Spare our's awhile!Let her fome fubftance get,
Plumpt high with fame.-She's fcarce a mouthful yet.
Or would you, ladies, ftrike these giants dumb,
You can protect her from their Fee, Fa, Fum!
Though humble now, how foon would the be vain,
Should you but cry.-Bravo!-We'll come again,
To raife your fmiles, were it her happy lot,
For fmiles are honeft, when the hands are not;
Should you our little fongftrefs kindly treat,
With gratitude her little heart would beat;
What raptures for a female, and so young,
To have a double right to use her tongue!
WRITTEN BY MR. LLOYD
Spoken by MR. GARRICK.
GRECIAN bard, two thoufand years ago,
Plan'd this fad fable of illuftrious woe;
Waken'd each soft emotion of the breast,
And call'd forth tears that would not be fupprefs'd.
Yet, oh ye mighty Sirs, of judgment chafte,
Who lacking genius, have a deal of taste,
Can you forgive our modern antient piece,
Which brings no chorus, though it comes from Greece;
Kind focial chorus, which all humours meets,
And fings, and dances up and down the streets.
-Oh might true taste in these unclaffic days,
Revive the Græcian fashions with their plays!
Then, rais'd on ftilts, our play'rs would ftalk and rage,
And at three steps, ftride o'er a modern stage;
Each gefture then would boaft unufual charms,
From lengthen❜d legs, ftuff'd body, fprawling arms!
Your critic eye would then no pigmies fee,
But buskins make a giant, ev'n of me.
No features then the poet's mind would trace,
But one blank vizor blot out all the face.
O! glorious times, when actors thus could strike
Expreffive, inexpreffive, all alike!
Lefs change of face, than in our Punch they faw,
For Punch can roll his eyes, and wag his jaw,
With one fet glare they mouth'd the rumbling verfe,
And Gog and Magog look'd not half fo fierce!
Yet though depriv'd of inftruments like these;
Nature, perhaps, may find a way to pleafe;
Which, wherefoe'er the glows with genuine flame,
In Greece, in Rome, in England, is the fame.
Of raill'ry then, ye modern wits, beware,
Nor damn the Græcian poet for the play'r.
Their's was the skill, with honeft help of art,
To win, by juft degrees, the yielding heart.
What if our Shakespeare claims the magic throne,
And in one inftant makes us all his own:
They differ only in the point of view,
For Shakespeare's nature, was their nature too.
WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK.
Spoken by MRS. BARRY.
S it is prov'd by fcholars of great fame,
That Gipfies and Egyptians are the fame;
1, from my throne of Memphis, fhift the fcene,
And of the Gipfies, now ftep forth the Queen!
Suppofe, that with a blanket on my shoulder,
An old ftrip'd jacket, petticoat ftill older,
With ebon locks, in wild disorder spread,
The diadem, a clout about my head;
My dingy Majefty here takes her stand,
Two children at my back, and one in hand;
With curtfey thus-and arts my mother taught,
I'll tell your fortunes, as a Gipfey ought:
Too far to reach your palms-I'll mark your traces,
Which fate has drawn upon your comely faces;
See what is written on the outward fkin,
And from the title page, know all within:
First, in your faces I will mark each letter-
Had they been cleaner, I had feen 'em better;
Yet through that cloud fome rays of fun-fhine dart,
An unwash'd face oft veils the cleaneft heart.
That honeft Tar, with Nancy by his fide,
So loving, leering, whispers thus his bride,
"I love you, Nancy, faith and troth I do,
"Sound as a biscuit is my heart, and true;
"Indeed, dear Johnny, fo do I love you."
Love on, fond pair, indulge your inclination,
You ne'er will know, for want of education,
Hate, infidelity, and Separation.-
Some Cits I fee look dull, and fome look gay,
As in Change-Alley they have pafs'd the day,
City Barometers!-for as ftocks go,
What Mercury they have, is high or low.
