One fatal day the matron's truth was try'd,
She wanted meat and drink, and fairly cry'd.
(Child) Mother you cry! (Math) Oh, child I've got no bread.
(Child) What matters that? Why providence a'nt dead?
With reafon good this truth the child might fay,
For there came in at noon that very day,
Bread, greens, potatoes, and a leg of mutton,
A better fure a table ne'er was put on :
Ay, that might be, ye cry with thofe poor fouls,
But we ne'er had a rafher for the coals.
And d'ye deserve it; How d'ye fpend your days;
In paftimes, prodigality, and plays!
Let's go fee Foote! Ah, Focte's a precious limb!
Old Nick will foon a foot-ball make of him!
For foremost rows in fide-boxes you fhove,
Think you to meet with fide-boxes above?
Where giggling girls and powder'd fops may fit?
No you will all be cramm'd into the pit,
And crowd the house for Satan's benefit.
Oh! what you fnivel? Well, do fo no more-
Drop, to atone, your money at the door,
And, if I pleae, I'll give it to the poor.
JONES'S EARL OF ESSEX. Spoken by Mrs. CIBBER.
EWS! news! good folks, rare news! and you fhall know it—.
I've got intelligence about our poet!
Who do you think he is ?
-You'll never guess;
An Irish Bricklayer, neither more nor lefs.
And now the fecret's out, you cannot wonder,
That in commencing Bard he made a blunder.
Has he not left the better for the worfe, •
In quitting folid brick for empty verse?
Can he believe th' example of old Ben,
Who chang'd (like him) the trowel for the pen,
Will in his favour move your critic bowels?
You rather wih, more poets' pens were trowels,
Our man is honeft, fenfible, and plain,
Nor has the Poet made him pert, or vain :
No beau, no courtier, nor conceited youth;
But then, fo rude, he always fpeaks the truth?
I told him he must flatter, learn address,
And gain the heart of fome rich patronefs :
'Tis the, faid I, your labours will reward,
If you but join the bricklay'r with the Bard:
As thus Should fhe be old and worse for wear,
You must new-cafe her, front her, and repair;
If crack'd in fame, as fcarce to bear a touch,
You cannot use your trowel then too much;
In short, whate'er her morals, age, or station,
Plaiter and white-wash in your dedication.
Thus I advis'd.-But he detefts the plan:
What can be done with fuch a fimple man?
A Poet's nothing worth and nought availing,
Unless he'll furnish, where there is a failing.
Authors in thefe good times are made and us'd
To grant thofe favours nature has refus'd.
If he won't fib, what bounty can he crave?
We pay for what we want, not what we have.-
Nay though of ev'ry bleling we have store,
Our sex will always wifh- a little more.
If he'il not bend his heart to this his duty,
And fell (to who will buy) wit, honour, beauty:
The bricklay'r fill for him the proper trade is,
'Too rough to deal with gentlemen and ladies.
In fhort-they'll all avoid him and neglect him,
Unless that you his patrons will protect him.
Spoken by Mr. KING.
O coward he, who in this critic age,
Dares fet his foot upon the dang'rous ftage;
Thefe bards, like Ice, your footing will betray,
Who can tread fure upon a flipp'ry way?
Yet fome thro' five acts flide with wond'rous skill,
Skim fwift along, turn, ftop, or wind at will!
Some tumble, and get up; fome rife no more;
While cruel cricics watch them on the fhore,
And at each stumble make a hellish roar !
A wife philofopher hath truly noted,
(His name I have forgot, tho' often quoted,)
That fine-fpun fpirits from the flighteft caufe,
Draw to themselves affliction, or applaufe:
So fares it with our bard.-Laft week he meets
Some hawkers, roaring up and down the streets,
Lives, characters, behaviour, parentage,
Of fome who lately left the mortal ftage;
His ears fo caught the found, and work'd his mind,
He thought his own name floated in the wind;
As thus" Here is a faithful, true relation,
"Of the birth, parentage, and education,
"Laft dying fpeech, confeffion, character,
Of the unhappy malefa&terer,
"And comic poet, Thomas Addle Brain!
