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“ What is the matter with you, love? cries the
• Are you not well, my dearest! humph! cries he.
" You're such a brute!” But Mr. Bull, I've done ;
And if I am a brute, who made me one?
You know my tendernefimy heart's too full,
And fo's my head - I thank you Mrs Bull,
O you base man !- Zounds, madam, there's no bearing,
She falls a weeping, and he falls a iu caring :
With tears, and oaths, the form domestick en is,
The thunder dies away, the rain descends,
She sobs, he melts, and then they kils and friends.
Whatever ease these modern modes may bring,
A little jealousy is no bad thing;
To me, who speak from nature unrefin'd,
Jealousy is the belows of the mind.
Touch it but gently, and it warms desire,
If handled roughly, you are all on fire ;
If it stands fill, allection must expire.
This truth, no true philosopher can doubt,


do let not the flame go out.



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Spoken by Mrs. MATTOCKS,
Thclaw of

the wise are govern'd by her rules.
Why should mın only Prologue all our plays,
Gentlemen-uthers to each modern Baies?
Why are the fair to Epilogues confin'd,
Whose tongues are loud, and gen'ral as the wind ?
Mark how in real life each sex is class'd!.
Woman has there the firf word and the las.

Boait not your gallant deeds, romantic men !
To night a female Quixote draws the pen.
Armd by the comic muse, these litts he enters,
And Gallics forth-n queft of strange adventures !


War, open war, 'gainst recreant knights declares,
Nor giant-vice nor windmill-folly (pares :
Side-saddles Pegasus, and courts Apollo,
While I, (you fee!)her female Sancho, follow.

Ye that in this enchanted castle fit,
Dames, squires, and dark magicians of the pit,
Smile on our fair knight-errantry to-day,
And raise no spells to blast a female play.

Oft has our author upon other ground,
Courted your smiles, and oft indulgence found.
Read in the closet, you approv'd her page ;
Yet fill me dreads the perils of the stage.
Rcader with writer due proportion keeps,
And if the poet nods the critic sleeps !
If lethargied by dullness here you fit,
Sonorous catcalls rouse the sleeping pit.

Plac'd at the threshold of the weather-house,
There stands a pasteboard husband and his spouse,
Each doom?d to mark the changes of the weather,
But still true man and wife !--ne'er seen together.
When low'ring clouds the face of heav'a deform,
The muffled husband stands and braves the storm;
But when the fury of the tem pet's done,
Break out at once the lady and the sun,
Thus oft has man, in custom's beaten track,

Come forth, as doleful Prologue, all in bluck!
Gloomy prognostic of the bard's disgrace,
With omens of foul feather in his face.
Trick'd out in filk and smiles let me appear,
And fix as sign of peace, the rainbow here ;
Raise your compasion and your mirth together,
And prove to-day an emblem of fair weather !

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While he, who bounds his less.aspiring views
To Farce, the combrus of the Comic Muse,
With pleasantry alone may fill the scene-
His business chiefly this; to cure the spleen;
To raise the pensive mind from grave to gay,
And help to laugh a thoughtful hour away.

If any quibbling wit dispute my thesis,
I'd ask the use of half our petty pieces?
Nay, Sirs, my qnestion fill shall higher climb
Pray what's the use of full-pric's Pantomime ?

How does the pleasur'd eye with rapture glance
When mingling witches join in bobbling dance !
When wriggling Harlequin, the magic sage,
In hornpipe amble traverses the stage !
When trembling Pierrot in his quiv'ring thines !
An Oftrich enters, or a serpent twines !
When headless Taylors raise the laughing fit,
Or flour dredgid Footmen twirl upon a (pit !
But oh! How loud the roar, how dear the rumble,
When scaffolds, mortar-boards, and bricklayers tumble !
When Clodpate runs, or limps, or quaintly reare
From laundress-tub his anabaptist ears !
While all the wit these exhibitions draw
is comprehended in the cry- Laa!

Our author, in this awful court of Drury,
Submits his cause to an impartial jury.
No friendly junto he to-night employs,
To catch, by fav'ring hands, the public voice :
He founds on Britifs candour all his truit,
Convinc'd a British audience will be juft.

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Spoken by Miss Younge.
I1 E Grecian Daughter's compliments to all ;



For leering, giggling, would be out of season,
And hopes by me you'll hear a little reason,

A father rais'd from death, a nation sav'd,
A tyrant's crimes by female spirit brav'd,
That tyrant ftabb’d, and by her nerveless arm,
While virtue's spell surrounding guards could charm!
Can she, this sacred tumult in her broast,
Turn father, freedom, virtue, all to jest?
Wake you, ye fair ones, from your

sweet repose, As wanton Zephyrs wake the sleeping rose; Dispel those clouds which o'er your eyelids crept, Which our wise bard mistook, and swore you wept. Shall the to Maccaronies life restore, Who yawn'd, half dead, and curs'd the tragic bore? Dismiss 'em, smirking, to their nightly haunt, Where dice and cards their moor-struck minds enchantin Some muffled, like the witches in Macbeth, Brood o'er the magic circle, pale as death! Others, the cauldron


about about And ruin encers as the fates run out!

Bubble, Bubble,
Toil and trouble,

Paffions burn,
And bets are double I.

Double! double !
Toil and trouble,

Passions burns,

And all is bubble ! But jests apart, for scandle forms these tales, Fallhood, be mute–let justice hold her scales : Britons were ne'er enllav'd by evil pow'rs ; To peace, and wedded love, they give their midnight

From slumbers pure no rattling Dice can wake 'em !
Who make the laws were never known to break 'em.
'Tis false, ye fair whatever spleen may say,
That you down folly's tide are born away ;
You never with at deep distress to foeer ;
For eyes, tho' bright, are brighter thro' a tear,

Should it e'er be this nation's wretched face
To laugh at all that's good, and wise, and great ;:
Arm'd at all points, let genius take the field,
And on the stage afflicted virtuc hield,


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Drive from the land each base, unworthy pasion,
Till viriue triumph in despite of fashion.


P R 0 L O G. U E


0 0 long has farce, neglecting nature's laws,

Debas’d the stage, and wrong'd the comic causc ;
To raise a laugh has been her role pretence,
Though dearly purchas'd at the price of sense;
This child of folly gain'd increase with time;
Fit for the place fucceeded Pantomime;
Reviv'd her honours, join'd her motley band,
And song and low conceit o'er-ran the land.

More çen'rous views inform our author's breast;
From real life his characters are drest;
Ile fecks to trace the passions of mankind,
And, while he fpares the person, paints the mind.
In pleasing contrast he attempts to show
Tie v p'ring bully, and the fribbling beau,
Cowards alike; hat fuil of martial airs,
And this as tender as the filk he wears.
Proud to divert, not anxious for renown,
Oft has the bard essay'd to p'ease the town ;
Your full applause out-paid his little art,
Ile boasts no merit, but a grateful heart ;
Pronounce your doom, he'll patiently submit,
Ye sov'reign judges of all works of wit !
To you the ore is brought, a lifeless mass!
You give the Stamp, and then the coin may pass.

Now whether judgment prompt you to forgive,
Whether you bid this trifing offspring live, ,
Or with a frown fhould send the thing
To Niep whole ages under dulness' wing ;
To your known candour we will always trust;
You never were, nor can you be unjust.

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