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While the proud Spaniards read old annals o'er,
And on the leaves in lazy safety pore,
Essex and RALEIGH thunder on their shore.
Again their don ships start, and mend their speed,
With the same 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 seiz'd,
While English hearts tumultuously are pleas’d;
Shall we whose fole subsistence 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 so?
Shall we not say
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 sure that drew
A Senate's grateful vote, our adoration’s due.
From that alone all other thanks are poor,
The old triumphing Romans ask'd no more,
And Rome indeed gave all within its power.
But your superior stars, that know too well
You' ENGLISH Heroes Mould Old ROME excel ;
To crown your arms beyond the bribes of spoil,
Rais'd English beauty to reward your toil :
Tho' seiz'd of all the rifled world iad lost,
So fair a * circle Rome could never boast.
Proceed, auspicious chiefs, enflame the war,
Pursue your conquest, and poffefs the fair :
That ages may record of them and you,
They only could inspire what you alone cou'd do.




в о A DI с E

Spoken by Mr. HAVARD.
OW we have shewn the fatal fruits of strife,

A hero bleeding with a virtuous wife,


to To the Boxes.

A field of war embru'd with nation's gore,
Which to the duit the hopes of Albion bore,
If week defcription, and the languid low
Of strains unequal to this theme of woe
Have fail'd to move the sympathyfing breast,
And no soft eyes their melting sense exprest;
Not all the wit, this after scene might share,
Can give success, where you refas'd a tear;
Much less, if haply still the poet's art
Hath stol'n persuasive to the feeling heart,
Will he with fancy's wanton hand efface
From gen'rous minds compaffion's pleasing trace,
Nor from their thoughts, while pensive they pursue
This maze of sorrow, snatch the mortal clue :
If yet to him those pow'rs of sacred song
To melt the heart and raise the mind belong,
Dar'd he to hope this sketch of early youth
Might stand the award of nature an i of truth :
Encourag'd thus, hereafter might he foar
With double strength, and loftier scenes explore,
And following fortune thro' her various wiles,
Shew struggling virtue, dress’d in tears, or (miles ;
Perhaps his grateful labours would requite
With frequent off'rings one propitious night.

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EAR the mad mansions of Moor fields I'll bawl;

Friends, fathers, mothers, fifters, fons, and all,
Shut up your shops, and listen to my call.
With labour, toil, all second means dispense,
And live a rent-charge upon providence.

up your cars ; a story 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 whatsoe'er they ak'd was always granted.




One fatal day the matron's truth was try'd, She wanted meat and drink, and fairly cry'd. (Child) Mother you cry! (Motb ) Oh, child I've got no

(Child) What matters that? Why providence a'nt dead ?
With reason good this truth the child might say,
For there came in at noon that very day,
Bread, greens, potatoes, and a leg of mutton,
A better fare a table ne'er was put on :
Ay, that might be, ye cry with those poor souls,
But we ne'er had a rather for the coals.
And d'ye deserve it ; How d'ye spend your days ;
In pastimes, prodigality, and plays !
Let's go see Foote! Ah, Focte's a precious limb!
Old Nick will soon a foot-ball make of him !
For foremost rows in fide-boxes you shove,
Think you to meet with side-boxes above?
Where giggling girls and powder'd fops may fit?

will all be cramm'd into the pit,
And crowd the house for Satan's benefit.
Oh! what you smivelWell, do so no more
Drop, to atone, your money at the door,
And, if I plea e, l'll give it to the poor.

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Spoken by Mrs. Cibber.
TEWS! news! good folks, rare news! and you


shall 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 less.
And now the secret's out, you cannot wonder,
That in commencing Bard he made a blunder,
Has he not left the better for the worse, •
In quitting solid brick for empty vere?
Can he believe th' example of old Ben,
Who chang'd (like him) the trowel for the pen,


Will in bis favour move your critic bowels ?
You rather with, more poets' pens were trowels,
Our man is honeft, fenlible, and plain,
Nor has the Poet made him pert, or vain :
No beau, no courtier, nor conceited youth;
But then, so rude, be always speaks the truth:
I told him he must flatter, learn address,
And gain the heart of some rich patroness :
'Tis the, said I, your labours will reward,
If you but join the bricklay'r with the Bard :
As thus should the be old and worse for wear;
You must new.casé her, front her, and repair ;
If crack'd in fame, as scarce to bear a touch,
You cannot use your trowel then too much ;
In short, whate'er her morals, age, or station,
Plaifler and white-wah in your dedication.
'Thus I advisid.—But he detefts the plan :
What can be done with such a simple man?
A Poet's nothing worth and nought availing,
Unless he'll furnish, where there is a failing.
Authors in these good times are made and us'd
To grant those 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 blelling we have store,
Our sex will always with a little more.
If he'il not bend his heart to this his duty,
And sell (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 Mort--they'll all avoid him and negle&t him,
Unless that you his patrons will protect him.



Epoken by Mr. King.
coward he, who in this critic age,
Dares sec his foot upon the dang'rous stage;


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Thesc bards, like Ice, your footing will betray,
Who can tread fure upon a Nipp'ry way?
Yet some thio' five acts side with wond'rous skill,
Skim swift along, turn, ftop, or wind at will !
Some tumble, and get up; some rise no more ;
While cruel cricics watch them on the shore,
And at each fumble make a hellish roar !
A wise philosopher hath truly noted,
(His name I have forgot, tho' often quoted,)
That fine.spun spirits from the nightest caule,
Draw to themselves affliction, or applause :
So fares it with our bard.-Last week he meets
Some hawkers, roaring up and down the streets,
Lives, characters, behaviour, parentage,
Of some who lately left the mortal stage ;
His ears so caught the sound, 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,
“ Last dying speech, confeffion, character,

Of the unhappy malefa&terer,

Arid comic poet, Thomas Addle Brain ! " Who suffer'd Monday last at Drury Lane; s. All for the price of half-penny a piece ;" Still in his ears these horrid sounds encrease! Try'd and condemn’d, half executed too ; There stands the culprit ; 'uill repriev'd by you. [Going.

Enter Miss YOUNG E.

Pray give me leave - I've something now to say.

Mr. K I N G.
Is't at the School for Wives, you're taught this way?
The School for Husband's teaches to obey.

It is a Mame, good Sirs, that brother King,
To joke and laughter, should turn every thing.
Our trighted poet would have no denial,
Rut, begs me to say something on his trial:
9 he School för Wives, as it to us helongs,
Shouli for our u’e be guarded with our tongues.


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