

Floridor.

[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.

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

Bonoro.

May heav'ns bleſſing blend with mine!

To crown thy deeds at virtue's ſhrine,

Be love's beſt gift, Camilla, thine.

Camilla.

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.

Floridor.

[448]

O when my bark, the tempeſt o'er,

With pilot, love, ſhall gain this ſhore,

Ambition cannot aſk for more!

TRIO.

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!

SONG in A CHRISTMAS TALE,
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!

[449]

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.

SONG in a CHRISTMAS TALE,
Sung by Mrs. SMITH in the character of Ca⯑milla.

O how weak will power and reaſon
To this boſom tyrant prove,
Every act is fancied treaſon,
To the jealous ſovereign Love!

[450]

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.

ODE in a CHRISTMAS TALE,
Sung by Mr. PARSONS in the character of Fa⯑ladel.
Alack-a-day!
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—

SONG in A CHRISTMAS TALE,
Sung by Mr. PARSONS in the character of Fa⯑ladel.

[451]

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;
Heigh-ho!—alack-a-day!

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!

SONG in A CHRISTMAS TALE,
Intended to have been ſung by Mr. PARSONS in the Character of Faladel.

[452]

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!

DUETTE in A CHRISTMAS TALE,
Sung by Mrs. Wrighten and Mr. Parſons in the characters of Robinette and Faladel.

[453]

Both.

O the delight!

To be an errant knight!

Rob.

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:

Both.

O the delight!

To be an errant knight!

Rob.

Damſels ſqueaking,

Devils ſhrieking,

Clubs and giants,

Hurl defiance,

[454] Night and day,

Loſe the way,

Spirits ſinking,

Nothing drinking,

Beat and beating,

Little eating,

Broken bones,

Beds of ſtones,

Both.

O the delight!

To be an errant knight!

SONG in A CHRISTMAS TALE,
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!

SONG in A CHRISTMAS TALE,
Sung by Mrs. SMITH in the character of Camilla.

[455]

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.

SOLEMN AIR in A CHRISTMAS TALE.
Sung by Mr. VERNON in the character of Floridor.

[456]

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.

DUETTE in A CHRISTMAS TALE.
Sung by Mrs. Smith and Mr. Vernon in the cha⯑racters 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.
[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.

SONG in A CHRISTMAS TALE,
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!

SONG in A CHRISTMAS TALE,
Sung by Mr. Champneſs in the character of Ne⯑gromant, and Mr. Vernon in Floridor.[458]NEGROMANT.
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.
FLORIDOR.
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!
[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!

CHORUS in A CHRISTMAS TALE,
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 cha⯑racters of Camilla and Floridor.

[460]

Camil.

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.

Flor.

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.

Both.

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.

SONG in A CHRISTMAS TALE,
Sung by Mr. VERNON in the character of Floridor.

[461]

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.

DUETTE in A CHRISTMAS TALE,
Sung by Mrs. Smith and Mr. Vernon in the cha⯑racters of Camilla and Floridor.

Cam.

Take my hand, my heart is thine,

Flor.

My hand and heart they are not mine,

Cam.

May love and all its joys be thine!

Flor.

Ye gods above!

Are theſe the promis'd joys of love!

Cam.

Theſe are the raptures call'd divine!

Flor.

My hand and heart they are not mine.

Cam.

May love for many, many years,

Without its doubts, its cares and fears,

Each moment of our life controul.

Flor.

What anguiſh tears my tortur'd ſoul?

Cam.

[462]

Let me, ſweet youth, thy charms behold,

And in theſe arms thy beauties fold.

Flor.

I cannot hold, I cannot hold!

Cam.

No more can I, no more can I,

I bluſh for ſhame, O fye! O fye!

Flor.

I am all on fire!

Cam.

And ſo am I, and ſo am I.

Flor.

It burns, deſtroys,

What can I do?

Cam.

I feel it too!

O let's retire,

And hide our loves!

Flor.

Ye gods above!

Are theſe the promis'd joys of love?

SONG in A CHRISTMAS TALE.
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.

SONG in A CHRISTMAS TALE.
Sung by Mr. BANNISTER in the character of Bonoro.

[463]

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!

Concluding SONG and CHORUS In A CHRISTMAS TALE.

Bon.

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.

Flor.

Love in my breaſt, no ſtorm blowing,

Feels each tide is fuller growing,

And in grateful ſtrains o'erflowing.

Honour, truth, &c.

Rob.

[464]

Love in my breaſt, tho' a rover,

Calmly ſporting with each lover,

Will to-day with love run over!

Honour, truth, &c.

Cam.

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.

GRAND CHORUS.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.

[465]

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.

SONG in MAY-DAY,
Sung by Mr. VERNON in the Character of William.

[466]

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.

CHORUS in MAY-DAY.

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.

