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My lies were harmless, told to hew my parts;
And not like those, when tongues belge their hearts,
In all professions you will find this flaw;
And in the grave too, in pbyfic a:id in law.
The gouty serjeant cries, with formal pause,
“ Your plea is good, my friend, don't ftarve the cause.
But when my lord decrees for t'other fide,
Your costs of fuit convince you, that be lyd.
A do&tor comes with formal wig and face,
Firft feels your pulle, then thinks, and knows your cafe.
“ Your fever's llight, not dang'rous, I assure you ;
“ Keep warm, and reperatur haufus, Sir, will cure you."
Around the bed, next day his friends are crying :
The patient dies, the doctor's paid for lying:
The Poet, willing to secure the pit,
Gives out, his play, has humour, taste, and wit:
The cause comes on, and, while the judges try,
Each groan and catcall gives the bard the lye.
Now let us afk, pray, what the ladies do:
They too will fib a little entre nous..
“ Lord!” says the prude (her face behind her fan)
" How can our sex have any joy in man?
“ As for my part, the beft could ne'er deceive me,
as And were the race extinct, 'twould never grieve me?
“ Their fight is odious, but their touchO gad!
es The thought of that's enough to drive one mad.":
Thus rails at man the squeamilh lady dainty,
Yet weds, at fifty-five, a-rake of twenty.
In short, a beau's intrigues, a lover's fighs,.
The courtier's promise, the rich widow's cries,
And patriot's zcal, are seldom more than lyes.
Sometimes you'll see a man belye his nation,
Nor to his country shew the least relation.
For instance now
A cleanly Dutchman, or a Frenchman grave,
A fober German, or a Spaniard brave,
An Englishman, a coward, or a fave.
Mine, though a xbbing, was an honest art ::
I serv'd my matter, play'd a faithful part :
Rask me not therefore 'mongst the lying crew,
Før, though my tongue was falfe, my heart was true



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Written and Spoken by Mr. Foote. TO

O night be it known to box, gall’ries, and pit,

Will be open'd th' original warehouse for wit ;The new manufacture, Foote and Co. undertakers, Play, opera, pantomime, farce,– by the makers.. We scorn, like our brethren, our fortunes to owe To Shakespeare and Southern, to Otway and Rowe: Though our judgment may err; yet our justice is shown, For we promife to mangle no works but our own; And moreover, on this you may firmly rely, If we can't make you laugh, we won't make you cry : For our monarch, who knew we were mirth-loving fouls, Has lock'd up his light’ning, his daggers and bowls;. Resolv'd that in 'bukins no hero should stalk, He has fhut us quite out of the tragedy walk; No blood, no blank verse; in-short we're undoney, Unless you're contented with frolic and fun ;, If tir'd of her round in the Ranelaugh_mill, There should be one female inclin’d to fit till ;; If blind to the beauties, or sick of che.[quall, A party Thouldn't.chuse to catch cold at Vauxhall;: If at Sadler's sweet Wells the wine should be thick; The cheesecakes be four, or Miss Wilkinson fick; If the fume of the pipes should prove pow'rful in June, Or the tumblers be lame, or the bells out of tune ;. We hope you will call at our warehouse in Drury, We've a curious assortment of goods, I assure ye, Domestic and foreign, indeed all kinds of wares, English cloths, Irish linens, and French petenlairs :: If for want of good custom, or loffes in trade, The practical part'ners should bankrupts be made, • If from dealings too large, we plunge deeply in debt, And a whereas comes out in the muses' gazette . We'll on you our aligns for certificates call, Tho’in.olvents we'sc. honest, and give up our all..





Spoken by Mr. Lee.


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'O night good folks, tho' led a liitle dance,

