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Weinan

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Curs'd climate !---where, to cards, a lone-left My old friend Smirk, indeed, may lend his aid,

And fell by auction all my stock in trade; Has only one of her black guards to summon! His placid features, and imploring eye, Sighs, and tits mop'd, with her tame beaft to May tempt perhaps the tardy town to buy ;

His winning manner, and his soft address, And that cold treat is all the game the plays at ! To other sales of mine have given success ; For---thould the once fome abler hand be trying, But after all, my ever honour'd friends, Poignard's the word! and the first deal' is--- On you alone my fate this night depends; dying!

I've fought some battles, gain drome vict'ries here, 'Slife! should the bloody whim get ground in And little thought a culprit to appear Britain,

Before this houie ; but if refolv'd you go Where woman's freedom has such heights to fit To fir.d me guilty, or to make me so,

To grant me neither wit, por taste, nor sense, on; Daggers, provok’d, would bring on desolation,

Vain were my plea, and ulcleis my defence. And murder'd belles un-people half the nation !-- But fill, I will not steal, I will not bey,

Tho' I've a passport in this wooden lig; Fain would I hope this play to move com- But to my cot contentedly retire,

paflion--And live to hunt suspicion out of fashion.--

And few my cabbage by my only are.

Mean time, great Sirs, my sentence yet unFour motives strongly recommend, tı) lovers,

knowa, Hate of this weakncis, that our scene discovers : E'en as your justice be your candour fhcwn, First then--- A woman will or won't---depend And when you touch my honour, don't forgte on't :

your own. If Me will do't, she will---and there's an end oo't. But, if the won't---lince safe and found

your truit is,

§ 131. Epilogue to the Toy-Scap. R. DODSLEY. Fear is affront, and jealousy injustice.

WELL., heaven be prais'd! this dull, grave Next---Howhobids his dcardo what the pleases, Blunts wedlock's edge, and all its torture eates: (For faith our author might have call d it one). For--- not to feel your luff rings, is the same

I wonder who the devil he thought to pleate ! As not to suffer--- All the diil'rence---paine.

Is a time of day for things like thefe! Thirdly --The jealous huiband wrongs his ho-Good tense and honest satire now offend;

We're grown too wile to learn, too proud to merd; nour; No wife goes lame, without some hurt upon her: The next wife age will all be---fodlers fans.

And fo divinely rapt in fongs and tunes,
And the milicious world will still be guclling,
Whooft dines out dislikes herown cook's dretning. Ah, 'tis a sign he little knows mankind?

And did he think plain truth would favour fird?
Fourthly, and lastly---to conclude my lecture, To please, he ought to have a long or dance,
If you would fix th inconstant wife---respect her. The tune from Italy, the caper France:
She who perceives her virtues over-rated,

These, these might charm---But hope to do'r Will fear to have th' account more juilly stated: with sente, And, borr’wing froin her pride, the good wife's Alas! alas ! how vain is the pretence! feemins,

But, tho'we told him---'faith, 'twill never do... Grow really fuch---co merit your cstecming. Pho! never fear, he cried, tho'grave, 'tis reu:

The wtim perhaps may pleafe, if not the wit,

Ane!, tho' they don't approve, they may permit. § 130. Prologue to the Bankrupt. Foote.

If neither sbis nor that will intercede, FOR wit's keen fatire; and this augtsing ftage, Submillive bend, and thus for parılan plezdo

What theme fo fruitful as a Bankrupt Age? “ Ye gren'rous few! to you our author fues, For not contin'd to coinmerce is the curfc, “ His finit eflay with candour to excute; The head is near as empty as the purse; “ 'T has faults, he owns, but if they are but final, Equally funk, our credit and our wit,

He hopes your kind applaufe will hide them all." Nor is the fage more folvent than the cit; All these---but foft, ere thus abroad we roam, Werc it not prudent firit to look at home? § 132. Prologue to Mr. Andrius's Comedy of Better You, gen:le Sirs, have given me credit long,

Late iban Never. Due of LEEDS. And icok my word for many an idle tong; CUSTOM tommands a prologue to each pix, But if, exhausted, I give notes to-day--

But custom hath not told us what to say: For wit and humour, wiich I cannot pry, No form prescrib'd, 'tis difficult to find I must turn bankrupt too, and hop away. How to conciliate the public mind. Unless, indeed, I modithly apply

The bashful bard---the modest mule's fears, For leave to sell my works by lottery.

So long have jingled in your patient cars, Tho' few will favour, where's no calh to free'em, That now perhaps you'll scarce vouchfate to stay Poor hopes, that way to part with my museum : To hear both their apology---and play.

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Noi Better sure on him at once to call,

Why not retort? avenge th’in ulted fair, With---“Sir, if frighten’d thus, why write at all? And thew these men, what wondrous things they We're not reduc'd yet to a trembling pen! Zourds! burds will crowd us foun, like---gentle- Now don't be frighten'd---poor eccentric clves !

