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! what! Harmony an evil!
-Tragedy the Devil.

rng, how fhall we find the teft?
or t'other is a jest;

cy, or fing, as you like beft.

at Turk, fhl cull our choiceft treasures; av'n-born beauties wait your pleasures,

more happy, should you smile with favour, now but your handkerchief, and you fhall have her.

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I AM

Printer's Devil.

A Ma Devil, fo pleafe you-and must hoof
Up to the poet yonder with this proof:

I'd read it to you, but, in faith, 'tis odds
For one poor Devil to face fo many Gods.
A ready imp I am, who kindly greets

Young authors with their first exploits in fheets;
While the Prefs groans, in place of dry-nurfe ftands,
And takes the bantling from the midwife's hands.
If any author of prolific brains,

In this good company, feels labour-pains;

If any gentle poet, big with rhime,

Has run his reck'ning out and gone his time;
If any critic, pregnant with ill-nature,
Cries out to be deliver'd of his fatire;
Know fuch that at our Hofpital of Mufes
He may lye-in, in private, if he chufes ;
We've fingle lodgings there for fecret finners,
With good encouragement for young beginners.
Here's one now that is free enough in reafon;
This bard breeds regularly once a feafon;
Three of a fort, of homely form and feature,
The plain coarfe progeny of humble Nature;
Home-bred and born; no ftrangers he displays,
Nor tortures free-born limbs in ftiff French ftays:

Two

you

and

Two you have rear'd; but between
This youngest is the fav'rite, of the three.
Nine tedious months he bore this babe about,
Let it in charity, live nine nights out;
Stay but his month up; give fome little law;
'Tis cowardly to attack him in the straw.

me,

Dear Gentlemen Correctors, be more civil;
Kind courteous Sirs, take counsel of the Devil;
Stop your abufe, for while your readers fee
Such malice, they impute your work to me;
Thus, while you gather no one sprig of fame,
Your poor unhappy friend is put to fhame:
Faith, Sirs, you thou'd have fome confideration,
When ev'n the Devil pleads against Damnation.

PROL

OGU E

TO

о B E D I E.

I

N those bad times, when learning's fons explore
The diftant climate, and the favage fhore;
When wife aftronomers to India steer,.

And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanifts are cold to fmiles and dimpling,,
Forfake the fair, and patiently go fimpling,
Our bard into the general fpirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures;
With Scythian flaves and trinkets deeply laden,'.
He this way fteers his courfe in hopes of trading;
Yet e'er he lands, he'as ordered me before.
To make an oblervation on the fhore..
Where are we driv'n ? our reck'ning fure is loft! :
This feems a rocky and a dang'rous coaft.
Lord! what a fultry climate am I under!!
Yon ill-forboding cloud feems big with thunder.

[Upper Gallery,] Those mangroves spread, and larger than I have feen 'em.

[Pit.]

Here trees of ftately fize-and billing turtles in 'em

F. 6.

[Balconies

He

Here ill condition'd oranges abound-[Stage.] And apples (takes up one and taftes it) bitter apples ftrew the ground.

Th' inhabitants are Canibals I fear,

I heard a hiffing, there are ferpents here!

O! there the people are-but keep my distance;
Our Captain, gentle natives, craves affiftance;

Our fhip's well ftor'd, in yonder brook we've laid her,
His honour is no mercenary trader.

This is his first adventure, lend him aid,

And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.

His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far,
Equally fit for gallantry and war.

What, no reply to promifes fo ample?
I'd beft ftep back and order up a fample.

EPILOGUE

то

THE

FOUNDLING.

WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK.

Spoken by Mrs. CIBBER.

