She, at whose name I shed these spiteful tears,
She owes to me the very charms she wears.
An awkward thing when first she came to town;
Her shape unfashion'd, and her face unknown:
She was my friend; I taught her first to spread
Upon her sallow cheeks enlivening red:
I introduced her to the park and plays;
And by my interest, Cozens made her stays.
Ungrateful wretch, with mimic airs grown pert,
She dares to steal my favourite lover's heart!

CARDELIA.

Wretch that I was! how often have I swore,
When Winnall tallied, I would punt no more!
I know the bite, yet to my ruin run;
And see the folly, which I cannot shun.

SMILINDA.

How many maids have Sharper's vows deceived How many cursed the moment they believed! Yet his known falsehoods could no warning prove. Ah! what is warning to a maid in love?

CARDELIA.

But of what marble must that breast be form'd, To gaze on Basset, and remain unwarm'd? When kings, queens, knaves, are set in decent rank, Exposed in glorious heaps the tempting bank, Guineas, half-guineas, all the shining train; The winner's pleasure, and the loser's pain: In bright confusion open rouleaus lie, They strike the soul, and glitter in the eye. Fired by the sight, all reason I disdain ; My passions rise, and will not bear the rein. Look upon Basset, you who reason boast; And see if reason must not there be lost.

SMILINDA.

What more than marble must that heart compose

Can hearken coldly to my Sharper's vows?

Then, when he trembles! when his blushes rise
When awful love seems melting in his eyes!
With eager beats his Mechlin cravat moves :
He loves, I whisper to myself,' He loves!'
Such unfeign'd passion in his looks appears,
I lose all memory of my former fears;
My panting heart confesses all his charms,
I yield at once, and sink into his arms.
Think of that moment, you who prudence boast
For such a moment, prudence well were lost.

CARDELIA.

At the Groom-porter's batter'd bullies play,
Some dukes at Marybone bowl time away.
But who the bowl, or rattling dice compares
To Basset's heavenly joys, and pleasing cares?

SMILINDA.

Soft Simplicetta dotes upon a beau; Prudina likes a man, and laughs at show. Their several graces in my Sharper meet; Strong as the footman, as the master sweet.

LOVET.

Cease your contention, which has been too long; I grow impatient, and the tea's too strong. Attend, and yield to what I now decide; The equipage shall grace Smilinda's side: The snuff-box to Cardelia I decree; Now leave complaining, and begin your tea.

VERBATIM FROM BOILEAU.
Un jour, dit un auteur, &c.

ONCE (says an author, where I need not say) Two travellers found an oyster in their way; Both fierce, both hungry, the dispute grew strong While, scale in hand, dame Justice pass'd along. Before her each with clamour pleads the laws; Explain'd the matter, and would win the cause.

Dame Justice weighing long the doubtful right, Takes, opens, swallows it, before their sight. The cause of strife removed so rarely well, 'There, take,' says Justice, 'take you each a shell We thrive at Westminster on fools like you: 'Twas a fat oyster-Live in peace-Adieu.'

ANSWER TO THE FOLLOWING QUES
TION OF MRS. HOWE.

'WHAT is prudery ?"-"Tis a beldam,
Seen with wit and beauty seldom.
"Tis a fear that starts at shadows:
'Tis (no, 'tis n't) like miss Meadows;
"Tis a virgin hard of feature,
Old, and void of all good-nature;
Lean and fretful; would seem wise;
Yet plays the fool before she dies.

'Tis an ugly, envious shrew,
That rails at dear Lepell and you.

Occasioned by some Verses of

HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF BUCKINGHAM.

MUSE, 'tis enough: at length thy labour ends, And thou shalt live, for Buckingham commends. Let crowds of critics now my verse assail, Let Dennis write, and nameless numbers rail: This more than pays whole years of thankless pain, Time, health, and fortune, are not lost in vain. Sheffield approves, consenting Phoebus bends, And I and malice from this hour are friends.

PROLOGUE BY MR. POPE,

To a Play for Mr. Dennis's Benefit, in 1733, when he was old, blind, and in great distress, a little before his Death.

As when the hero, who in each campaign

Had braved the Goth, and many a Vandal slain,
Lay fortune-struck, a spectacle of woe!
Wept by each friend, forgiven by every foe :
Was there a generous, a reflecting mind.
But pitied Belisarius old and blind?
Was there a chief but melted at the sight?
A common soldier, but who clubb'd his mite?
Such, such emotions should in Britons rise,
When press'd by want and weakness Dennis lies.
Dennis, who long had warr'd with modern Huns,
Their quibbles routed, and defied their puns;
A desperate bulwark, sturdy, firm, and fierce,
Against the Gothic sons of frozen verse:

How changed from him who made the boxes groan
And shook the stage with thunder all his own!
Stood up to dash each vain pretender's hope,
Maul the French tyrant, or pull down the pope!
If there's a Briton then, true bred and born,
Who holds dragoons and wooden shoes in scorn;
If there's a critic of distinguish'd rage;

If there's a senior, who contemns this age;
Let him to night his just assistance lend,
And be the critic's, Briton's, old man's friend.

PROLOGUE TO SOPHONISBA.
By Pope and Mallet.*

WHEN earning, after the long Gothic night,
Fair, o'er the western world renew'd its light,

* I have been told by Savage, that of the Prologue to Sophonisba, the first part was written by Pope, who could

With arts arising, Sophonisba rose :

The tragic muse, returning, wept her woes.
With her the Italian scene first learn'd to glow;
And the first tears for her were taught to flow.
Her charms the Gallic muses next inspired:
Corneille himself saw, wonder'd, and was fired.

What foreign theatres with pride have shown,
Britain, by juster title, makes her own.
When freedom is the cause, 'tis hers to fight;
And hers, when freedom is the theme, to write:
For this a British author bids again

The heroine rise, to grace the British scene.
Here, as in life, she breathes her genuine flame;
She asks what bosom has not felt the same?
Ask of the British youth-Is silence there?
She dares to ask it of the British fair.

To night our home-spun author would be true.
At once to nature, history, and you.

Well-pleased to give our neighbours due applause,
He owns their learning, but disdains their laws.
Not to his patient touch, or happy flame,
"Tis to his British heart he trusts for fame.
If France excel him in one free-born thought,
The man, as well as poet, is in fault.

Nature! informer of the poet's art,

Whose force alone can raise or melt the heart,
Thou art his guide; each passion, every line,
Whate'er he draws to please, must all be thine.
Be thou his judge: in every candid breast,
Thy silent whisper is the sacred test.

MACER:-A CHARACTER.

WHEN simple Macer, now of high renown, First sought a poet's fortune in the town,

not be persuaded to finish it; and that the concluding lines were written by Mallet Dr. Johnson.