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When to my toilette's morning talk resign'd,
What visitations then may seize my mind !

Save me just Heaven, from such a painful life,
And make me an unfashionable wife!.

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L

CARE LESS HUSBAND.

Afted privately by a Person of Quality.
ADIES, I come, (if not engag'd elsewhere).

T'invite you to an entertainment here.
To-night our Poet Laureat makes a feast,
And hopes each dish is season'd to your taste ;-
Substantial sense you'll find, as you would with,
And sprigs of wit to garnish every dish.

A Careless Husband on the board we lay;
But that's a.common dish, perhaps you'll say :
The next less common is, an easy wife;
A spare-rib seldom found in modern life.
Then, for the dishes on the sides, we set-
A Aute’ring.coxcomb, and a false coquet ;.
Our fop should be a fricassee compleat,
'Twas dress'd at Paris by the last receipt ;
And sure, that dish must please an English nation,
Where. Paris cooks have been so long the fashion.

A dame antique of fifty and above,
Whose feeble pulse still beats a march to love,
We set before you next-

- but this cold pye
Is somewhat moaldy grown with standing by.
Tho' she herself will tell you to her praise,
She has had offers in her younger days.

Nor is this all, we have another cover ;
A soft, obedient, fighing, filly lover :
Who best his mistress loves, when worst she treats him,
As fawns her lap.dog mott, when most the beats him.
But I forgot, not yet have told you all;
We have befides a pickl'd Abigail;
Who serves her mistress,-and O! sad disaster,
Will undertake more work, and serve her master.

Prepare

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Prepare your ftomachs for the treat we bring,
The cloth is laid, -the bell just going to ring.

E P

I L L )

G

U E

то

M M

POLLY HONEYCOM B. E.

WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK.

Spoken by Miss Pope.
Enter, as Polly, laughing-Ha! ha! ha!
Y poor Papa's in woeful agitation-
While I, the Cause, feel hereftriking her bojom)

no palpitation-
We Girls of Reading, and superior Notions,
Who from the fountain-head drink Love's sweet potions,
Pity our Parents, when such pallion blinds 'em,
One hears the good folks rave-one never minds 'em..
Till these dear Books infus’d their soft ingredients,
Alham'd and fearful, I was all Obedience.
Then my good Father did not storm in vain,
I blush'd and cry'd- I'll ne'er do so again:
But now no bugbears can my spirit tame,
I've conquer'd Fear-and almoit conquer'd Shame ;
So much these dear Instructors change and win us,
Without their light we ne'er should know what's in us.
Here w

at once supply our childish wants -
Novels are Hotbeds for your forward Plants.
Not only Sentiments refine the Soul,
But hence we learn to be the Smart and Drole ;
Each aukward circumstance for laughter serves, .
From Nurse's Nonsense to my Mother's Nerves :

Though Parents tell us that our genius lies
In mending linen, and in making pies;
I set such formal precepts at defiance,
That preach up prudence, neatness, and compliance;
Leap these old bounds, and boldly set the pattern
To be a Wit, Philosopher, and Slattern
O! did all Maids and Wives my spirit feel,
We'd make this topsy-turvy World to reel:

Let us to arms!-Our Fathers, Husbands, dare !
Novels will teach us all the Art of War :
Our Tongues will serve for Trumpet and for Drum;
I'll be your Leader-General HONEYCOMBE!

Too long has human nature gone astray,
Daughters Thould govern, Parents should obey;
Man should submit the moment that he weds,
And Hearts of Oak should yield to wiser Heads :-
I see you smile, bold Britons ! -But 'tis true-
Beat You the French ;- but let your Wives beat You.

