Tho' lock'd the door, and all as ftill as night-
Pop thro' the key hole whips the Fairy Sprite,
Trips round the room-" My husband!" madam cries-
"The devil! where!" the frighted beau replies-
Jumps thro' the window-fhé calls out in vain.
He, cur'd of love-and cool'd with drenching rain,
Swears" Dem him if he'll e'er intrigue again !"
These were their tricks of old———But all allow,
No childish fears difturb our Fair Ones now-
Ladies, for all this trifling, 'twould be beft
To keep a little Fairy in your breaft:

Not one that should with moderate paffions war ;
But just to tweak you-when you go too far.

E PILO

MOORE's

GUE

то

GAMESTER..

Spoken by Mrs. PRITCHARD.

N ev'ry Gamefter in th' Arabian nation,

'Tis faid that Mahomet denounc'd damnation ;.

But in return for wicked cards and dice,

He gave them black ey'd girls in Paradise.
Should he thus preach, good countrymen, to you,
His converts would, I fear, be mighty few.
So much your hearts are fit on fordid gain,
The brighteft eyes around you shine in vain.
Shou'd the inoft heav'nly beauty bid you take her,.
You'd rather hold- —two aces and a maker,
By your example, our poor fex drawn in,.
Is guilty of the fame unnat'ral fin;
The study now of every girl of parts,

Is how to win your money, not your hearts..
O! in what fweet, what ravishing delights,

Our Beaux and Belles together pafs their nights!!
By ardent perturbations kept awake,
Each views with longing eyes the other's-
The Smiles and Graces are from Britain flown,

-ftake.

Our Cupid is an errant fharper grown,

And Portuge fits on Cytherea's throne.

}

In all these things tho' women may be blam'd,
Sure men, the wifer men, fhou'd be afham'd!'
And 'tis a horrid fcandal I declare,

That four ftrange queens fhou'd rival all the fair,.
Four jilts with neither beauty, wit nor parts,
O fhame! have got poffeffion of their hearts;
And those bold fluts, for all their queenly pride,
Have play'd loose tricks, or else they're much bely'd.
Cards were at firft for benefits defign'd,

Sent to amufe, and not enflave the mind..
From good to bad how easy the tranfition!
For what was pleasure once, is now perdition.
Fair Ladies then, thefe wicked Gamelters fhun,
Whoever weds one, is, you fee undone.

Spoken by Mrs. CIBBER.

UR Author, as I'm told, is not to feek
In antient lore; in Latin, nor in Greek,
1 therefore did advife him, as a friend,
To make his learning serve fome useful end:
And let me know, what rules he had obferv'd,
What unities of time and place preferv'd.
He answer'd, Poetry is not an art;

'Tis Nature only frames the Poet's heart:
Still as he thinks, the fcene he feels along,
And from his bofom burfts the raptur'd forg..
This is the facred oracle, the fhrine

The bard confults, and here, the tuneful Nine.
With the fame fire, the hearer's foul must glow,
Elfe vain to him, the tale of tragic woe..
There is a temper, which is all in all:
That founds refponfive to the Poet's call.

Like Memnon's harp, which pour'd harmonious lays,
When'er its ftings were touch'd by Phoebus' rays.
This temper of the foul is sweet and wild;
It fobs, or fmiles, as fudden as a child;

To

To woes imagin'd tears unfeigned gives,
And in the Poet's world of fancy lives.

Whilft thus he spoke, a bell was heard to ring;
He ftop'd, and started like a guilty things
Ere the dread curtain rofe, in haste withdrew,
And at a distance waits his doom from you.

EPILOGUE

то THE

NOTE OF HAN D:

O

TRIP TO

OR, THE

NEWMARKET.

H fuch a fight! I've been upon the course, And he may talk his nonfenfe tell he's hoarfe: What matters an old Canterbury Rory?

Upon my foul Newmarket's in its glory.

