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Or should you cry but bravo !-or encere !
He'll trembling an wer~''there ! -'ye hear? no more!"*
Oh! could you know what authors, actors feel!
When at your bar they make their first appeal!
You'd think your warmeit patronage their due,
And own the picture-where the tints are true !
To him then, conscious, that all comic wit,
“ As 'tis the best, --so 'tis moit hard to hit!”
Ye Gods * !—and demi.gods -ye wits $! be kind ;
Nor, in the critic, lore-the gen'rous mind !
Of old remem'bring--authors would excel,
When men were prais d-who bui endeavour'd well.
Yet hold--one hine I'll drop before I got
'Tis dowright farce – not comedy we shew
As such receive nor mark with critic (neer
As is a bench of Stagyrites were here--
But laugh-where nature prompts—where mirth demands
And give (in spite of trivial faults) your hands.
HE fifth a&t part, you'll think it ftrange, to find
Tafa'd, for the Epilogue, I fear you'll blame
My want of what you love, behind that name.
But, for my foul, I can't from such high scening,
Descend, plum down at once,-to double meaning
Judges ! protect me and pronounce it fit,
That Solemn Sense, should end with Serious Wit,
When the full heart o’erllows, with pleasing Pain,
Why should we wish, to make th’ impression vain ?
* First Gallery, + Second Gallery. S Boxes and Piti
Why, when two thinking hours, have fixt the play,
Shou'd two light minutes laugh its Ule away
"Twere to proclaim our Virtues but a Jest,
Should they who ridicule 'em, please us, best.-
No,-rather, at your actor's hands, require
Off'rings more Apt; and a Sublimer fire !
Thoughts, that may rivet, not efface the scene :
Aids to the mind : not fatt’ries for the spleen.
When love, hate, pity,---Doubt, hope, grief, and rage,
With clashing in A’ence fire the glowing stage;
When the touch'd heart, relenting into Woe,
From others fate, does its own danger know; .
When soft’ning Tenderness unlocks the min.!,
And the stretch'd bosom takes in all mankind:
Sure ! 'tis no Time, for the bold hand of wit
To snatch back virtues, from the plunder'd pit!
Still, be it ours, to give you scenes, thus strong,..
And yours, to cherish, and retain 'em long!
Then shall the stage its general use endear ;
And ev'ry virtue, gather firmness here.
Pow'r be, to pardon,_wealth to pity, mov?d;
And Truth be taught the art, to grow belov'd.
Women, to charm, with fatt, and sure, effect ;
And men to love 'em, with a soft respect.
'Till all alike, some diff'rent motive rouses :
And tragedy, (un-farc'd) invites full houses.
HE text is done, and now for application,
And when that's ended, pass your approba.ion...
Though the conspiracy's prevented here,
Methinks I see another hatching there ;
And there's a certain faction fain would sway,
If they had strength enough, and damn this play,
But this the author bad me boldly fay;
If any take this plain ness in ill part,
He's glad on’t from the bottom of his heart;
Poet's in honour of the truth should write,
With the same fpirit brave men for it fight.
And though against him causeless hatreds rise,
And daily where goes of late, he spies
The scowles of fullen and revengeful eyes;
'Tis what he knows, with much contempt, to bear,
And serves a cause too good to let him fear :
He fears no poisen from an incens'd drab,
No ruffian's five-foot sword, nor ra'cal's Itab;
Nor any oiher snares of mischief laid,
Not a Rose-Alley-Cadgel-Ambuscade,
From any private cause where malice reigns,
Or general piqne all blockheads have no brains:
Nothing Mall 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. set forward, and their course begun;
And while that Prince's figure they defac?,
As they before had massacred his name,
Durit their base fears but look him in the face,
They'd use his perfon as they've us'd his fame:
A face in which such lineaments they read
Of that great martyr's, whose rich blood they shed,
That their rebellious hate they still retain,
And in his son would murther him again.
Wish indignation then, let each brave heart
Rouze, and unite, to take his injur'd part;
'Till royal love and goodness call him home,
And songs of triumph meet him as he come ;
Till heav'n his honour and our peace restore,
And villaios never wrong his virtue more.
# The Rascal that cut the Duke of York's Piature,
R E H E. A RS. A L.
HE play is at an end; but where's the plot ?.
And we can boast, tho''tis a plotting age,
No place is freer from it than the stage.
The ancients plotted, tho', and strove to please,
With sense that might be understood with ease: :
They every scene with so much wit did itore,
That who brought any in went out with more.
But this new way of wit, does so surprize,
Men lose their wits in wond'ring where it lies.
If it be true, that monstrous births prefage
The following mischiefs that afflict the age,
And sad disasters to the state proclaim,
Plays without head or tail may do the same.
Wherefore for ours, and for the kingdom's peace...
May this prodig'ous way of writing cease.
Let's have at least once in our lives a time,
When we may hear some reason, not all rhime.
We have these ten years felt its influence ;
Pray let this prove a year of prose and sense.
HE time is come the Roman bard foretold,
When specious books were open'd for undoin g,
And English bands, in crowds subscrib'd their ruin.
Some months ago, who ever could suppose,
A goosequill race of rulers fhould have rose,
T'have made the warlike Bri:ons groan beneath their
Evils, that never yet behe!d the sun,
To foreign arms, or civil jars, unknown,
These trenibling miscreants, by their wiles have done.
Thus the fierce lion, whom ro force could foil,
By village-curs is baited in the toil.
Forgive the mufe then, if her scenes were laid.
Before your fair poflc ilions were betray'd ;
She took the fitting form, as fame then ran,
While à Director feem'd an honest man:
Bus were the from his present form to take him,
What a huge gorging monster myft she make him;
How would his paunch with golden ruin (well ?
Whole families devouring at a meal ?
What motley humour in a scene might flow,
Were we these upstarts in their arts to how ?
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 belyd)
To raise the value of the cheat, deny u.
And while Sir John was airing on his prancers,
He'as left his cookmaid, to give peers their aniwers.
Then clerks in Berlins, purchas'd by their cheats, That splash their walking betters in the streets ; And while by fraud, their native country's sold, Cry, “ Drive you dog, and give your horses gold :" Even Jews no bounds of luxury refrain, . Bür boil their christian hams in pure Champaign.
"Till then the guilty, that have caus’d these times,, Feel a fuperior censure for their crimes ; I et all, whose wrongs the face of mirth can bear, Enjoy the muses vengeance on them here.