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MY

WRITTEN BY A FRIEND,
And spoken by Mrs. CIB B E R.
Y conduct now will every mind employ,

And all my friends, I'm sure, will with me joy:.
Tis joy indeed, and fairly worth the coit,
To've gaia'd the wand'ring heart I once had loft.
Hold, says the prudith dame, with scornful încer,
I must, sweet madam, stop your high career ;
Where was your pride, your decency, your sense,
To keep your husband in that ftrange suspense ?
For my part, I abominate these scenes-
No ends compensate for such odious means :
To me, I'm surem--but'eis not fit to utter.
The very thought has put me in a futter!

Odious, says miss, of quick and forward parts ;
Had the done more, she'd given him his deserts :
O, had the wretch but been a fpark of mine !
By Joue. I thou'd have paid him in his coin.

Another critic ventures to declare,
She thinks that cousin Pen has gone too far:
Nay, surely, she has play'd a generous part;
A fair dissembler with an honest heart.
Wou'd any cour ly dame in such a case,
clicit, get, and then RESIGN the place?

She

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She knew, good girl, my husband's reformation
Was (what you'll scarce believe) my only passion :
And when your scheme is good, and smart, and clever,
Coufins have been convenient persons ever.
With all your wisdom, madam, cries a wit,
Had Pen been false, you had been fairly bit;
'Twas dangerous, sure, to tempt her youth with fin;
The knowing ones are often taken in:
The truly good ne'er treat with indignation
A natural, unaffected, generous paflion ;
But with an open, liberal praise, commend
Those means which gain’d the honourable end.

Ye beauteous, happy fair, who know to bless,
Warm’d by a mucual flame, this truth confefs ;
That should we every various pleasure prove,
There's nothing like the heart of him we love.

P R O L 0 G U E

TO THE COUNTESS OF SALISBURY, Spoken by Mr. WESTON, in the Cha

ra£ler of a TEAGUE,

Y jewels, I'm come to fpake in the behalf

laugh,

Upon my soul now I don't take it well in you :
Arra, be easy, till I'm after telling you:

Smit with the love of glory and of pelf,
To night, a bard from Dublin its ownself,
Has brought a play here for your approbation,
A very pretty thing by my salvation
If you'll trust Irish evidence, I mean
I can't the story very well explain ;
But it's about a Counters and an Earl,
The Countess is a mighty honest girl ;
But there's a villain with a damn’d cramp'd name,
Makes such propofhals—’tis a burning fame--
Another too-a Knight-bekeys as why
But hould you know, you'll see it by and by,
And then 'is time enough to tell the plot.
O, but that's true, I'd like to have forgot,

The

The dresses 'Pon my conscience in my days
I never saw their peer, they're all a blaze.
Then there's a child, the sweeteft little rogue-
Only excuse a trilling spice of brogue-
He'll make you cry your eyes out, I'll be bound-
'Tis Ireland is the true poetic ground.
The muses Phæbus, heath’nish, can't I loath!
What's Mount Parnassus to the Hill of Howth?
Or all the scenes each foolish poets paints
O bub bub-boo ! give me the Isle of Saints.
Turn up your noses, cavil now and carp,-
Musha, I'm sure our emblem is the harp.
But stop, the bell rings. Fait they'll soon begin;
'Tis time for me to be a going in.
I take my lave then-but dear craters mind-
Pray to our Irish poetry be kind :
'Tis a new manufacture in effect-
And your's, my fowls t'encourage and protect ;
No critic custom then exacted be,
Pass it like Irish linen, duty free.

P R O 0 L L OG U

E

то THE
TO PORTSMOUTH.

TRIP

[Bell rings for the mufick to flop. A fort flence ensues ;

then a man, with a book in his hand, supposed to be the Prompter, runs upon the page, after Mr. Weston bas been called upon two or three times behind the scenes.

MR.

M A N.
R. Weston, Mr. Welion!

(Mr. Weston answers behind the Curiair. I'm coming I tell you. Don't make such a rout.

M A N. (Running about the flage) Mr. Weiton, Mr. Weston !

[Mr. Weston, pulling the curtain back, meets bimo I'm here, Don't you see me? What's all this about?

M A N. The Prologue is wanted.

WESTON.

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