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Spoken by Mr. WIL K S.
O wake the soul by tender strokes of art,

To raise the genius, and to mend the heart,
To make mankind in conscious virtue bold,
Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold:
For this the tragic-muse firit trod the stage,
Commanding tears to stream thro' every age;
Tyrants no more their savage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our author Thuns by vulgar springs to move
The heroe's glory, or the virgin's love;
In pitying love we but our weakness Thew,
And wild ambition well deserves its woe.
Here tears Mall flow from a more gen'rous cause;
Such tears as patriots fed for dying laws :
He bids your breaits with ancient ardour rire,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws,
What Plaro thought, and god-like Cało was:
No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure heav'n itself surveys ;
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state!
While Caio gives his little senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country's cause?
Who sees him act, but envies ev'ry deed :
Who hears him groan, and does not with to bleed?'
Ev'n when proud Cajar 'midst triumphal cars,
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobiy vain, and impotently great,
Shew'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state,
As her dead father's rever'nd image part,
The pomp was darken’d and the day o'ercait,

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The triumph ceas’d-Tears gulh'd from ev'ry eye,
The world's great victor pads unhee jed by;
Her last good nian dejected Rome ador’d,
And honour'd Creurs less than Caro's sword.

Brisons attend! Be worth like this approv'd,
Ard thew you have a virtue to be mov'd.
Wich honeft fcorn the first fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom the subdu'd :
Our scene precariously sublits too long
On French 'Translation and Italian song.
Dare to have sense yourselves; afert the stage,
Be juftly warm’d with your own native rage,
Such plays alonc fall please a Britib ear,
As Cato's felt had not disdain'd to hear.





G T o N S P A.


Spoken by Mr. King,



H O'Prologues, now, as black berries are plenty,

And live them maukith too, nineteen in twenty ;
Yet roul will have them, when their date is o’er,
And Prologue, Prologue, ilill your honours roar;
"Till foine such dismal phiz as mine comes on,
Ladies and gentlemen, indeed there's none,
The Prologue, Aliho", Sp aker, all are d:ad and gone !
These realons have fonie weight, and stop the rout:
You cap-. I finisk -- and thus go cringing out:
While living cali me, for your pleasure use me ;
Should I tip ofi-I hope you'll then excuse me.

So much for frologues--and now enter Farce !
Shall I a scene, I lately heard, rehearse ?
The place, the paik; the Dramalis Persona,
I'we lemilc wiis, with each a macaroni.


Prithre, lord Flimsey, what's this thing at Drury?
This Spleen? -'uis luw, damn'd low, ma'am, I assure yes:
C'est vrai, mi lor ! - we now feel no such evil,
Never are haunted with a vapourish devil.
In pleasures round we whirlit from the brain,
You rattle it away wiih feven's the main!
In upper life, we have no Spleen or gall ;
And as for other life,- it is no life at all.

What can I say in our poor bard's behalf ?
He hoges that lower life may make you laugh
May not a trader who shall business drop,
Quitting at once his old-accustom'd shop,
In fancy tbro' a course of pleasures run,
Retiring to his seat at Islington ?
And, of falfe dreams of happiness brim full,
Be at h's villa, miserably du:l?
Would not he Islington's fine air for go,
Could he again be choak’d in Butcher-sow?
In hewing cloth renew his former pleasure,
Surpass'd by none, but that of clipping measure,
The mailer of this shop too seeks repole,
Sells off his stock in trade, his verle and profe,
His daggers, buskins, thunder, lightning, and cl}

Will he in rural shades-find ease and quiet?
Oh no! He'll figh for Drury, and seek peace in riot.

Nature of yore prevaild thro' fuman kind?
To low and middle life she's now confin'd:
'Twas there the choicest dramatiits have fought her,
'Twas there Moliere, there johoron, Shakespeare, caught

Then let our gleaning bard with safety come,
To pick up straws, dropt from their harvest home!
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A Τ Η A L S T А No.


Spoken by Mrs. CiBBER.
O speak ten words, again I've fetch'd my breath;
The tongue of woman struggles hard with death.
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Ten words ! will that suffice! Ten words--no more,
We always give a thousand to the score.

What can provoke these wits their time to waste,
To please that fickle, Meeting thing call'd taste?
Jt mocks all search, for substance has it none;
Like Hamlet's ghoit-'is here— 'tis there'is gone.
How very few about the stage agree!
As men with diff'rent eyes a beauty fee,
So judge they of that stately dame-Queen-tragedy.

The critic, as his mistress holds her,
And having little love, for trifles scolds her:
Excuses want of spirit, beauty, grace,
But ne'er forgives her failing-time, and place.
How do our sex of taste in judgment vary?
Miss Bell adores, what's loath'd by Lady Mary :
The first in tenderness a very dove,
Melts like the feather'd snow, at Juliet's love :
Then, fighing, turns to Romeo by her side,
Can you believe that men for love have dy'd ? »
Her lady Mip, who vaults the coarser's back,
Leaps the barr'd gate, and calls you Tom and Jack,
Deteit thele whinings, like a true Virago;
She's all for daggers ! blood! blood! blood ! Lago!
A third, whose heart defies all perturbations,
Yet dies for triumphs, funerals, coronations !
Ne'er asks which tragedies fucceed, or fail,
But whose Procession has the longest tail.
The Youths, to whom France gives a new belief,
Who look with Horror on a rump of beef:
On Shakespear's plays, with frugg'd up shoulders ftare,'
These plays ? they're bloody murders, Barbare !
And yet the man has merit- entre nous,
He'd been damn'd clever, had he read Bofù.
Shakespear read French ! roars out a surly cit :
When Shakespear wrote, our valour match'd our wit:
Had Britons then been fops, Queen Bess had hang'd 'em ;
Those days, they never read the French, -They bang'd'em,

If taste evaporates by too high breeding,
And eke is overlaid, by too deep reading;
Left then in search of this, you lose your feeling,
And barter native sense in foreign dealing;


Be this neglected truth to Britons known,
„No taites, no modes become you, but your own.

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Spoken by Mr. King.


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o hear with candour, e'er we judge a cause,

Is the known Magna Charta of all laws ! So says our baru !-then who would break a rule, , Fram'd and eltablish'd in the earlicít school? Or, who so jealous of another's fame, To damp a spark, just riling to a flame? And yet, - from our reports within, --'tis said, There are some wits amongst ye-so ill bred, They come, -unknowing, --wherefore, -or for why,--. To break, on critic-wheel,-a butterfly! But fure my eyes, and they're not bad, good folks! Can easy read—these whispers are mere jokes ! To try the hero of this night's campaign, Who frets,-and struts, then ftruts,--and frets again! Bows, – smiles, — and no.!s,-from heroes, kings and !

queens, To him who promps,-fweeps,-clips-or fhifts the

But I-who know him beft,--do know for certain,
That-entre nous, - 'tis all behind the curtain,
Where he-poor culprit,-trembles ev'ry limb,
And shadows feem-realities to him !
Doubts rise on doubts and fears on fears await!
Holding, with airy nothings,-a debate !
And so suspicious, - lest you take amiss
That ev'ry cough,--he'll conftrue to a hiss!


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