SONG in MAY-DAY,
Sung by Mr. BANNISTER in the Character of Clod.

[467]

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.

CHORUS.Let others to London go roam,
I love my neighbour,
To ſing and to labour,
To me there's nothing like country and home.

II.

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!

Chorus.

Let others, &c.

[468]III.

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.

Chorus.

Let others, &c.

IV.

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.

Chorus.

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.

Chorus.

" Let others, &c.

[469]VI.

" 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."

Chorus.

Let others, &c.

SONG in MAY-DAY,
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!

SONG in MAY-DAY,
Sung by Mr. VERNON in the Character of William.

[470]

I.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.

II.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.

III.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.

[471]IV.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.

SONG in MAY-DAY,
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.

SONG in MAY-DAY,
Sung by Miſs ABRAMS in the Character of the Gypſey.

[472]

I.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.

II.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.

III.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.

[473]IV.

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.

SONG in MAY-DAY,
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 be⯑low,
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.

[474]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."

DUETTO in MAY-DAY,
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.

SONG in MAY-DAY,
Sung by Miſs ABRAMS in the Character of Gipſy.

[475]

I.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.

II.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.

III.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.

FINALE to MAY-DAY,
Sung by Mr. Banniſter, Mr. Vernon, Miſs Abrams and Mr. Parſons, in the Characters of Clod, William, Gipſy and Furrow.

[476]

CLOD.

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.

WILLIAM.

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.

GIPSY.

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.

FURROW.

[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.

WILLIAM and GIPSEY.

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!

GRAND CHORUS." 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."

OXFORDSHIRE NANCY BEWITCH'D.
A BALLAD.
Set to Muſick by Mr. SHIELD.

[478]

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.

[479]

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!

EPITAPHS.

[480]

An EPITAPH upon the celebrated CLAUDY PHILIPS*, Muſician, who died very poor.PHILIPS, whoſe touch harmonious could re⯑move
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 me⯑mory of a Lady's Bullfinch.
By the Same.

[481]

On the Front of the Stone.

Memoriae
Blandientis Volucris
Hunc Lapidem
poſuit
DAVID GARRICK
et hoc
Nobiliſſimae Luciae
Officii ſui
Teſtimonium
quale quale eſt
dicavit.

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.

[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.

[483]

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 Shakeſ⯑peare 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.

EPITAPH on LAURENCE STERNE^*.

[484]

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,
CHARLES HOLLAND,
Who was born March 12, 1733,
Dy'd the 7th of December, 1769,
And was bury'd near this place.

D. GARRICK.

EPITAPH on Mr. BEIGHTON, who had been Vicar of Egham forty-five Years.[485]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.

EPITAPH on PAUL WHITEHEAD, Eſq.Near this place
Are depoſited the remains
of
PAUL WHITEHEAD, Eſq.
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.

EPITAPH on Mr. HAVARD, Comedian^*.

[486]

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

" 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.

EPIGRAMS.

[487]

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.

[488]

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.

[489]

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.

[490]

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.

COLLOQUIAL EPIGRAM^*.

WILMOT.

You ſhould call at his houſe, or ſhould ſend him a card,

Can Garrick alone be ſo cold?

GARRICK.

Shall I a poor player, and ſtill poorer bard,

Shall folly with Camden make bold?

[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 Gen⯑tlemen.

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.

[492]

FITZGIG's TRIUMPH;
Or, The POWER of RIOT:
AN ODE.
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 po⯑liticians allow Mr. Pitt to be a great man, but think he has been too fond of continental con⯑nections. 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 excel⯑lent 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 revo⯑lutions of theatres are as extraordinary as thoſe [493] of ſtates and republics; and tumults in king⯑doms 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 ſhip⯑money, is not more celebrated than Thady Fitz⯑patrick, who demoliſhed full price. The fol⯑lowing poem is a parody on that celebrated ode of Dryden's, which that great orator, Mr. She⯑ridan, has ſo often recited with uncommon ap⯑plauſe at Spring-gardens, Pewterers-hall, Drury⯑lane 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.

[494]'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.
[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."
[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.
[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!
[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.

[499]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.[500]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.

[501]

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.

[502]

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.

DEATH and the DOCTOR.
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.

[503]

" 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.[504]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:
[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.

On JOHNSON's DICTIONARY. 1755.[506]TALK of war with a Briton, he'll boldly ad⯑vance,
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, New⯑ton, 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.

A RIDDLE.

[507]

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.[508]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.

PLATE I.

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.

[509]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.

PLATE II.

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.

A RECIPE for a MODERN CRITIC. 1756.[510]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.

[511]

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!

II.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.

III.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.

IV.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!

[512]V.

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!

VI.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.

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

[513]

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.

[514]

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.

[515]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.

[516]

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.

[517]

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.

[518]

" But ſince you're my friends, (ſays this com⯑plaiſant 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.

1768.

