The finish'd piece intuitively bright,

Shines with plain nature's emanating light:
The beautiful in varied light appears,
While the fublime, the noble fabrick rears:
Gains all the deep receffes of the foul,
And brings the judgment under juft controul.
May real merit ever meet fuccefs,

And genius wrong'd from wealth, obtain redress.
May ev'ry audience entertainment greet,
And bards their laurels lay at beauty's feet!

A

Spoken by MRS. CLIVE.

Enters reading the Play-Bill.

VERY pretty bill-as I'm alive!

The part of Nobody-by Mrs. Clive,.

A paltry, fcribbling fool-to leave me out ;
Hell fay, perhaps he thought I could not pout.
Malice and Envy to the laft degree!

And why?—I wrote a Farce as well as he.
And fairly ventur'd it,-without the aid

Of Prologue drefs'd in black, or face in mafquerade;
O Pit-have pity-fee how I'm dismay'd!
Poor foul! this canting ftuff will never do,
Unless, like Bays, he brings his hangman too.
But granting, that from thefe fame obfequies,
Some pickings to our bard in black arife;
Should your applaufe to joy convert his fear,
As Pallas turns to feaft-Landella's bier,
Yet 'twould have been a better scheme by half

ملة

T'have thrown his weeds afide, and learnt with me to

laugh.

I could have fhewn him, had he been inclin'd,

A fpouting junto of the female kind.

There dwells a milliner in yonder row,

Well-dreffed, full-voic'd, and nobly built for hew,

Who,

Who, when in rage, fhe fcolds at Sue and Sarah,
Damn'd, damn'd Diffembler! think's fhe more than Zara.
She has a daughter too, that deals in lace,

And fings-O ponder well-and Chevy-Chace,
And fain would fill the fair Ophelia's place;
And in her cock'd-up hat, and gown of camblet,
Prefumes on fomething-touching the lord Hamlet.
A coufin too fhe has, with fquinting eyes,
With waddling gait, and voice like London Cries.
Who, for the Stage too fhort by half a story,
Acts lady Tornly-thus-in all her glory.
And, while fhe's traverfing her feanty room,
Cries "Lord, my lord, what can I do at home!"
In fhort, there's girls enough for all the fellows,
The ranting, whining, starting, and the jealous;
The Hotfpurs, Romeos, Hamlets, and Othellos,
Oh! little do thefe filly people know
What dreadful trials-actors undergo:
Myfelf who moft in harmony delight,
Am fcolding here from morning until night,
Then take advice from me, ye giddy things,
Ye royal Milliners, ye apron'd Kings;
Young men beware, and fhun our nippery ways,
Study arithmetic, and burn your plays.
And you, ye girls, let not our tinfel train
Enchant your eyes, and turn your mad'ning brain
Be timely wife; for oh! be fure of this;
A fhop, with Virtue, is the height of bliss.

EPILOGUE

M

то

C

R E E U

U S

A.

Spoken by Mifs HAUGHTON.

T length I'm freed from tragical parade,

At once refigning, with my facred dwelling,
My wreaths, my wand, my arts of fortune-telling.
Yet fuperftitious folks, no doubt, are here,
Who ftill regard me with a kind of fear,

Left

Left to their fecret thoughts these prying eyes,
Should boldly pafs, and take them by furprize.
Nay, tho' I disavow the whole deceit,
And fairly own my science all a cheat,
Should I declare, in fpight of ears and eyes,
That beaux were handfome, or the critics wife,
They'd all believe it, and with dear delight,
Say to themselves at least,

"The girl has tafte;"" the woman's in the right."
Or, fhould I tell the ladies, fo difpos'd,
They'd get good matches, ere the feafon clos'd,
They'd Imile, perhaps with feeming discontent,
And, fneering, wonder what the creature meant ;
But whifper to their friends, with beating heart,
"Suppafe there fhould be fomething in her art."
Grave statesmen too would chuckle, should I fay,
On fuch a motion, and by fuch a day,

They would be fummon'd from their own affairs,
To 'tend the nation's more important cares;
"Well, if I must—howe’er I dread the load,
"I'll undergo it-for my country's good."
All men are bubbles, in a skilful hand,
The ruling paffion is the conjurer's wand.
Whether we praife, foretel, perfuade, advise,
'Tis that alone confirms us fools or wife.