Thro' the light mazes of an hour's romance,
No spells, no specires have you cause to dread,
Not i ne poor ihunder rumbles o'er your head;
Nor will the tempeft howling thro' the trees,
Once rouse your horror-with a form of pease.-
Between ourselves, this poet was a fool,
'To plan by common sense, or build by rule,
When ev’n the mightiett masters of the stage,
Have gain'd so much from trick, in ev'ry age !
Shakeipeare is great-is exquisite--no doubt
But then our carpenters must help him out:
The deep distresses of a mad'ning Lear,
In vain would ask the tributary tear,
If, 'midit the fury of the midnight sky,
Our rofin ligne'nings did not aptly fly,
And pity warmly plead to be let in,
Thro a smart-shower of heart exploring tin.
Let critics proudly fora dramatic laws,
Give nie, say I, what's sure to meet applause ;
Let them of time, and place, and action boast,
I'm for a devil, a dungeon, or a ghost
When Hamlet weeping for a murder'd fire,
Upbraids his mother with a guiity fire,
'Tho' ev'ry line a plaudit should command,
Not one god yonder will employ his hand.
But cas's in canvas, let the dead stalk in,
Then the loud pæans--then the claps begin-
And pit, box, gall’ry, eagerly contend,
Exalted strife! who loudest Thall commend
'The frantic ha! The Bedlamite--" look there
The farthe heave-- the flagger-and the stare !
'To dear Mackbeach, the learned ladies all run-
What too enjoy !--the flaming of the cauldron,

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Ask Molly Dripping there, so fleek'and mild,
(As good a cook as e'er drest roast or boild)
Whac in all Julet makes her sooneft veep ?
She'll say the fun'ral-- 'Tis so werry deep!
Allurid by sterling sentiment alone,
" Cato for me," (cries Darby Macahone)
« I never miss that play at any time,
• If 'tis but added to a pantomime.'
" Hoot,"-growls a bold North-Bratton, (taking snuff)
“ A pantomime is axacrable fluff-
“ Na bag-pipes in the bond--they donna play
“ The Corn Rags, or the Barks of Andermay.'
In short tho' all stage mummery despise,
All want a banquet for their ears or eyes ;
And while at news they take the most offence,
Still make them bladders to the shore of fenfe.
The name our author gives his piece to-night,
Wou'd well admit a supper for the sight;
A grand collection of drainatic dishes,
Of dragons, giants, forests, rivers, fishes;
Yet tho he calls his crite a romance,
He does not treat you with a fingle dance,
Nor use one hackney'd one eccentric art,
To lull your judgment, or to cheat your

He brings, indeed, a character to view,
From Indian climes, he trusts entirely new
A poor Gentoo, compos'd of virtues all,
Tho’ fresh from English nabobs at Bengal ;
His face, perhaps, too swarthy you may find;
" Yet see Othello's visage in his mind —"
And 'till you've fairly try'd our trembling bays,
Forbear to blame--but do not fear to praisc.






HOUGH the young smarts, I see begin to sneer,

And the old sinners cast a wicked leer:
De not alarm'd, ye fair. -You've nought to fear.


For wanton hint, no loose ambiguous senfe,
Shall Aatter vicious taste at your expence.
Leaving for once these shameless arts in vogue:
We give a fable for the Epilogue.
An ass there was, our author bad me say,
Who needs must write.--He did. And wrote a play.
The parts were caft to various beast and fowl :
Their stage a barn.- The manager an owl,
The house was cramm'd at fix, with friends and foes &
Rakes, wits, and critics, citizens and beaux.
These characters appear'd in different shapes.
Of tigers, foxes, horses, bulls, and apes ;
With others too, of lower rank and station :-
A perfect abstract of the brute creation.
Each, as he felt, mark'd out the author's faults,
And thus the connoiffeurs express'd their thoughts.
The critic-curs first snarlid - the rules are broke,
Time, place, and action, facrific'd to joke.
The goats cry'd out, 'twas formal, dull, and chaste
Not writ for beasts of gallantry and taste.
The borned-cattle were in pitious taking,
At fornication, rapes, and cuckold-making,
The tigers swore, he wanted fire and passion;
The apes condemn'd because it was the fashion..
The gen'rous ftuds allow'd him proper merit:
Here mark his faults, and there approv'd his {pirit,
While brother-bards bray'd forth with usual spleen,
And as they heard, exploded every scene,
When Reynard's thoughts were ak’d, the shrugging

Fam'd for hypocrisy, and worn with age,
Condemn’d i be shameless licence of the flage..
At which the monkey skipp'd from box to box, .
And whisper'd round, the judgment of the fox.
Abus’d the moderns ; talk'd of Rome and Greece, ,
Bilk'd ev'ry box-keeper : and damn'd the piece.

Now ev'ry fable has a moral to it,-
Be churchman, ftatesman, any thing but poeta.
In law, or physic, quack in what you will,
Cant and grimace conceal the want of skill.: ,
Secure in thefe, his gravity may pass
But here no artifice can hide the afs.



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