Let us to arms!-Our Fathers, Hufbands, dare!
NOVELS will teach us all the Art of War:
Our Tongues will ferve for Trumpet and for Drum;
I'll be your Leader-General HONEYCOMBE!
Too long has human nature gone aftray,
Daughters fhould govern, Parents should obey;
Man fhould fubmit the moment that he weds,
And Hearts of Oak fhould yield to wiser Heads :-
1 fee you fmile, bold Britons !-But 'tis true-
Beat You the French ;-but let your Wives beat You.
ESTER S,
WRITTEN BY A FRIEND,
And spoken by Mrs. C1BBER.
Y conduct now will every mind employ,
And all my friends, I'm fure, will wish me joy.
'Tis joy indeed, and fairly worth the coit,
To've gain'd the wand'ring heart I once had loft.
Hold, fays the prudish dame, with fcornful fncer,
I muft, fweet madam, ftop your high career;
Where was your pride, your decency, your fenfe,
To keep your husband in that ftrange fufpenfe?
For my part, I abominate these fcenes-
No ends compensate for fuch odious means:
To me, I'm fure-but 'tis not fit to utter-
The very thought has put me in a flutter!
Odious, fays mifs, of quick and forward parts;
Had the done more, she'd given him his deferts:
O, had the wretch but been a fpark of mine!
By Jove I fhou'd have paid him in his coin.
Another critic ventures to declare,
She thinks that coufin Pen has gone too far:
Nay, furely, he has play'd a generous part;.
A fair diffembler with an honeft heart.
Wou'd any cour ly dame in fuch a cafe,
Solicit, get, and then RESIGN the place?
She knew, good girl, my husband's reformation
Was (what you'll fcarce believe) my only paffion :
And when your fcheme is good, and fmart, and clever,
Coufins have been convenient perfons ever.
With all your wifdom, madam, cries a wit,
Had Pen been falfe, you had been fairly bit;
'Twas dangerous, fure, 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 paffion;
But with an open, liberal praife, commend
Thofe means which gain'd the honourable end.
Ye beauteous, happy fair, who know to blefs,
Warm'd by a mutual flame, this truth confefs;
That should we every various pleasure prove,
There's nothing like the heart of him we love.
COUNTESS OF SALISBURY, Spoken by Mr. WESTON, in the Characer of a TEAGUE,
M'Hoot, Devil burn you all, you make me laugh,
Y jewels, I'm come to fpake in the behalf
Upon my foul now I don't take it well in you:
Arra, be eafy, till I'm after telling you:
Smit with the love of glory and of pelf,
To night, a bard from Dublin its ownfelf,
Has brought a play here for your approbation,
A very pretty thing by my falvation-
If you'll truft Irish evidence, I mean
I can't the ftory very well explain;
But it's about a Countess and an Earl,
The Countess is a mighty honeft girl;
But there's a villain with a damn'd cramp'd name,
Makes fuch propofhals-'tis a burning fhame.
Another too-a Knight-bekeys as why-
But houkl you know, you'll fee it by and by,
And then 'tis time enough to tell the plot.
O, but that's true, I'd like to have forgot,
The dreffes-'Pon my confcience in my days
I never faw their peer, they're all a blaze.
Then there's a child, the sweeteft little rogue-
Only excufe a trifling fpice of brogue-
He'll make you cry your eyes out, I'll be bound-
"Tis Ireland is the true poetic ground.
The mufes-Phoebus, heath'nifh, can't I loath!
What's Mount Parnaffus to the Hill of Howth }
Or all the scenes each foolish poets paints--
O bub bub-boo! give me the ifle of Saints.
Turn up your nofes, cavil now and carp,-
Musha, I'm fure our emblem is the harp.
But ftop, the bell rings. Fait they'll foon 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,
Pafs it like Irish linen, duty free.
PORTSMOUTH.
[Bell rings for the mufick to stop. A short filence enfues; then a man, with a book in his hand, fuppofed to be the Prompter, runs upon the stage, after Mr. Wefton bas been called upon two or three times behind the scenes.
MR. [Mr. Wefton anfwers behind the Curtain.
I'm coming I tell you. Don't make such a rout.
MAN. (Running about the flage)
Mr. Weiton, Mr. Weston!
[Mr. Wefton, pulling the curtain back, meets him I'm here. Don't you fee me? What's all this about?
WESTO N.
It is fo,-I grant it,
So here, take the Prologue, and now you don't want it. [Gives the man a sheet of paper, and is going. MAN.
But, Sir,-Who's to speak it?
WESTO N.
To fpeak it,-why-who?
Go ask Mr. Foote, friend.
MAN.
He fays, Sir, 'tis you.
WESTO N.
He's mistaken, for once, I will venture to fay,
'Tis a serious affair, and quite out of my way:
Sentimental, pathetical, tender, affecting,
Just like his last piece, and his new way of acting.
MAN.
Your speaking, I'am fure, Sir, would give it such grace.
I wou'd; but who'll give me a tragedy face ?-
I tell you, I neither like whining nor ranting,
The groanings and toanings of tragedy canting;
To figh, and to ftrut, and to start, and to ftare,
My arms throw about, up and down, here and there,
Kick my train in a pet, and with paffionate rumble,
Make fun, moon, and stars, a bombaftical jumble;
'Till quite out of breath with heroical fwagger,
The poifon bowl enters, or polifh'd tia dagger:
Then quivering I fall, or in fimile die,
So fo, or as if, or as when, or as why,
Ti, ti, tum, Ti, ti, tum, Tum, tum, tum,
I don't like it, that's all I've to say. So pray take yourself and the Prologue away,
[Exit MAN, leaving WESTON.]:
So now I am Solus, that is, I'm alone,
Suppose I fhou'd try at a speech of my own-
An extempore Prologue-The fancy is new
With your leaves, you fhall judge what Tom Wefton can do.
Once on a time, tho' 'twas in Shakefpear's days,
Nature and Common Senfe embellish'd plays;
Before old English humour turn'd buffoon,
And long e'er Op'ras put Wit out of tune.
In that fame time, folks did not think by rules,
But as they felt, they spoke-Our fathers were no fools.
Their fong was, Mirth admit me of your crew:
But that's all old-'tisn't the thing, 'twont do ;
The tone is now,-we must have fomething new.
New fights we've had, new grand Illuminations,
With Jubilees, and Trips, and Inftallations.
We have a trip to-night, to fhew fome shipping;
Suppofe the Author is to-night caught tripping ?.
Thefe fame Play-jobbers, though it is furprizing,
Will always fend me on, apologizing.
Thus they come o'er me: Wefton, you're a Soul!
Do fpeak my Prologue-you're fo dry and droll.
I must go on then-I'm ferv'd fo this night,
A common bail for what bad Poets write.
If but I hope not-If we're brought to fhame.
If you the Author, or the Actors blame,
May we in one request, good Sirs, be friended,
Pray don't give fentence till the Piece is ended.
Spoken at the Theatre-Royal, in Covent-Garden, on Occafion of a Monument to be erected by Contribution to SHAKESPEAR.
Spoken by Mr. RYAN.
[The Curtain drawn up to folemn Mufic, fhews the Stage in Mourning.
Ethinks, to-night, I caft my eyes around
With awe, and feem to tread on hallow'd ground;
The vaulted fcene affumes a gloom of dread,
Like that, where fleep the venerable dead :
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