And you, a pious train, in pleas'd array,
Are rang'd the folemn obfequies to pay.
Immortal Shakespeare! we thy claim admit;
For, like thy Cafar, thou art mighty yet!
Thy Spirit walks abroad; and at our hands
The honorary tomb, thy right, demands.-
That debt is paid; and, to thy mem'ry juft,
We prefs to execute the pious truft.

Faft rife the marble, and long last the pile,
O'er which thy venerable bust shall fmile!
A long refpect muft guard the facred tomb,
Where flatt'ry's tongue is mute, and envy dumb.
Britons, with virtuous pride your merit know,
You've done, what kings of old, were fond to do:
Then, when the poet died, the monarch mourn'd;
And, by command, his afhes were inurn'd.

The due refpe&t, you've in this tribute fhewn,
Befpeaks the poet's worth, and crowns your own:
And, haply, hence fhall fpring new tragic rage,
And diftant Shakespears rife to charm the ftage.

What mufe can languish, who may hope to boat A fame fresh-blooming at the publick coft?

For the dead bard, receive our thanks and praise; And make us fharers in the tomb you raife. Ye fair, who have diftinguish'd favours fhewn, And made this poet's patronage your own; Urge thofe, whofe gen'rous hearts confefs your fway, To follow, where your virtues point the way: Then think, this pile his honour'd bones contains, And frequent vifit-here-the lov'd remains.

M

EPILOGUE

TO

I RE

N E.

ARRY a Turk! a haughty tyrant king,

Who thinks us women born to drefs and fing!

To please his fancy, -fee no other man-
Let him perfuade me to it-if he can:
Befides he has fifty wives; and who can bear
To have the fiftieth part her paltry share?

1

'Tis true, the fellow's handfome, ftrait and tall;
But how the devil should he please us all!
My fwain is little-true-but be it known,
My pride's to have that little all my own.
Men will be ever to their errors blind,
Where woman's not allow'd to speak her mind.
I swear this eastern pageantry is nonfenfe,
And for one man-one wife's enough in confcience.
In vain proud man ufurps what's woman's due;
For us alone, they honour's paths pursue:
Infpir'd by us, they glory's heights afcend;
Woman the fource, the object, and the end.
Tho' wealth, and pow'r, and glory they receive,
These all are trifles, to what we can give.
For us the statefinan labours, hero fights,
Bears toilfome days, and wakes long tedious nights:
And when bleft peace has filenc'd war's alarms,
Receives his full reward in beauty's arms.

MET

ETHINKS I hear fome powder'd critics fay,
"Damn it! this wife reform'd has spoil'd the play!
The coxcomb fhould have drawn her more in fashion,
"Have gratify'd her fofter inclination,

"Have tipt her a galant, and clinch'd the provocation.
But there our Bard ftopt fhort: for 'twere uncivil
T'have made a modern Belle, all o'er a Devil!
He hop'd, in honour of the fex, the age
Would bear one mended woman- -on the ftage.

From whence, you fee, by common fente's rules,
Wives might be govern'd, were not hufbands fools.
Whate'er by nature dames are prone to do,
They feldom ftray but when they govern you.

When

When the wild wife perceives her deary tame,
No wonder then the plays him all the game.
But men of sense meet rarely that disaster;
Women take pride, where merit is their master:
Nay, fhe that with a weak man wifely lives,
Will feem t' obey the due commands he gives!
Happy obedience is no more a wonder,

When men are men, and keep them kindly under.
But modern conforts are fuch high-bred creatures;
They think a husband's power degrades their features;
That nothing more proclaims a reigning beauty,
Than that he never was reproach'd with duty:
And that the greatest bleffing heav'n e'er fent,
Is in a fpoufe, incurious and content.

To give fuch dames a diff'rent caft of thought,
By calling home the mind, these scenes were wrought.
If with a hand too rude, the task is done,
We hope the fcheme, by Lady Grace, laid down,
Will all fuch freedom with the fex atone.
That virtue there unfoil'd, by modish art,
Throws out attractions for a Manly's heart.
You, you then, ladies, whofe unquestion'd lives
Give you the foremost fame of happy wives,
Protect, for its attempt, this hapless play;
Nor leave it to the vulgar tafte a prey;
Appear the frequent champions of its caufe,
Direct the crowd and give yourselves applaufe.

