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Why such a hair-brain'd spark might think it wit
To turn his ftable loose into the pir :
Long-tail and bob.tail, blacks and sprightly bays,
And filthy duns and old fea-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 Newmarker Races.




Captain O'Cutter enters, crossing the Stage ; but,

upon seeing the Audience, popsy and thus ado

dreses them. O

H! there ye are ;-before one word I utter,
I must tell you, my dears+that I, Captain

With filent respect, will a thing or two say
About my relation, who wrote this new play :
My coufin, poor soul, is in damnable fright,
Because why to amufe you he takes grate delight:
I said, fye for shame ? --what a man, and be frightful :
A pale bashful Irifman's never delightful ;
No conquests are gain’d with such dread looks as those :
I told him, a man should not shrink 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 so weak and absurd;
And, if I know my confin, he'il not brake his word.
My cousin's no flouch, ar your reading and writing;
Tho' now, for his play, he's as pale as a whiting.
I answer'd for you, which his heart has much eas'd,
That tho' you don't like it, I'm sure you'll be pleas'd ;
For they say 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 short, my dear cousin has taken a prize;
I'm sure you'll applaud him, 'cis Spanih, my boys,


An old crazy vessel, ill built, rigg'd, and plann'd,
But now is re-built, new rigg'd, and new mann'd;.
And just ready to lanc-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 address you,
To lend us your hands--for faith I'll not press you,
First, * you in the top there, with bawling don't Itun him;:
As you're tout pray be merciful-don't fire upon him.
If t. you on the quarter-deck will not befriend nim,
Your swivels and small arms, faith, quickly will end him.
And if I you becween decks my cousin don't favour,
But give him your broadsides, you sink him for ever.
And yell sweet 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 son of St. Patrick's protected by you.

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UR play thus o'er, now swells cach throbbing breat

With expectation of the coming jelt.
By fabion's law, whene'er the Tragic Muje
With sympathetic tears each eye bedews; .
When some bright virtue. at her call appears, .
Wak'd from the dead repose of rolling years,
When fatred warthies she bids breathe anew,
That, men may be — what she displays to view;
By fashion's law, with light fantastick mien
The comic fifter trips it o'er the scene ;
Arm’d at ali points with wit and wanton wiles,
Plays off her airs, and calls forth all her smiles;

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Till each fine feeling of the heart be o'er,
And the gay wonder how they wept before.
Say, do you wish, ye bright, ye virtuous train,
That ev'ry tear that fell, should fall in vain ?

If this night's scenes soft pity could impare,
'Tis yours to fix the fashion of the heart.
Adopt, ye fair, the loft Alzuma's cause,
His ruin'd empire, and expiring laws.

For Orellana may I dare to plead?
My faults will all your kind indulgence need.
On you my hopes are fix'd :-one smile from you
To me is worth the treasure of Peru.

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Spoken by Mr. HOLLAND.
Fold, when Greece in a declining age

Of lawless pow'r had felt the barb'rous rage,
This was the tyrant's art-he gave a prize
To him who a new pleasure should devise.

Ye tyrants of the pit, whose cold disdain
Rejects and nauseates the repeated train ;
Who call for rarities to quicken sense,
Say, do you always the reward dispense ?

Ye bards, to whom French wit gives kind relief,
Are ye not oft the first to cry, stop thief !
Say, to a brother do you e'er allow
One little sprig, one leaf to deck bis brow ?
No.-Fierce invective fans the play-wright's ears,
Wits, Poet's Corner, Ledgers, Gazeteers!
'Tis said the Tartar, ere he pierce the heart,
Inscribes his name upon his poison'd dart;
That scheme's rejected by each scribbling spark,

-Our Christian system -ftabs you in the dark,
And yet, the desp'rate author of to-night
Dares on the Muse's wing another flight;
Once more a dupe to fame, forsakęs his eale,
And feels th' ambition here again to please.


He brings a tale from a far diftant age,
Ennobled by the grave historic page!
Zenobia's woes have touch'd each polish'd state;
The brightest eyes of France have mourn'd her fate.
Harmonious Italy her tribute paid,
And sung a dirge to her lamented fhade.

Yet think not that we mean to mock the eje
With pilfer'd colours of a foreign dye.
Not to translate, our bard his pen doth dip;
He takes a play, as Britons take a hip;
They heave her down, with many a sturdy stroke,
Repair her well, and build with heart of oak.
To every breeze set Britain's streamers free,
New-man her, and away again to sea.

This is our author's aim; and if his art
Waken to sentiment the feeling of the heart;
If in his scenes alternate palljons burn,
And friend fhip, love, guilt, virtue, take their turn;
If innocence, oppress’d, lie bleeding here,
You'll give 'tis ali ke aks--one virtuous tear.

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с н A N C E s.
F all men, those have leaft reason to care

For being laugh'd at, who can laugh their fhare :
And that's a thing our Author's apt to ote,
Upon occasion, when no man can chule.
Suppose now at this initant one of you,
Were cíckled by a fool, what wou'd you do?
"Tis ten to one you'd langh: here's just the cafe
For there are fools that tickle with their face.
Your gay fool tickles with his dress and motions,
But your grave fcol of fools with filly notions.
Is it not then unjuft that fops should ftill
Force one to laugh, and then take laughing ilf?
Yet fince perhaps to some it gives offeace,
That men are tickled at the want of fenfe ;


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Our Author thinks he takes the readiest way
To thew all he has laugh'd at here fair play.
For if ill writing be a folly thought,
Correcting ill is fure a greater fault.
Then gallants laugh, but chuse the right place first,
For judging ill is of all faults the worst.






F all the various vices of the age,

And Ihoals of fools expos'd upon the Stage, How few are lasht that call for satire's rage! What can you think to see our plays fo full Of madmen, coxcombs, and the drivelling fool ? Of cits, of sharpers, rakes and roaring bullies, Of cheats, of cuckolds, aldermen and callies? Wou'd not one swear, 'twere taken for a rule, That satire's rod, in the dramatic fchool, Was only meant for the incorrigible fool ? As if too vice and folly were confin'd To the vile scum alone of human kind, Creatures a muse shou'd fcorn; fuch abject trash Deserve not satire's but the hangman's lath. Wretches so far thut out from fense of shame, Newgate or Bedlam only thou'd reclaim ; For satire ne'er was meant to make wild monsters tame, No, Sirs.

We rather think the perfons fit for plays, Are they whose birth and education says

They've every help that shou'd improve mankind, Yet still live Naves to a vile tainted mind; Such as in wit are often feen t'abound, And yet have some weak part, where folly's found: For follies sprout, like weeds, highest in fruitful ground. And 'tis obferv'd, the garden of the mind To no infektive weeds to niuch inclin'd, As the rank pride that some from affe&tation find, A folly too well known to make its court With most success among the better furt.


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