Had the confulted me, the should have made
Her moral play a fpeaking masquerade.

Warm'd up each bustling fcene, and in her rage
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
My life on't, this had kept her play from finking,
Have pleas'd our eyes, and fav'd the pain of thinking.
Well, fince the thus has fhewn her want of fkill,
What if I give a masquerade ?-I will.-

But how! ay, there's the rub! (paufing) I've got my cue,
The world's a masquerade; the mafquers, you, you, you.
[To Boxes, Pit, Gall.
Lud! what a groupe the motley fcene discloses!
Falfe wits, falle wives, falfe virgins, and false spouses:
Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em,
Patriots, in party colour'd fuits, that ride 'em,
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more,
To raise a flame in Cupids of three core.
Thefe, in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deferting fifty, faften on fifteen.

Mifs, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Flings down her fampler, and takes up the woman:
The little urchin fmiles, and fpreads her lure,
And tries to kill ere fhe's got power to cure,
Thus 'tis with all-their chief and conftant care
Is to feem every thing-but what they are.

Yon, broad, bold, angry, fpark, I fix my eye on,
Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion,
Who frowns, and talks, and fwears with round parade;
Looking, as who should fay, Damme! who's afraid.
[Mimicking.

Strip but his vizor off, and fure 1 am,
You'll find his lionship a very lamb.
Yon politician, famous in debate,
Perhaps to vulgar eyes beftrides the state;
Yet when he deigns his real fhape t' affume,
He turns old woman, and beftrides a broom.
Yon patriot too, who preffes on your fight,
And feems to every gazer all in white;
If with a bribe his candour you attack,

He bows, turns round, and whip-the man's a black.
Yon critic too-but whither do I run?

If I proceed, our bard will be undone !
Well then, a truce, fince the requests it too;
Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you.

PR

PROLOGUE

то THE

GAME STE R S. WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK.

WH

WHENE'ER the wits of France take pen in hand,
To give a sketch of you, and this our land;
One fettled maxim through the whole you fee-
To wit their great fuperiority.!

Urge what you will, they still have this to fay,
That you who ape them are lefs wife than they.
'Tis thus thefe well bred Letter-writers ufe us,
They trip o'er here, with half an eye perufe us;
Embrace us, eat our meat, and then-abuse us.
When this fame play was writ, that's now before ye,
The English ftage had reach'd its point of glory!
No paultry thefts difgrac'd this author's pen,
He painted English manners, English men;
And form'd his tafte on Shakespear and old Ben.
Then were French farces, fafhions, quite unknown,
Our wits wrote well, and all they writ their own :
These were the times when no infatuation,
No vicious modes, no zeal for imitation,

Had chang'd, deform'd, and funk the British nation.
Should you be ever from yourselves eitrang'd,
The Cock will crow, to fee the Lion chang'd!
To boaft our liberty is weak and vain,
While tyrant vices in our bofoms reign;
Nor liberty alone a nation faves,

Corrupted freemen are the worst of flaves.
Let Pruffia's fons each English breaft inflame;
O, be our spirit, as our caufe, the fame!
And as our hearts with one religion glow,
Let us with all their ardors drive the foe,

As heav'n had rais'd our arm, as heav'n had giv'n the
blow?

Would you re-kindle all your ancient fires,
Extinguish first your modern, vain defires;
Still it is yours, your glories to retrieve,
Lop but the branches, and the tree shall live:

}

With these erect a pile for facrifice!

And in the mid--throw all your cards and dice!
Then firft the heap, and as it finks to earth,
The Bri ifh genius fhall have fecond birth!
Shall, Phoenix-like, rife perfect from the flame,
Spring from the duft, and mount again to fame!

PRO L O

GUE

то

A

MASQUE.

BRITANNIA,

SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK.

In the Character of a SAILOR, fuddled and talking to himself. He enters, finging.

How pleafant a Sailor's life paffes —

WELL, if thou art, my boy, a little mellow;

A Sailor, half feas o'er-'s a pretty fellow! What cheer, ho? Do I carry too much fail?

No-tight and trim-I fcud before the gale

To the Pit.

[He flaggers forward, then flops.