E PI I L O GUE

то

- SHE WOU'D and SHE WOU'D NOT,

ONGST all the rules the ancients had in vogue,
We find no mention of an EPILOGUE.

'MONG

Which plainly fhews they're innovations, brought
Since rules, defign, and nature, were forgot.
The custom therefore, our next play fhall break,
But now a joyful motive bids us fpeak."
For, while our arms return with conqueft home,
While children prattle Vigo, and the boom,

It's fit the mouth of all mankind, the ftage, be dumb?

Wh c

While the proud Spaniards read old annals o'er,
And on the leaves in lazy fafety pore,

ESSEX and RALEIGH thunder on their fhore.
Again their donfhips ftart, and mend their speed,
With the fame fear of their fore-fathers, dead.
While Amadis de Gaul laments in vain,

And wishes his young Quixote out of Spain.
While foreign forts are but beheld and feiz'd,
While English hearts tumultuously are pleas'd;
Shall we whofe fole fubfiftence purely flows
From minds in joy, or undisturb'd repose:
Shall we behold each face with pleasure glow,
Unthankful to the arms that made 'em fo?
Shall we not fay-

Old English honour now revives again,
Mem'rably fatal to the pride of Spain,
But hold

While ANNE repeats the vengeance of ELIZA's reign..
For, to the glorious conduct fure that drew

A Senate's grateful vote, our adoration's due.
From that alone all other thanks are poor,
The old triumphing Romans afk'd no more,
And Rome indeed gave all within its power.
But your fuperior stars, that know too well
You ENGLISH Heroes fhould Old RoмE excel;
To crown your arms beyond the bribes of spoil,
Rais'd English beauty to reward your toil:
Tho' feiz'd of all the rifled world had loft,
So fair a * circle Rome could never boast.
Proceed, aufpicious chiefs, enflame the war,
Purfue your conqueft, and poffefs the fair:
That ages may record of them and you,
They only could infpire what you alone cou'd do.

E PI L

BOA

N°

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OGUE

то

Spoken by Mr. HAVARD.

OW we have fhewn the fatal fruits of ftrife,
A hero bleeding with a virtuous wife,

* To the Boxes.

A

A field of war embru'd with nation's gore,
Which to the duft the hopes of Albion bore,
If week defcription, and the languid flow
Of trains unequal to this theme of woe
Have fail'd to move the fympathyfing breaft,
And no foft eyes their melting fenfe expreft;
Not all the wit, this after fcene might hare,
Can give fuccefs, where you refas'd a tear;
Much less, if haply ftill the poet's art
Hath ftol'n perfuafive to the feeling heart,
Will he with fancy's wanton hand efface
From gen'rous minds compaffion's pleafing trace,
Nor from their thoughts, while penfive they purfue
This maze of forrow, fnatch the mortal clue:
If yet to him thofe pow'rs of facred-fong
To melt the heart and raife the mind belong,
Dar'd he to hope this sketch of early youth
Might ftand the award of nature and of truth:
Encourag'd thus, hereafter might he foar
With double ftrength, and loftier fcenes explore,
And following fortune thro' her various wiles,
Shew ftruggling virtue, drefs'd in tears, or smiles;
Perhaps his grateful labours would requite
With frequent off'rings one propitious night.

Mr. FOOT

IN THE CHARACTER OF

DR. SQUINTUM.

N

WEAR the mad manfions of Moorfields I'll bawl;
Friends, fathers, mothers, fifters, fons, and all,

Shut up your fhops, and liften to my call.
With labour, toil, all fecond means difpenfe,
And live a rent-charge upon providence.
Prick up your cars; a flory now I'll tell,
Which once a widow and her child befel,
I knew the mother and her daughter well;
Poor, it is true, they were; but never wanted,
For whatfoe'er they afk'd was always granted.

H

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