The devil without may spread the tempting fin
But fure the conqueror is the devil within.

EPILOGUE

то THE

ENGLISH M A N

A

RETURNED FROM PARIS.

Spoken by MRS. BELLAMY,

MONG the arts to make a piece go down,

And fix the fickle favour of the town,

An Epilogue is deem'd the fureft way

To atone for all the errors of the Play :

Thus, when pathetic ftrains have made you cry,
In trips the Comic Mufe, and wipes your eye.

With equal reafon, when fhe has made you laugh,
Melpomene fhould send you fniveling off;
But our Bard, unequal to the task,

Rejects the dagger, and retains the mafque :
Fain would he fend you chearful home to-night,
And harmless mirth by honeft means excite;
Scorning with luscious phrafe or double sense,
To raise a laughter at the Fair's expence.
What method fhall we choose your taste to hit?
Will no one lend our Bard a little wit?
Thank ye, kind fouls, I'll take it from the pit.
The piece concluded, and the curtain down,
Up ftarts that fatal Phalanx, call'd the Town:
In full affembly weigh our Author's fate,
And Surly thus commences the debate:

Pray, among Friends, does not this poisoning scene
The facred rights of Tragedy prophane?

If Farce may mimic thus her awful bowl:
Oh fie, all wrong, ftark naught, upon my foul!
Then Buck, cries Billy, can it be in nature?
Not the leaft likeness in a fingle feature.
My lord, lord love him, 'tis a precious piece;
Let's come on Friday night and have a hiss,
To this a Peruquier affents with joy,
Parcequ'il affronte les Francois, oui, ma foi.
In fuch diftrefs what can the Poet do?
Where feek for shelter when these foes purfue?
He dares demand protection, firs, from you.

PROLOGUE

то THE

DISCOVER Y.

A

FEMALE culprit at your bar appears,
Not deftitute of hope, nor free from fears,

Her utmost crime she's ready to confefs,
A fimple trefpafs-neither more nor lefs;
For, truant-like, fhe rambled out of bounds,
And dar'd to venture on poetic grounds.
The fault is deem'd high treafon by the men,
Those lordly tyrants who ufurp the pen!

}

}

Then

Then try the vile monopoly to hide

With flattering arts, You ladies have befide
So many ways to conquer-fure 'tis fit

You leave to us that dangerous weapon wit!
For women, like ftate criminals, they think
Should be debarr'd the use of pen and ink.

Our Author, who difclaims fuch partial laws
To her own fex appeals to judge her caufe.
She pleads old Magna Charta on her fide,
That British fubjects by their peers be try'd.
Ladies, to you fhe dedicates her lays,
Affert your right to cenfure or to praife;
Nor doubt a fentence by fuch lips decreed,
Firm as the laws of Perfian or of Mede:
Boldly your will in open court declare,
And let the men difpute it if they dare.

Our humble fcenes no charms of art can boast,
But fimple nature, and plain fenfe at most:
Perhaps fome character a moral too-
And what is ftranger ftill-the ftory's new:

No borrow'd thoughts throughout the piece are fhewn,
But what our author writes is all her own.

By no fly hint, or incident she tries
To bid on modest cheeks the blush arise:
The loofeft thoughts our decent fcenes fuggeft,
Virtue herself might harbour in her breaft;
And where our harmless fatire vents its spleen,
The fobereft prude may laugh, without a skreen.
But not to mirth alone we claim your r,
Some tender fcenes demand the melting tear;
The comic dame, her different powers to prove,
Gives you the dear variety you love;
Sometimes affumes her graver fifter's art,
Borrows her form, and tries to touch the heart.
But fancy's pictures float upon the brain,
And fhort-liv'd o'er the heart is paffion's reign,
Till judgment ftamp her fanction on the whole,.
And fink th' impreffion deep into the foul.-