I only fhcw what most you like---yourfelves. Something like this, I heard a friend once say, How! tremble at a woman! shame Letide! Who wish'd (poor foul!) to hear a new-launch'd Tho' I look fierce, like you--- I'm all outside: play :

Yet e'er my efforts your attention call Box'd snug at first, completely to his mind, To that dear portrait which Mould hit you all, With only one grave auditor behind,

Let me delincate what was once a beau, Ere the third act had struggled to its end,

The Band-box Billy of fomc ycars ago. In reel'd three critics, each the author's friend--- Sweet image of mama in evry feature, On praise determin d---wit contirı'd by wine : The youth came forth, a most delicious creature, Eachi And! and if! waschäfte---correct---damn'd With full dress'd fkirts, not quite unlike a hoop, fine.

Har under arm, fine button, and gilt lorp--To taste to mark'd my friend of course gave way; Suiff stock, long sword till dingling in the way, But fquecz’d, tlump d, kick’d---Still liften d to He fometimes ventur'd to a first night play: the play ;

Tripp'd thio' the lobby, molt completely curl'd; Till by repeated plaudits grown so sore, Nor did a paw-paw thing for all the worid, Nor Aérh nor blood could bear onc comment more. Thus he discours'd : “Sir Dilberry, ods 10, Such boist'rous friends they surely cannot necd, “ Dear, dcar good lack ! have you a place below! Who wish by merit only to succeed.

“ Denit, don't crow'd fo, fcilow---, how shock, To-night we offer to the public view A character, you'll own perhaps is new : “ He'as fpoil'd my hair, and dirtied all my stock, Froin Doctor's Commons we the model draw ; A promising eleve of civil law;

Such was the smart our grandmamas would praise, And civil sure that law which can provide Rather unlike the smart of prefent days: Or (should need be) relcafe you from a bride. For I defy all history toʻlhew Thrice bless'd the mansion, where, in spite of ills, One thing in nature like a modern beau ; Alive or dead you still can have your wills. Hat flouch'd, short stick, knee-trappings, that Much could I offer in our author's cause ;

bring back Nay, prove his first great object---your applause; The memory of renown'd Sixteen String Jack; But, lest dull friendship should his genius Eternal boots, and collar you'd luppose wrong,

Cut in kind contact with his buck ship's nose.
I'll stop ---before the prologue grows too long, Thus trimly deck'd, each night among thc doxies
And Better late tban never hold my tonguc. He storms the lobby, and atlails the boxes;

With gait and manner---fonething in this way,
Proves his rare taite, and defeants on the play.--

“ Here, box-keeper! why don't the rascal come! § 133. Epilogue to the Yume. ANDREWS. “ Halloo---Tom Gerkin! can you give us room?

“ What's this: ---Thcfarce---Macbeth---an opeTHE drama done, and all its int’reft over,

“ ra:---O! Content the husband, and secure the lover; “ Camc out last seafon--- Stupid stuff---damn'd Our timid bard, who dreads the critic ire,

" low : And thinks my little tongue can never tire, Zounds, let's be off!”...“ Z-ods, be a little Would have me re-atsune thc wig and gown,

“ calıncr!" To plead his goose-quill cause before the town. “ Who's that---the Jordan ?”..." No, you fool--“ Lord! Sir," says I, “- some better counsel bring; " R. Palmer.” “ For females in a wig are not the thing.

Thus some are found, by ev'ry act revealing 66 Your bcarded Barrister, if smartly inade, is Perfcet indifference to tense and feeling. • A furcr advocate among the ladies.”

To fuch our play not fues---but you, ye fair, 6. Madam,” he cried, “ or perriwig'd, or bare, Ye wise, whoin nature form’d with happier carc, ” So you but talk, I never need despair.” Whofe tender bofoms, tho' by pallions rent,

Suppose, ye fair, as I'm so smooth a prater, Focl the soft virtues in thcir full extent, I take a line more confonant to nature; Cherith our author's plan, which aims to prove, Give up the vain attempt your hearts to warm, Life's best exertions spring from virtuous love. And 'gainst the men with female weapon arın.

Oft have the wits, unmindful when they vex, Expos'd the foibles of the softer fex; Laugh'd at their dress, theirwell-Ihap'd cork, their $ 134. Verses to the Memory of Mr. Garrick. feathers,

Spoken as a Morody, by Mrs. YATES, at the

Tbcatre-Royal in Drury-Lane. Their steady bloom, unchanging in all weathers; Swore locks were grey,that seem'da comelybrown, dying excellence deserves a tear, And, tho'all paid for, deem'd them not their own. If fond remembrance still is cherish'd here,

Can

P

Can we perfist to bid our sorrows fow

By whose faint breath his merits must abide,
For fabled suff'rers and delusive woc;

Unvouch'd by proof, to substance unallicd!
Or with quaint smiles dismiss the plaintive strain, Even matchless Garrick's art, to heaven reágad,
Point the quick jeft---indulge the comic vein--- No fix'd effect, no model leaves behind.
Ere yet to buried Roscius we alliga

The grace of action, the adapted mien,
One kind regret---one tributary line !