But foftly tho' the veffel feems to heel:
Steddy! my boy-fhe must not fhew her keel.
And now thus ballafted-what courfe to fleer?
Shall I again to fea, and bang Mounfeer?
Or stay on shore, and toy with Sall and Sue-
Doft love 'em, boy?-By this right hand I do!
A well rigg'd girl is furely molt inviting:
There's nothing better, faith-fave flip and fighting:
I must away-1 muft-

What! fhall we fons of beef and freedom stoop,
Or low'r our flag to flavery and foup!

What! fhall thele parly-vous make fuch a racket,
And I not lend a hand to lace their jacket?

Still fhall Old England be your Frenchman's butt?
Whene'er he fhuffles, we should always cut.
I'll to 'em, faith-avaft-before I go-
Have not I promis'd Sall to fee the thow?

[Pulls out a Play bill.

From this fame paper we fall underitand
What work's to-night-I read your printed hand!

N

Firft

Fira let's refresh a bit-for faith I need it

J'll take one fugar plumb-and then I'll read it.
[Takes fome Tobaccs.
[He reads the Play bill of Zara, which was
acted that evening.

"At the Theatre Royal- Drury-Lane-
Will be prefen-ta-ted a Tragedy call'd-
"SAR AH. "

I'm glad 'tis Sarah-Then our Sall may fee
lier namefake's tragedy; and as for me,
I'll fleep as found as if I were at fea.

To which will be added,

"A new MASQU E. "

Zounds why a Mafque? We Sailors hate grimaces;
Above board all, we icorn to hide our faces.
But what is here fo very large and plain ?

}

BRI-TA-NIA "-oh Britania!-good againHuzza, boys!--by the Royal George I wear, Tom Coxen, and the crew, fhall ftrait be there. All free born fouls must take Bri-ta-nia's part, And give her three round cheers, with hand and heart! [Going off, he flops. I wish you landmen though, would leave your tricks, Your factions, parties, and damn'd politics; And, like us honeft tars, drink, fight, and fing! True to yourselves, your country, and your king!

EPILOG

UE

то

FALSE

WRITTEN

W

DELICACY.

EY MR. GARRICK.

Spoken by Mrs. DANCER.

HEN with the comic mufe a hard hath dealing,
The traffic thrives when the e's a mutual feeling;

Our auther boasts that well he chofe his plan,

Falle modefty-himfelf an Irishman,

As I'm a woman, fomewhat prone to fatire,
J'll prove it all Bull, what he calls nature;
And you I'm fure, will join before you go,
To maul falfe Modefty,-from Dublin ho!

Where

Where are thefe Lady Lambtons to be found ?
Not in these riper times, on English ground.
Among the various flow'rs which fweetly blow,
To charm the eyes at Almack's and Soho,
Pray does that weed, Falfe Delicacy, grow?
O, No.-

Among the fair of fashion, common breeding,
Is there one bofom where Love lies a bleeding?
In olden times your grannams unrefin'd,

Ty'd up the tongue, put padlocks on the mind;
O, ladies, thank your flars there's nothing now confin'd.
In love you Englishmen,-there's no concealing,
Are moft like Winworth, fimple in your dealing;
But Britons in their natures are their names,

M

Are diff'rent as the Shannon, Tweed, and Thames.
As the Tweed flows, the bonny Scot proceeds,
Wunds flaw and fure, and nae obftruction heeds;
Though oft repuls'd, his purpofe ftill hauds falt,
Stecks like a bur, and wuns the lafs at last.
The Shannon, rough and vig'rous, pours along,
Like the bold accents of brave Paldy's tongue:
Arrah, dear creature-can you fcorn me fo?
Caft your fweet eyes upon me, top and toe!
Not fancy me? Poob-that's all game and laughter,
First marry me, my jewel !-oh!-you'll love me after.
Like his own Thames, honeft John Trot, their brother,
More quick than one, and much lefs bold than t'other,
Gentle, not dull, his loving arms will spread;
But flopt-in willows hides his bathful head;
John leaves his home, refolv'd to tell his pain;
Hefitates-I-love,- Fye, Sir,-'tis in vain,

John blushes, turns him round and whistles home again.
Well! is my painting like ?-Or do you doubt it ?.
What fay you to a trial let's about it.

Let Cupid lead three Britons to the field,
And try which first can make a damfel yield?
What lay you to a Widow ?-fmile confent,
And she'll be ready for experiment.