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.[519]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.
MERLIN, JUN.

The Hot-Bed's Advice to a certain Gardener.[520]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,
[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.

[522]

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.
[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.
[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.[525]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.

[526]

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.[527]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 im⯑plores,
That the fool may for once beat the knave out of doors.

The Petition of the Fools to Jupiter.
A FABLE.
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.

[528]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:
[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.

[530]

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.

[531]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,
A JEU D' ESPRIT.

[532]

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.

JUPITER and MERCURY.
A FABLE.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 fic⯑tions;
[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 be⯑ſtow it:
This Scholar, Rake, Chriſtian, Dupe, Game⯑ſter 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!

[534]

To the Printer of the Public Advertiſer.

SIR,

Notwithſtanding the great ſale and repu⯑tation 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 Lord⯑ſhip, 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 Lord⯑ſhip'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 Au⯑thor, was to me ſo point blank againſt his Lord⯑ſhip'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.

[535]

I.FAR from the reach of mortal grief,
Well, Stanhope, art thou fled;
Nor couldſt thou, Lord, now gain belief,
Tho' riſing from the dead!

II.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!

III.The victor's palm aloft ſhe bears!
And ſullen foes ſubmit;
The laurel wreath from man ſhe tears,
And routs each lordly wit!

IV.A female work if this ſhould prove,
Cries out the beaten ſoe;
'Tis Pallas from the head of Jove,
Compleat from top to toe!

[536]V.

With feeling, elegance and force,

Unite their various pow'r,

And prove, that from a heav'nly ſource

Springs Eldred of the Bow'r!

VI.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.

On GRACE.[537]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!*

SONNET.

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.[538]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:
[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.

OCCASIONAL ODE,
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.)[540]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!

THE END.

Appendix A BOOKS printed for G. KEARSLEY, At Johnſon's Head in Fleet-ſtreet.

[]

THE LIFE OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. WITH Occaſional Remarks on his Writings; an authen⯑tic Copy of his Will; a Catalogue of his Works, and a Fac-ſimile of his Hand-writing.
The ſecond Edition, with conſiderable Additions and Corrections.

To which is added, JOHNSONIA; OR, A Selection of Dr. JOHNSON'S Bon-Mots, Ob⯑ſervations, &c. moſt of which were never be⯑fore publiſhed.

From his Cradle

He was a SCHOLAR, and a ripe and good one;

And to add greater honou [...]s to his age

Than man could give him, he died, fearing heaven.

SHAKESPEARE.

Price Two Shillings.
[] THE POETICAL WORKS OF SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. CONTAINING
- London, a Satire
- The Vanity of Human Wiſhes
- Irene, a Tragedy
- The Winter's Walk
- Stella in Mourning
- The Midſummer's Wiſh
- An Evening Ode to Stella
- Vanity of Wealth
- The Natural Beauty
- Tranſlation of Pope's Meſſiah
- And ſundry others.
Price Half a Crown.

N.B. The Poetical Productions of Dr. JOHNSON were never before collected.
THE GENTLEMAN'S GUIDE IN HIS TOUR THROUGH FRANCE. BY AN OFFICER, Who recommends to his countrymen not to ſpend more money than is requiſite to ſupport, with Decency, the Character of an ENGLISHMAN.
TO WHICH IS ADDED, A CORRECT MAP OF All the POST-ROADS of FRANCE.

THE SEVENTH EDITION, With conſiderable Additions.

PARTICULARLY The ROUTS THROUGH ITALY, AND THE EXPENCE of TRAVELLING in that Part of EUROPE.

Price 3s. 6d. Half-bound.
[] AN ABRIDGEMENT OF Capt. COOK'S LAST VOYAGE, Performed in the Years 1776, 1777, 1778, 1779, and 1780; Undertaken by Command of His MAJESTY, For making Diſcoveries in the Northern Hemiſphere.
Containing an accurate account of the ſeveral parts they viſited during the voyage; alſo a de⯑ſcription of the cuſtoms, manners, and perſons, of the inhabitants; the different ſpecies of ani⯑mals; and a relation of the intereſting tranſ⯑actions, particularly every circumſtance relative to the unfortunate Death of Captain COOK; with a ſhort ſketch of his life and public ſervices.

By CAPTAIN KING.

The ſplendid Edition of this intereſting and entertaining work, publiſhed by the Lords of the Admiralty, in three quarto volumes, is ſold for Four Guineas and a Half. This COM⯑PENDIUM is intended to accommodate thoſe who cannot with convenience either make ſo expenſive a purchaſe, or ſpare ſo large a portion of time as the peruſal of upwards of fifteen hundred pages require, however their curioſity may be excited.

To make room for the more entertaining parts of this Voyage, all the nautical parts are entirely omitted.—Price 3s. ſewed.

CAPTAIN COOK'S Firſt and Second Voyages are abridged in the ſame manner in one pocket volume.

