If any take this plainnefs in ill part,

He's glad on't from the bottom of his heart;
Poet's in honour of the truth fhould write,
With the fame fpirit brave men for it fight.
And though against him caufelefs hatreds rife,
And daily where goes of late, he spies
The fcowles of fullen and revengeful eyes;

'Tis what he knows, with much contempt, to bear,
And ferves a caufe too good to let him fear;
He fears no poifen from an incens'd drab,
No ruffian's five-foot fword, nor rafcal's ftab;
Nor any other fnares of mifchief laid,
Not a Rofe-Alley-Cudgel-Ambufcade,
From any private caufe where malice reigns,
Or general pique all blockheads have no brains:
Nothing fhall daunt his pen when truth does call;
No, not the Picture-mangler at Guild-Hall,
The rebel-tribe, of which that vermin's one,
Have now fet forward, and their courfe begun;
And while that Prince's figure they deface,
As they before had maffacred his name,

Durit their bafe fears but look him in the face,
They'd ufe his perfon as they've us'd his fame:
A face in which fuch lineaments they read
Of that great martyr's, whofe rich blood they fhed,
That their rebellious hate they ftill retain,
And in his fon would murther him again.
With indignation then, let each brave heart
Rouze, and unite, to take his injur'd part;
'Till royal love and goodness call him home,
And fongs of triumph meet him as he come;
Till heav'n his honour and our peace reftore,
And villains never wrong his virtue more.

The Rafcal that cut the Duke of York's Picture,

}

E PI LOG
GUE

то

THE

REHE AR SA L..

TH

HE play is at an end; but where's the plot?
That circumftance our poet BAYES forgot.
And we can boaft, tho' 'tis a plotting age,
No place is freer from it than the stage.
The ancients plotted, tho', and ftrove to pleafe,
With fenfe that might be understood with ease: :
They every fcene with fo much wit did ftore,
That who brought any in went out with more.
But this new way of wit, does fo furprize,
Men lofe their wits in wond'ring where it lies.
If it be true, that monstrous births prefage
The following mischiefs that afflict the age,
And fad difafters to the ftate proclaim,
Plays without head or tail may do the fame.
Wherefore for ours, and for the kingdom's peace...
May this prodig'ous way of writing ceafe.
Let's have at least once in our lives a time,
When we may hear some reason, not all rhime. .
We have thefe ten years felt its influence;
Pray let this prove a year of profe and sense.

HE time is come the Roman bard foretold,

TA brazen year fucceeds an age of gold;

An age

When fpecious books were open'd for undoing,
And English hands, in crouds fubscrib'd their ruin.

Some months ago, who ever could suppose,

A goofequill race of rulers should have rose, T'have made the warlike Britons groan beneath their blows.

Evils, that never yet beheld the fun,

To foreign arms, or civil jars, unknown,

Thefe trembling mifcreants, by their wiles have done.
Thus the fierce lion, whom no force could foil,
By village-curs is baited in the toil.

Forgive the mufe then, if her scenes were laid
Before your fair poffeffions were betray'd;
She took the flitting form, as fame then ran,
While à Director feem'd an honest man:

But were the from his prefent form to take him,
What a huge gorging monster muft fhe make him;
How would his paunch with golden ruin fwell?
Whole families devouring at a meal?

What motley humour in a fcene might flow,
Were we thefe upftarts in their arts to fhow?
When their high betters, at their gates have waited,
And all to beg the favour, to be cheated;
Even that favour (or they're by fame bely'd)
To raife the value of the cheat, deny'd.

And while Sir John was airing on his prancers,
He'as left his cookmaid, to give peers their answers.
Then clerks in Berlins, purchas'd by their cheats,
That fplafh their walking betters in the streets;
And while by fraud, their native country's fold,
Cry," Drive you dog, and give your horfes gold:"
Even Jews no bounds of luxury refrain,

But boil their chriftian hams in pure Champaign.

"Till then the guilty, that have caus'd these times, Feel a fuperior cenfure for their crimes;

I et all, whofe wrongs the face of mirth can bear,
Enjoy the mufes vengeance on them here.

EPILOG

U E

то THE

QRPHAN

OF CHINA.

Spoken by Mrs. YATES.

THRO' five long acts I've worn my fighing face,..
Confin'd by critic laws to time and place;

Yet that once done, I ramble as I pleafe,
Cry London Hoy! and whifk o'er land and feas
-Ladies, excufe my drefs-'tis true chinese.
Thus quit of hufband, death, and tragic strain,
Let us enjoy our dear fmall talk again.

-}

How could this bard fuccefsful hope to prove.
So many heroes, and not one in love !--
No fuitor here to talk of flames that thrill;
To fay the civil thing-" Your eyes fo kill!
-to our will!
No ravisher, to force us-
You've seen their eaftern virtues, patriot paffions,
And now for fomething of their taste and fashions.
O Lord! that's charming-cries my Lady Fidget,
I long to know it do the creatures vifit?
Dear Mrs, Yates, do, tell uswell, how is it?
Firft, as to beauty--fet your hearts at reft-
They're all broad foreheads, and pigs eyes at belt.
And then they lead fuch ftrange, fuch formal lives!
A little more at home than English wives:
Left the poor things fhould roam, and prove untrue,
They all are crippled in the tiney fhoe.

A hopeful fcheme to keep a wife from madding!

-We pinch our feet, and yet are ever gadding.

}

}

Then they've no cards, no routs, ne'er take their fling,
And pin-money is an unheard of thing!

Then how d'ye think they write-You'll ne'er divine,—
From top to bottom down in one strait line.

We ladies when our flames we cannot fmother,

Write letters from one corner to another.

[Mimicks.

[Mimicks.

One mode there is, in which both climes agree;
I fcarce can tell-'mongst friends then let it be-
-The creatures love to cheat as well as we.

But

But bless my wits! I've quite forgot the bard
A civil foul! by me he fends this card-

Prefents refpects-to ev'ry lady here--
"Hopes for the honour of a fingle tear."
The critics then will throw their dirt in vain,
One drop from you will wash out ev'ry flain,
Acquaints you (now the man is past his fright)
He holds his rout,-and here he keeps his night.
Affures you all a welcome kind and hearty,

The ladies fhall play crowns-and there's the fhilling [Points to the upper Gallery.

party.

EPILOGUE,

On the Birth-day of his Royal Highness the Duke of

Cumberland.

WRITTEN BY A PERSON STILING HIMSELF THE

FARMER.

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK, at Dublin.

IS not a birth to titles, pomp or state,

That forms the brave, or conftitutes the great.

To be the fon of GEORGE is just renown,

And brother to the heir of Britain's crown;
Tho' proud these claims, at beft they but adorn;
For heroes cannot be, like princes, born:

Valour and worth must confecrate their name,
And virtue give them to the rolls of fame.

Hail to the youth, whofe actions mark this year!!
And in whofe honour you affemble here:

'Tis not to grace his natal-day we meet, His birth of glory is the birth we greet.

How quick does his progreffive virtue run,

How fwift afcend to its meridian fun!
Before its beams the northern ftorms retire,,
And Britons catch the animating fire.

Yet rush not too precipitate, for know,

The fate you urge would prove our greateft woe;
Religion, law, and liberty's, at ftake!

Reprefs your ardour, for your country's fake.

The