Such galloping, fuch gambling and fuch betting,
Such capering, fuch cutting and curvetting!
Oh, fuch a world of bothering and of noise,
So many Cambridge hacks and College boys :-
Then there is fuch a riot and a rattle
With lifts of terrible, terrible bigb-bred cattle;
Lift of the Sporting Ladies, Sir?-O Lord,
This foolish Poet's no where, take my
word.
He's jaded at two heats, as I'm alive,
'Tis well it's out of rule to ftart for five.
What fignifies his farce! 'tis all a jeft;
Upon my foul Firetail's a lovely beast-
So fleak, fo trim, fo flender and fo thin,
They lead him out and then they lead him in.
Oh, if that Roman fellow now was there,

(What was his name ) that made his horfe Lord May'r;
He might have choice and plenty, a whole ftud
Of Senators and Confuls, thorough blood.
What neighing after one another's fpoufes,
What fnorting and what kicking in both houfes !
Shake but the fieve, as fure as I am born,

There's none amongft 'em, but wou'd come to corn.

Why

Why fuch a hair-brain'd fpark might think it wit
To turn his ftable loofe into the pir:

Long-tail and bob-tail, blacks and fprightly bays,
And filthy duns and old flea-bitten greys,
Young high bred fillies, and fine dappled mares,
And braying critics with long pricking ears:
Stand by your Poet, Sirs; and keep your places,
You'll get no harm at his Newmarket Races.

PROL

то

O GUE

'TIS WELL IT'S NO WORSE.

Captain O'CUTTER enters, croffing the Stage; but, upon feeing the Audience, flops, and thus addreffes them.

H! there ye are ;-before one word I utter,

I must tell you, my dears that I, Captain
O'Cutter,

With filent refpect, will a thing or two fay

About my relation, who wrote this new play :
My coufin, poor foul, is in damnable fright,
Because why to amufe you he takes grate delight:
I faid, fye for fhame ?-what a man, and be frightful?
A pale bafhful Irishman's never delightful;

No conquefts are gain'd with fuch dread looks as thofe :
I told him, a man fhould not fhrink at his foes;

That you were his friends, and would taste what he writ,
If he would not o'erload you with humour and wit;
He swore he would not be fo weak and abfurd;
And, if I know my confin, he'il not brake his word.
My cousin's no flouch, at your reading and writing;
Tho' now, for his play, he's as pale as a whiting.
I anfwer'd for you, which his heart has much eas'd,
That tho' you don't like it, I'm fure you'll be pleas'd;
For they fay that Old Nick, if he's pleas'd, will be civil;
You'll like it, if not pleas'd, to be unlike the Devil.
In fhort, my dear coufin has taken a prize;
I'm sure you'll applaud him, 'tis Spanish, my boys,

An

An old crazy veffel, ill built, rigg'd, and plann'd,
But now is re-built, new rigg'd, and new mann'd;.
And just ready to lance-if, when it appears,
From this noble veffel, you'll give it three cheers,.
'Twill lighten his heart, tho' it load not his purse,
And the rogue will cry out-'Tis well it's no worse.
From the head to the starn, thus let me addrefs you,
To lend us your hands-for faith I'll not prefs you,
First, you in the top there, with bawling don't ftun him;
As you're tout pray be merciful-don't fire upon
If t you on the quarter-deck will not befriend him,
Your fwivels and small arms, faith, quickly will end him.
And if you between decks my coufin don't favour,
But give him your broadfides, you fink him for ever.
And O ye (weet craters, who fit in the cabin,
Whose privateer eyes are our hearts ever nabbing,
Do but awe with your cannon this critical § crew,
You'll charm, Irish hearts to your sex ever true,
That a fon of St. Patrick's protected by you.

EPILOGUE

T.O

him.

UR play thus o'er, now fwells each throbbing breaft
With expectation of the coming jest.

By fabion's law, whene'er the Tragic Mufe
With fympathetic tears each eye bedews;
When tome bright virtue at her call appears,
Wak'd from the dead repofe of rolling years,
When farred warthies fhe bids breathe anew,
That, men may be-what the difplays to view;
By fashion's law, with light fantastick mien
The comic fifter trips it o'er the fcene ;
Arm'd at all points with wit and wanton wiles,
Plays off her airs, and calls forth all her fmiles;