Price Three Shillings alſo.

Notes

A Tragedy, by Mr. Reed, acted at Drury-lane, March [...], 1767, for Mr. Holland's Benefit.

An Interlude, acted at Drury-lane, for Mr. King's Bene⯑fit, April 1767.

A Tragedy for warm weather, the Author unknown, acted at the Hay-market, July 1767.

A Farce, by Mr. Garrick, acted at Drury-lane, October 1767.

A Comedy, by Mr. Kelly, acted at Drury-lane, January 1768.

A Tragedy, by Mr. Murphy, acted at Drury-lane, Febru⯑ary, 1768.

†

Mrs. Pritchard had at this time ſignified her intention of retiring from the ſtage.

Alluding to the titles of the pamphlets publiſhed at this period by the contending managers of Covent-garden, Meſſrs. Colman, Powell, Harris and Rutherford.

In Mr. Keate's poems, vol. ii. p. 109, is an Epilogue writ⯑ten by that gentleman for Mrs. Pritchard, before he knew that Mr. Garrick had already ſupplied one. Mrs. Pritchard ſur⯑vived only until Auguſt following, when ſhe died at Bath. She had been 38 years on the ſtage. Her very extraordinary powers, and her infinite variety, gave her the juſteſt claim to be remem⯑bered as one of the moſt diſtinguiſhed actreſſes that perhaps any country ever produced; and her uncommon talents for the Theatre were not more the admiration of the publick, than the amiableneſs of her private life was that of her acquaintance.

†

The laſt ſcene of Lady Macbeth.

A Tragedy, by Mr. Dow, acted at Drury-lane, December 1768.

A Comedy, by Mrs. Griffiths, acted at Drury-lane, Fe⯑bruary 1769. This Prologue originally was different. It only was altered by Mr. Garrick.

Wit's laſt Stake, a Farce, by Mr. King, was acted at Drury-lane, April 1768.

Looking about the Houſe.

†

The Pit.

A Tragedy by Mr. Home, acted at Drury-lane, Feb. 1769.

Like harmleſs infants mourn themſelves aſleep.

A Comedy, by Mr. Bickerſtaff, acted at the Hay-market, June, 1769.

Lord Cheſterfield was afflicted with deafneſs ſome time be⯑fore he died.

A Dramatick Entertainment by Mr. Garrick, acted at Drury-lane, October 1769.

The repreſentation of The Jubilee at Covent-garden, had [...] ſtart of that at Drury-lane.

A Comedy, by Mr. Bickerſtaffe, acted at Drury-lane, No⯑vember 1770.

'Tis well 'tis no worſe was taken from "El Eſcondido la [...]dra of Calderon, a celebrated Spaniſh poet.

Upper Gallery.

†

Firſt Gallery.

‡

Pit.

Boxes.

The Pit.

A Tragedy, by Mrs. Celifia, Daughter of David Mallet Eſq. acted at Drury Lane, January 1771.

†

Mrs. Celiſia reſided at Florence.

‡

See Spectator, No. 499.

Stands in a poſture of defence.

To the Ladies in the Boxes.

A Comedy, by Mr. Cumberland, acted at Drury-lane January 1771.

[...]

A Comedy, by Mr. Foote, acted at the Hay-Market, june 1771.

A Farce, by Mr. Garrick, acted at Drury-lane, October 1772.

See P. 114.

A Tragedy, by Mr. Home, acted at Drury-lane Febru⯑ary, 1773.

A Comedy, by Dr. Goldſmith, acted at Covent Garden, March 1773,

A Comedy, by Mr. Tomkis, firſt acted at Cambridge 1614, and revived with alterations by Mr. Garrick, October 1773.

†

Mr. King, at this time was chief Proprietor of Sadlers Wells.

A Dramatick Performance, by Mr. Garrick, acted at Drury-lane, December 1773.

To the upper gallery.

A Tragedy, by Alexander Dow, Eſq. acted at Drury-lane, February 1774.

To the upper gallery.

The Author was at that time in the Eaſt Indies, wherehe ſhortly afterwards died.

A Comedy, by Mr. Foote, acted at the Hay-market, July 1774.

Mr. Lacy performed twice at Birmingham the preceding September.

A Dramatick performance, by General Burgoyne, acted at Drury-lane, November 1774.

During this and the next Seaſon, two other Epilogues were ſpoken by Mrs. Abington. The ſecond by the Author of the Play, and the third by an unknown hand. This laſt was generally at the time aſcribed to Mr. Garrick. It is not however, here inſerted, as authentic information has been given that it was not written by him. This is mentioned, that the preſent collec⯑tion may not be cenſured for an omiſſion.

A Comedy, by Mr. Cumberland, acted at Drury lane, December 1774.

To the Galleries.

A Tragedy, by Miſs More, acted at Bath, about Dec. 1774.