"Who fuffer'd Monday laft at Drury Lane;
All for the price of half-penny a piece;"
Still in his ears thefe horrid founds encrease!
Try'd and condemn'd, half executed too;
There ftands the culprit; 'till repriev'd by you. [Going. Mifs YOUNG E.
Pray give me leave-I've fomething now to fay.
Is't at the School for Wives, you're taught this way?
The School for Husband's teaches to obey.
It is a fhame, good Sirs, that brother King,
To joke and laughter, fhould turn every thing.
Our trighted pcet would have no denial,
Rut, begs me to fay fomething on his trial:
The School for Wives, as it to us belongs,
Should for our ufe be guarded with our tongues.
Ladies, prepare, arm well your brows and eyes,
From those your thunder, thefe your light'ning flies,
Should ftorms be rifing in the Pit-look down,
And still the waves thus, fair ones, with a frown:
Or should the Galleries for war declare;
Look up your eyes will carry twice as far.
* Our Bard, to noble triumphs points your way',
Bids you in moral principles be gay;
Something he'd alter in your education,
Something which hurting you, would hurt a nation :
Ingenuous natures with you to reclaim ?
By fmiling virtue you'll infure your aim:
That gilds with blifs the matrimonial hours,
And blends her laurels with the sweetest flowers.
Ye married fair! deign to attend our school,
And without ufurpation learn to rule :
Soon will he ceafe mean objects to pursue,
In confcience wretched till he lives to you;
Your charms will reformation's pain beguile,
And vice receive a ftab from every Smile.
LADY IN FASHIO N.,
Spoken by Mifs CROSS in the Character of Cupid.
OW, gallants, for the Author. First, to you
Kind City Gentlemen o' th' Middle Row ;
He hopes you nothing to his charge can lay,
There's not a cuckold made in all his play.
Nay, you must own, if you believe your eyes,
He draws his pen against your enemies:
For he declares, to-day he merely ftrives-
To maul the Beaux-because they maul your Wives.
Nor, Sirs, To you whofe fole religion's drinking,
Whoring, roaring, without the pain of thinking,
The Conclufion of the Prologue from this line is by and ther hand.
He fears he's made a fault you'll ne'er forgive,
A crime beyond the hopes of a reprieve:
An honeft rake forego the joys of life,
His whores and wine, t' embrace a dull chafle wife!
Such out-of-fafhion ftuff! But then again,
He's lewd for above four acts, Gentlemen.
For faith, he knew, when once he'd change his fortune,
And reform'd his yice, 'twas time-to drop the curtain.
Four acts for your coarfe palates were defign'd,
But then the Ladies tafte is more refin'd;
They, for Amanda's fake, will fure be kind.
Pray let this figure once your pity move:
Can you refiit the pleafing God of Love?
In vain my pray'rs the other fex purfue,
Unless your conqu'ring fimiles their ftubborn hearts fubdue.
Spoken at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, April 30, 1765, by M Hopkins, a Child of fix Years old, at the Benefit of Mr. Hopkins, Prompter, and Mrs. Hopkins.
[Enter, Speaking to Mr. Hopkins at the Stage Door.]
AY-but I muft-I muft, indeed, papa!
Pray, let me go!-what fignifies mama?
Coming forwards, curtfegt.
Your fervant, gentlemen!-Your fervant ladies!
Papa's the Prompter-but to a my trade is:
And though my fize is fmall, my years but few,
I'll warrant, he shall find I know my Cue.
Females of ev'ry age have leave to tattle:
Why may not I then, like my elders, prattle ?
Mamma indeed cries, "Hufh, you little elf!
"Prithee, be filent !—I'll talk all myself.”
-But let her know, my tongue as her's is nimble,
And I had rather ufe it than my thimble;
Had rather goffip, speak a part, or wheedle,
Than darn, or wound my fingers with a needle,
A Sempitrefs? No. A Princefs let me be,
In all the pomp and state of tragedy!
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