Faithful as nature to the varicd scene ;
His fame requires we act a tend'rer part: Th'expressive glance, whose subtle comment draws
His memory claims the tear you gave his art ! Entranc'd attention, and a mute applaule ;

The gen'ral voice, the meed of mournful verse, Gesture that marks, with force and feeling fraughing
The splendid sorrows that adorn' J his hearse, A sense in filence, and a will in thought ;
The throng that mourn’d as their dead fav’rite Harmonious speech, whose pure and liquid tere
país d,

Gives verse a music scarce confess'd its own;
The grac'd respect that claim'd him to the last, As light from gems ailumes a brighter ray,
While Shakspeare's image, from its hallow'd base, And, cloth'd with orienthucs, transcends the day!
Seem'd to prescribe the grave, and point the place; Pallion's wild break, and frown thatawes the link,
Nor these, nor all the sad regrets that flow And ev'ry charm of gentle cloquence,
From fond fidelity's domestic woe,

All perithablc !---like th' clectric fire
So much are Garrick's praile---so much his due, But strike the frame, and, as they strike, expire;
As on this spot---onc tear bestow'd by you. Incenfe too pure a bodicd Aame to bear,

Amid the arts which seek ingenuous fare, Its fragrance charms the sense, and blends with
Our toil attempts the moít precariou; claim !

air.
To him, whofe inimic pencil wins the prize, Where then, while sunk in cold decay he äes,
Obedient fame immortal wrcaths supplies: And pale eclipfc fur ever veiis those eyes!
Whate'er of wonder Reynolds now may raise, Where is the bleit memorial that entircs
Raphael still boasts coteinporary praise :

Our Garrick's fame:---whose is the trust .-'
Each dazzling light and gaudier bloom subdued, yours.
With undiminish'd awe his works are view'd : And, O! by ev'ry charm his art effay'd
E'en beauty's portrait wears a fofter prime, To sooth your cares! by ev'ry grief a.lay'd!
Touch'd by the tender hand of meliowing time. By the huth'd wonder which his accents drew!

The patient sculptor owns an humbler part, By his last parting tear, repaid by you !
A ruder toil, and more mechanic art :

By all thote thoughts, which mary a distant night
Coutent with flow and timorous stro

Shall mark his memory with a fad delight!
The ling'ring line, and mould the tardy grace : Still in your hcarts dear record bear his name,
But once achiev'd, tho'barb'rous wreck o'erthrow Cherith the keen regret that lifts his fame;
The facred fane, and lay its glories low, To you it is bequcath'd, allert the trutt,
Yet ihall the foulptur'd ruin rise to-day, And to his worth---'tis all you can---be joft.
Grac'd by defect, and worshipp'd in decay ; What more is due from lanctifying time,
Th'enduring record bears the artist's name, To cheerful wit, and many a favourd rhyme,
Demands his honours, and afferts his famı, O'er his grac'd urn shall bloom, a deathless wreath,
Superior hopes the poet's bofom fire,

Whofc blolom'd sweets thall.deck the mats be-
O proud distinction of the sacred lyre !

neach.
Wide as th' inspiring Phobus darts his ray, For these, when sculpture's votire toil thall rear
Diffufive splendor gilds his votary's lay.

The due memorial of a loss to dear,
Whether the song heroic woes rchcarie,

O loveliest mourner, gentie muse! be thine
With Epic grandeur, and the pomp of verse; The plcasing woc to guard the laurcil'd fhring.
Or, fondly gay, with unambitious guile

As Fancy, oft by superftition led
Artempt no prize but fav'ring beauty's (mile; To roam the inansions of the fainted dead,
Or bear dejected to the lonely grove

Has viewod, by shadowy eve's unfaithful gloos,
The loft despair of unprevailing love;

A weeping chirub on a martyr's tomb; Whate'er the theme, thrio' ev'ry age and clime So thou, fiveet Muse, hang o'er his feulpcur'dbe, Congenial paflions meet the according rhymc; With patient woe, that loves the ling ring ter; The pride of glory, pity's figh sincere,

With thoughts that mourn, nor yet defire reuci,
Youth's earlicit blush, and beauty's virgin tear. With meek regret, and fond enduring grief;

Such is their moed---their honours thus secure, With looks that fpcak---he never thall ietuin!
Whofe arts yield objects, and whole works endure. Chilling thy tender bosom, clalp his urn;
The actor only thrinks from time's award; And with soft righs disperse th'irrey'rend duk,
Feeble tradition is his inmory's guard ; Which time may strew upou his lacred busi.

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