†

Lord Cl [...].

Mis. Montague, Author of an Eſſay on the Writings of Shakeſpeare.

Mrs. Carter, well known for her ſkill in ancient and mo⯑dern languages.

†

Miſs Aikin, now Mrs. Barbauld, who publiſhed ſome ex⯑cellent poems.

After THE DISCOVERY, a Comedy, by Mrs. Sheridan, [...]ived at Drury-Lane, January 1776.

A Comedy, by Mrs. Cowley, acted at Drury-lane, Fe⯑bruary 1776.

The faſhion of wearing feathers by the ladies began to ſhew itſelf at this time. For the information of poſterity it may be added, that the vagaries mentioned in the ſubſequent lines were ve [...]y predominant at the ſame period.

A Farce, by Mr. Colman, acted at Drury-lane, February 1776.

This was the firſt publick notice of Mr. Garrick's in⯑tention of retiring from the ſtage.

To the upper gallery.

By Mr. Colman.

Boxes.

†

Gallery.

A Comedy, by Mr. Murphy; acted at Covent-garden, February 1777.

†

See Mr. Sh [...]ridan's Epilogue to Sem [...].

Mr. Barry died 11th January, 1777.

A Farce, by Mr. Jackman, acted at Drury-lane, April 1777.

April, 28, 1777.

A Comedy, by Mr. Sheridan, acted at Drury lane, May 1777.

A Comedy, by Mr. Colman, acted at the Hay-market, Auguſt 1777.

A Tragedy, by Miſs Moore, acted at Covent-garden, Dec. 1777.

†

The [...] Eon.

Very large Buckles were worn at this juncture.

This Epilogue is conjecturally aſcribed to Mr. Garrick.

A Tragedy, by Mr. Home, acted at Covent Garden, Ja⯑nuary 1778.

She makes the motion of ſtabbing.

†

And here of drinking poiſon.

A Comedy, by Mr. Colman, acted at the Hay-market, May July 1778.

A Tragi-Comedy, by Beaumont and Fletcher, altered by Mr. Colman, and acted at the Hay-market, July 1778.

Lord Chatham died 11 May, 1778.

A Comedy, by Henry Fielding, acted at Drury lane, No⯑vember 1778.

After the performance of the TEMPEST, for the Benefit of Captain Pedlie's Crew, who on this occaſion came on the Stage, and returned thanks; the Prince of Wales, Father of his preſent Majeſty, honoured the Theatre writh his attendance. Captain Peddie was Commander of the Prince of Orange, homeward bound from St. Chriſtopher's. Oct. 23, after a tedi⯑ous paſſage, about 30 leagues E. of Scilly, he was attacked by a Spaniſh Privateer of [...]8 guns, as many ſwivels, and 150 Men. The Spaniards holſting Engliſh Colours, Capt. Peddie had no ſuſpicion of him till he was cloſe on board, when his adverſary poured in a broadſide upon him with all his ſmall arms. Captain Peddie's guns being all wet below, he coud only return him his quarter deck guns and ſmall arms; but clapping the helm hard a-weather, he had the courage to run him aboard on the quarter, which did him conſiderable damage. When the Spaniard got clear, he ſhot ahead and lay by a quarter of an hour, which gave the captain time to get ready for him; and on his bearing down again, a ſmart engagement enſued for about three hours and a half; when the Don bore away, and Captain Peddie after him; but finding he outſailed him, he clapped upon a wind, and continued his voyage with a favoura⯑ble wind till he arrived in the Downs, October 30, having loſt but four men and five wounded. After ſo brave a deliverance he was ſcarcely anchored, before, by a violent ſtorm, his ſhip was driven a ſhore and loſt; himſelf narrowly eſcaping, and five of his crew having periſhed with the cold. The gallant beha⯑viour of this Gentleman, and his ſubſequent misfortunes, made a deep impreſſion on the publick. On the 20th November 1740, CATO was acted at Covent Garden for his Benefit. His Majeſty ſent him 100 Guineas, the Dutcheſs of Marlbo⯑rough 20, and Mr. Onſlow, Speaker of the Houſe of Com⯑mons, with many of the Nobility, made him preſents to the value of near 3000 pounds. Soon after he had given him the Command of the Baſiliſk Bomb. The above Song was written by Mr. Walmſley, the patron of Mr. Garrick, and the friend of Doctor Johnſon, except the third Stanza, which was added by Mr. Garrick himſelf.

This Song was written in compliment to Mrs. Woffington.

Set to muſick, by Doctor Arne, and ſung by Mr. Beard in a Pantomime called Harlequin Mercury, acted at Drury-lane, 1757.

In the Gameſters, a Comedy altered by Mr. Garrick, and acted 1757.

Introduced into The Peep behind the Curtain, acted at Drury-Lane, 1767.

His Lyre.