Know, you all expect, from feeing me,
An Epilogue, of strictest purity;
Some former lecture, fpoke with prudish face,
To fhew our prefent joking, giggling race,
True joy confifts in-gravity and grace!
But why am I, for ever made the tool,
Of every fqueamish, moralizing fool?
Condemn'd to forrow all my life, muft I
Ne'er make you laugh, becaufe I make you cry?
Madam (fay they) your face denotes your heart,
'Tis your's to melt us in the mournful part.
So from the looks, our hearts they prudith deem!
Alas, poor Souls!—we are not what we feem!
Tho' prudence oft, our inclination fmothers,
We grave ones, love a joke-as well as others.
From fuch dull ftuff, what profit can you reap?
You cry-Tis very fine,-(yawns) and fall afleep.
Happy that Bard!-Bleft with uncommon art,
Whole wit can chear, and not corrupt the heart!

}

Happy

Happy that Play'r, whofe fkill can chace the spleen,
And leave no worse inhabitant within.
'Mongft friends, our Author is a modeft man,
But wicked Wits will cavil at his plan.
Damn it (fays one) this stuff will never pass,
The GIRL wants nature, and the RAKE's an afs.
Had I, like BELMONT, heard a damfel's cries,
I wou'd have pink'd her keeper, feiz'd the prize,
Whipt to a coach, not valu'd tears a fardin,
But drove away like fmoke-to Covent-Garden;
There to fome houfe convenient wou'd have carry'd her,
And then-dear foul !-the devil fhou'd have married her.
But this our Author thought too hard upon her;
Befides, his fpark, forfooth, muft have fome honour!
The fool's a Fabulift!-and deals in fiction;
Or he had giv'n him vice-without restriction.
Of fable, all his characters partake,

Sir CHARLES is virtuous-and for virtue's fake;
Nor vain, nor bluft'ring is the SOLDIER writ,
His RAKE has confcience, modefty, and wit.
The Ladies too-how oddly they appear!
His PRUDE is chaste, and his CoQUET fincere:
In short, fo ftrange a group, ne'er trod the stage,
At once to please, and fatirize the age!

For you, ye FAIR, his Mufe has chiefly fung,

"Tis you, have touch'd his heart, and tun'd his tongue; The fex's champion, let the fex defend,

A foothing Poet is a charming friend:
Your favours, here beftow'd, will meet reward,
So as you love dear flatt'ry-fave your BARD.

PROLOGUE

то

VENICE PRE SER V'D

I

OR, A

PLOT DISCOVER'D.

N thefe diftracted times, when each man dreads
The bloody ftratagems of bufy heads;

When

1

When we have fear'd three years we know not what,
"Till witneffes begin to die o' th' rot,
What made our Poet meddle with a plot?
Was't that he fancy'd for the very fake
And name of Plot, his trifling play might take?
For there's not in't one inch-broad evidence,
But 'tis, he fays, to reafon plain and fenfe,
And that he thinks a plaufible defence.
Were truth by fenfe and reason to be try'd ;
Sure all our fwearers might be laid afide.
No, of fuch tools, our Author has no need,
To make his Plot, or make his Play fucceed;
He, of black bills has no prodigious tales,
Or Spanish pilgrims caft afhore in 'ales ;
Here's not one murther'd magiftrate at least :-
Kept rank like ven'fon for a city feaft:
Grown four days ftiff, the better to prepare
And fit his pliant limbs to ride in chair:
Yet here's an army rais'd, though under ground,
But no man feen, nor one commiffion found:
Here is a traitor too, that's very old,

Turbulent, fubtle, mifchievous, and bold,
Bloody, revengeful, and to crown his part,
Loves fumbling with a wench, with all his heart;
Till after having many changes palt,

In fpight of age (thanks t'Heav'n) is hang'd at last.
Next is a Senator that keeps a whore;
In Venice none a higher office bore ;.
To lewdness every night the letcher ran:
Shew me, all London, fuch another man,
Match him at Mother Crefold's if you can.
O Poland! Poland! had it been thy lot,
T'have heard in time of this Venetian plot,
Thou furely chofen hadft one king from thence,
And honour'd them as thou haft England fince.

PRO L O GU E

CA I US

Ν

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Spoken by Mr. BETTERTON.

IN ages paft, (when will thofe times renew?)..
When Empires flourish'd, fo did Poets too.

When

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