What's in the wind which makes that Patriot vere?
He fmells a contract or lott'ry next year;
Some Courtiers too I fee whofe features low'r,
Just turning Patriots, they begin to four;
What in your faces can a Gipfy fee?
Ye Youths of fashion, and of family!
What are we not to hope from taste and rank?
All prizes in this lottery ?-Blank-blank-blank-
Now for the Ladies-I no lines can spy
To tell their fortunes-and I'll tell you why;
Those fine-drawn lines, which would their fate difplay,
Are by the hand of fashion brush'd away;
Pity it is, on beauty's faireft fpot,
Where nature writes her beft they make a blot !--
I'd tell our Author's fortune, but his face,
As diftant far as India from this place,
Requires a keener fight than mine to view ;
His FORTUNE can be only told by you.
BY MR. GARRICK,
Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.
S I'm an Artif, can my skill do better,
Than paint your pictures for I'm much your
I'll draw the out-lines-finish at my leifure,
A groupe like you wou'd be a charming treasure L
Here is my pencil, here my sketching book,
Where for this work, I memorandums took ;.
I will in full, three quarters, and profile,
Take your sweet faces, nay, your thoughts I'll fteal ;;
From my good friends above, their wives and doxies,
Down to Madame, and Monfieur, in the boxes:
Now for it, Sirs !-I beg from top to bottom,
You'll keep your features fix'd 'till I have got 'em.
First for fine Gentlemen my fancy ftretches-
They'll be more like, the flighter are the sketches:
Such unembodied form invention racks;
Pale cheeks, dead eyes, thin bodies, and long backs;
They would be best in shades, or virgin wax.
To make fine Ladies like, the toil is vain,
Unless I paint 'em o'er and o'er again:
In froft, tho' not a flower its charms discloses,
They can, like hot-houfes, produce their rofes.
At you, Coquettes, my pencil now takes aim !
In love's Change-Alley playing all the game;
I'll paint you ducklings waddling out quite lame.
The Prude's moft virtuous fpite, I'll next portray;
Railing at gaming-loving private play.
Quitting the gay bon-ton, and wou'd be witty,
I come to you, my Patrons, in the city:
I like your honeft, open, English looks;
They how too-that you well employ your cooks!
Have at you now-Nay, Mifter-pray don't ftir,
Hold up your head, your fat becomes you, Sir;
B 5
Leer with your eyes-as thus-now fmirk-well done!
You're ogling, Sir-a haunch of venison.
Some of you fickle Patriots I fhall pass,
Such brittle beings, will be beft on glass.
Now Courtiers you---looks meant your thoughts to fmothers
Hands fixt on one thing-eyes upon another ;
For Politicians, I have no dark tints,
Such clouded brows are fine for wooden prints,
To diftant climes if modern Jafons roam,
And bring the golden Fleece with curses home,
I'll blacken them with Indian ink---but then
My hands, like theirs, will ne'er be clean again.
Though laft, not leaft in love, I come to you!
And 'tis with rapture, nature's fons I view ;
With warmeft tints fhall glow your jolly faces,
Joy, love, and laughter, there have fix'd their places,
Free from weak nerves, bon-ton, ennui, and foreign
graces.
I'll tire you now no more with pencil ftri&ures;
I'll copy thefe-next week send home your picures.
TRAGIC tale, from Norman William's age,
Simple, and unadorn'd, attempts the Stage..
Our filly Bard, more fimple than his tale,
Thinks on your polifh'd manners to prevail;
What in those barb'rous days were counted crimes,
Are flips of courfe in thefe enlighten'd times:
Let not your Ancestors too rude appear,
Though firm in friendship, and in love fincere.
Love then like glory did each heart inflame,
Beauty was virtue, and to win it, fame,
Now Lovers lofe their Miftreffes with grace,
As at New Market they would lofe a race,
Where, if in hopes they feem a little crofs'd,
'Tis for the money of the match that's loft.
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