†

His crook.

On taking leave of the audience on the laſt Evening of performance at Drury-lane, the preceding ſeaſon, Mr. Garrick added the following lines, after ſaying "next year we come again; [bowing to the Audience.
" My eyes, till then, no ſights like this will ſee,
" Unleſs we meet at Shakeſpeare's Jubilee!
" On AVON'S bank where flowers eternal blow!
" Like its full ſtream our gratitude ſhall flow!
" There let us revel, ſhew our fond regard;
" On that lov'd ſpot, firſt breath'd our matchleſs BARD;
" To him all honour, gratitude is due,
" To him we owe our all—to him, and you.

SHAKESPEARE.

Writer of Tragedy.

Intended to be ſung at the houſe where Shakeſpeare was born.

This Epitaph has been aſcribed to Dr. Johnſon, but was really written by Mr. Garrick. See European Magazine, January 1785.

Counteſs of Rochford, daughter of Edward Younge, Eſq. of Durnford in the County of Wilts.

The Author.

†

Lord Rochford's brother.

Lord Rochford.

He died October 26, 1764.

†

Mr. Quin died January 1766.

Mr. Sterne was born at Clonmel in Ireland, November 24, 1713; and died in London, March 18, 1768.

He died 20th February, 1778.

Soon after the promotion of Lord Camden to the Seals, Mr. Wilmot, his lordſhip's purſe-bearer, called at Hampton, where learning that Mr. Garrick had not yet paid his congratulatory compliments, the converſation between the two gentlemen fur⯑niſhed Mr. Garrick with the ſubject of the Epigram; in which, with an admirable addreſs, our Engliſh Roſcius has turned an imputed neglect into a very elegant panegyrick on that truly pa⯑triotic nobleman.

A famous French dancing-maſter.

Author of Guſtavus Vaſa, The Earl of Eſſex, and other performances.

The Earl of Holderneſſe, on Mr. Maſon's taking orders, preſented him to the living of Aſton in Yorkſhire.

The number of the French academy employed in ſettling their language.

One or two perſons were with Mr. Garrick.

Author of the New Bath Guide.

Rigby.

Hale.

Mrs. Boon.

The affability and general deportment of her Royal High⯑neſs, renders the compliment a deſerved one.

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Rechtsinhaber*in: University of Oxford, License: Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/]

Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt: TextGrid Repository (2016). TEI. 4108 The poetical works of David Garrick Esq Now first collected into two volumes With explanatory notes pt 2. . University of Oxford, License: Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License [http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by-sa/3.0/]. https://hdl.handle.net/11378/0000-0005-D4D5-B

[]GARRICK's POEMS.

VOLUME THE SECOND.

LVI. PROLOGUE to DIDO*.Spoken by Mr. KING.

LVII. LINCO's TRAVELS*.

LVIII. PROLOGUE to the TAYLORS*.Spoken by Mr. FOOTE.

LIX. PROLOGUE To A PEEP BEHIND THE CURTAIN*.Spoken by Mr. KING.

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

LXI. PROLOGUE to FALSE DELICACY*.Spoken by Mr. KING.

LXII. EPILOGUE to FALSE DELICACY.Spoken by Mrs. DANCER.

LXIII. EPILOGUE to ZENOBIA*.Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

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

LXV. PROLOGUE to ZINGIS*.Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

LXVI. PROLOGUE to the SCHOOL for RAKES*.Spoken by Mr. KING.

LXVII. EPILOGUE to the FATAL DISCOVERY*.Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

LXVIII. PROLOGUE to Dr. LAST in his CHARIOT*.Spoken by Mr. FOOTE.

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

LXX. PROLOGUE to the JUBILEE*.Spoken by Mr. KING.

LXXI. PROLOGUE To 'TIS WELL IT'S NO WORSE*.Spoken by Mr. MOODY.

LXXII. An ADDRESS to the TOWN, by way of EPI⯑LOGUE to 'TIS WELL IT'S NO WORSE.Spoken by Mr. KING.

LXXIII. EPILOGUE to ALMIDA*.Spoken by Mrs. BARRY.

LXXIV. EPILOGUE to the WEST INDIAN*.Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

LXXV. PROLOGUE to the MAID of BATH*.Spoken by Mr. FOOTE.

LXXVI. EPILOGUE SONG to the IRISH WIDOW*.Sung by Mrs. BARRY.

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

LXXVIII. EPILOGUE to ALONZO*.Spoken by Mrs. BARRY.

LXXIX. PROLOGUE To SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER*.Spoken by Mr. WOODWARD.

LXXX. PROLOGUE to ALBUMAZAR*.Spoken by Mr. KING.

LXXXI. EPILOGUE.Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

LXXXII. PROLOGUE To A CHRISTMAS TALE*.

LXXXIII. EPILOGUE to SETHONA*.Spoken by Mrs. BARRY.

LXXXIX. PROLOGUE to the COZENERS*.Spoken by Mr. FOOTE.

LXXXV. OCCASIONAL PROLOGUEUpon Mr. LACY's firſt Appearance in the Cha⯑racter of Alexander.Spoken by Mr. KING, October 1774, at Drury⯑lane Theatre.

LXXXVI. PROLOGUE to the MAID of the OAKS*.Spoken by Mr. KING in the Character of Mo⯑dern Fame.

LXXXVII. EPILOGUESpoken by Mrs. ABINGTON*.

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

LXXXIX. EPILOGUE to The CHOLERIC MAN*.Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

XC. EPILOGUE To The INFLEXIBLE CAPTIVE*.

THE Theatrical Candidates:A MUSICAL PRELUDE, UPON THE OPENING and ALTERATIONS OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, Sept. 1775.

CHARACTERS.

XCI. The THEATRICAL CANDIDATES.

XCII. Sir ANTHONY BRANVILLE's ADDRESS to the LADIES.Spoken by Mr. GARRICK*.

XCIII. EPILOGUE to The RUNAWAY*.Spoken by Miſs YOUNGE.

XCIV. PROLOGUE to The SPLEEN;Or, ISLINGTON SPA*.Spoken by Mr. KING.

XCV.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 infirmi⯑ties ſhall be obliged to retire from the Stage.

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

XCVII. EPILOGUE to KNOW YOUR OWN MIND*.Spoken by Mrs. MATTOCKS.

XCVIII. ADDRESS TO THE PUBLIC,Spoken by Mrs. BARRY, March 3d, 1777, the firſt time ſhe appeared on the Stage after the Death of her Huſband, and before the Tra⯑gedy of DOUGLAS*.

XCIX. PROLOGUE To ALL THE WORLD's A STAGE!*Spoken by Mr. KING.

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

CI. PROLOGUE.To the SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.*Spoken by Mr. KING.

CII. EPILOGUE to the SPANISH BARBER*.Spoken by Mr. FARREN.

CIII. PROLOGUE to PERCY.*Spoken by Mrs. BULKELEY.

CIV. EPILOGUE to PERCY.Spoken by Mr. LEE LEWES.

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

CVI. EPILOGUE to ALFRED*.Spoken by Mrs. BARRY.

CVII. EPILOGUE to THE SUICIDE*.Spoken by Miſs FARREN.

CVIII. PROLOGUE to BONDUCA*.Spoken by Mr. PALMER.

CIX. PROLOGUE to the FATHERS*.Spoken by Mr. KING.

CX. EPILOGUE.Spoken by Miſs YOUNGE.

SONGS.

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

SONG.SYLVIA.

PEGGY*.

SONG in LETHE,Sung by Mr. BEARD in the Character of Mercury.

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

SONG in LETHE,Sung by Mr. BEARD in the Character of Mercury.

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

The MILLER's WEDDING.A SONG.Sung by Mr. BEARD in Harlequin Ranger, acted at Drury-lane, Dec. 1751.

SONG, written in 1756.

SONG in the WINTER's TALE.Sung by Mrs. CIBBER, in the character of PER⯑DITA, 1756.

The BEER-DRINKING BRITONA SONG*.

SONGS in the MASQUE in ISABELLA.

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

SONGS in the ENCHANTER.

AIR.

AIR.

AIR.

AIR.

AIR.

DUET.

LVI. PROLOGUE to DIDO^*.
Spoken by Mr. KING.

LVII. LINCO's TRAVELS^*.

LVIII. PROLOGUE to the TAYLORS^*.
Spoken by Mr. FOOTE.

LIX. PROLOGUE To A PEEP BEHIND THE CURTAIN^*.
Spoken by Mr. KING.

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

LXI. PROLOGUE to FALSE DELICACY^*.
Spoken by Mr. KING.

LXII. EPILOGUE to FALSE DELICACY.
Spoken by Mrs. DANCER.

LXIII. EPILOGUE to ZENOBIA^*.
Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

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

LXV. PROLOGUE to ZINGIS^*.
Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

LXVI. PROLOGUE to the SCHOOL for RAKES^*.
Spoken by Mr. KING.

LXVII. EPILOGUE to the FATAL DISCOVERY^*.
Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

LXVIII. PROLOGUE to Dr. LAST in his CHARIOT^*.
Spoken by Mr. FOOTE.

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

LXX. PROLOGUE to the JUBILEE^*.
Spoken by Mr. KING.

LXXI. PROLOGUE To 'TIS WELL IT'S NO WORSE^*.
Spoken by Mr. MOODY.

LXXII. An ADDRESS to the TOWN, by way of EPI⯑LOGUE to 'TIS WELL IT'S NO WORSE.
Spoken by Mr. KING.

LXXIII. EPILOGUE to ALMIDA^*.
Spoken by Mrs. BARRY.

LXXIV. EPILOGUE to the WEST INDIAN^*.
Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

LXXV. PROLOGUE to the MAID of BATH^*.
Spoken by Mr. FOOTE.

LXXVI. EPILOGUE SONG to the IRISH WIDOW^*.
Sung by Mrs. BARRY.

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

LXXVIII. EPILOGUE to ALONZO^*.
Spoken by Mrs. BARRY.

LXXIX. PROLOGUE To SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER^*.
Spoken by Mr. WOODWARD.

LXXX. PROLOGUE to ALBUMAZAR^*.
Spoken by Mr. KING.

LXXXI. EPILOGUE.
Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

LXXXII. PROLOGUE To A CHRISTMAS TALE^*.

LXXXIII. EPILOGUE to SETHONA^*.
Spoken by Mrs. BARRY.

LXXXIX. PROLOGUE to the COZENERS^*.
Spoken by Mr. FOOTE.

LXXXV. OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE
Upon Mr. LACY's firſt Appearance in the Cha⯑racter of Alexander.
Spoken by Mr. KING, October 1774, at Drury⯑lane Theatre.

LXXXVI. PROLOGUE to the MAID of the OAKS^*.
Spoken by Mr. KING in the Character of Mo⯑dern Fame.

LXXXVII. EPILOGUE
Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON^*.

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

LXXXIX. EPILOGUE to The CHOLERIC MAN^*.
Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

XC. EPILOGUE To The INFLEXIBLE CAPTIVE^*.

THE Theatrical Candidates:
A MUSICAL PRELUDE, UPON THE OPENING and ALTERATIONS OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE, Sept. 1775.

XCII. Sir ANTHONY BRANVILLE's ADDRESS to the LADIES.
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK^*.

XCIII. EPILOGUE to The RUNAWAY^*.
Spoken by Miſs YOUNGE.

XCIV. PROLOGUE to The SPLEEN;
Or, ISLINGTON SPA^*.
Spoken by Mr. KING.

XCV.
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 infirmi⯑ties ſhall be obliged to retire from the Stage.

XCVI. PROLOGUE,
Written for the Opening of DRURY-LANE THEATRE, September 21 1776, and intro⯑duced in the PRELUDE of NEW BROOMS^*!
Spoken by Mr. King.

XCVII. EPILOGUE to KNOW YOUR OWN MIND^*.
Spoken by Mrs. MATTOCKS.

XCVIII. ADDRESS TO THE PUBLIC,
Spoken by Mrs. BARRY, March 3d, 1777, the firſt time ſhe appeared on the Stage after the Death of her Huſband, and before the Tra⯑gedy of DOUGLAS^*.

XCIX. PROLOGUE To ALL THE WORLD's A STAGE!^*
Spoken by Mr. KING.

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

CI. PROLOGUE.
To the SCHOOL FOR SCANDAL.^*
Spoken by Mr. KING.

CII. EPILOGUE to the SPANISH BARBER^*.
Spoken by Mr. FARREN.

CIII. PROLOGUE to PERCY.^*
Spoken by Mrs. BULKELEY.

CIV. EPILOGUE to PERCY.
Spoken by Mr. LEE LEWES.

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

CVI. EPILOGUE to ALFRED^*.
Spoken by Mrs. BARRY.

CVII. EPILOGUE to THE SUICIDE^*.
Spoken by Miſs FARREN.

CVIII. PROLOGUE to BONDUCA^*.
Spoken by Mr. PALMER.

CIX. PROLOGUE to the FATHERS^*.
Spoken by Mr. KING.

CX. EPILOGUE.
Spoken by Miſs YOUNGE.

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

SONG.
SYLVIA.

PEGGY^*.

SONG in LETHE,
Sung by Mr. BEARD in the Character of Mercury.

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

SONG in LETHE,
Sung by Mr. BEARD in the Character of Mercury.

The MILLER's WEDDING.
A SONG.
Sung by Mr. BEARD in Harlequin Ranger, acted at Drury-lane, Dec. 1751.

SONG in the WINTER's TALE.
Sung by Mrs. CIBBER, in the character of PER⯑DITA, 1756.

The BEER-DRINKING BRITON
A SONG^*.

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

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

SONGS in HARLEQUIN'S INVASION.
Sung by Mr. DODD.

SONG in THE COUNTRY GIRL.
Sung by Mr. DODD, in the Character of Sparkiſh.

AIR in CYMON.
Sung by Mr. BANNISTER in the Character of Merlin.

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

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

AIR in CYMON.
Sung by Miſs ROGERS, in the Character of Cupid.

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

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

AIR in CYMON.
Sung by Mr. KING in the character of LINCO.

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

AIR in CYMON.
Sung by Mr. KING in the character of LINCO.

AIR in CYMON.
Sung by Mr. VERNON in the Character of Cymon.

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

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