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Your simple acquaintance, Scrub, comes to declare
'Twas fuller, by far, than our Litchfield great fair;
Such crowds of fine ladies, serenading, and singing,
Such firing of lourd pateraroes, and ringing,
To tell it in London must seem all a fable,
And yet I will tell it as well as I'm able :
Firit, something, in linguo of schools, call'd an ode zi
All critics, they told me, ailow'd very good :
One said.--You may take it for tru.h, I assure ye,
'Twas made by the little great man of old Drury.
By my brother Martin, (tor whose fake, d'ye hear)
This'night I'd a mind for a touch at Shakespear :
But, honestly speaking, I take more delight in
A bit of good tun, than drums, trumpets, and fighting,
The procession, 'twas said, would have been a fine train,
But could not move forwards-oh, la!--for the rain.
Such tragical, comical folks, and so fine ;
What pity it was that the sun did not fine !
Since ladies and baronets, aldermen, 'íquires,
All went to the jubilee full of desires,
In crowds, as they go for to see a new play ;
And when it was done“why they all came a-vay.! ;-
Don't let me forget--a main part of the show
Was long-tail'd line comets by fam’d Angelo.
Some turtle I got, which they call’d painapee,
But honest roatt beel's the best turtle for me.
I hate all ragouts, and, like a bold Briton,
Preser good plumb pudding to aught I e'er bit on :
I drank too, (and now I a Poet may be)
“From a charming fine cup of the mulberry-tree.

To bed I mult gomfor which, like a ninny,
I paid, like my betters, no less than a guinea,
For rolling-not fleeping in linen so damp,
As struck my great toe, ever since, with the cramp:
Thus fleec'd-in my pocket I felt a great smarting,
Yet griev'd not when I and the splinters were parting,
'Twas worth ien times more to hear sweet brother

Martin :
He spoke till poor Scrub was just fit with one eye
To laugh, while the other was ready to cry;

* This alludes to Mr. Wefton's defign of p! virs..chard

ch

Which makes me now tell you, without any brag,
He's second to none but the Warwickshire wag.
The jubilee over, I came to this place,
To tell you my story and sue for your grace :
You never refus'd it-yet never before,
With granting such kindness, bound gratitude more.
I love, but to own with a diligent spirit,
Your favours have ever out-run my slighe merit.

P R O L OG U U E

TO

Τ Η. Ε

JUBILEE
Spoken in the Character of a WAITER.

I'm a waiter your honours, you know bufling Tom; Who proud of your orders, and bowing before ye, 'Till supper is ready, I'll tell you a story.

'Twixt Hounslow and Colebrooke, two houses of fame, Well known on that road, the two Magpyes by name,. The one of long standing, the other a new one, This boalis.it's the old one, and that it's the true one.. Sure we the old Maggye, as well as the younger, May boast that our liquor is clearer and stronger; Of bragging and puffing you make but a jest, You taste of us both, and will stick at the bett; A race we have had, for your pastime and laughter, Young Mag started first, with old Mag hopping after ;. 'Tis faid the old house, hath posielt a receipt, To make a choice mixture, four, strong, and sweet : A JUBILEE punch, which, right skilfully made, Infur’d the old Magpye, a good running trade ; But think you we mean to monopol ze, No! No! We are like brother Ashley, pro publico bono. Each Magpye your honours, will peck at his brother, And their natures were always to crib from each other ; Young landlords and old one's are taught by their calling, To laugh at engrosling-but to practise forestalling; Our landlords are game cocks, and fair play bat grant 'em, I'll warrant you paftime from each little bancum.

Let's

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Let's return to the punch-I hope from my soul,
That now the old Magpye may sell you a bowl ;
We have all sorts and sizes, a quick trade to drive, .
As one filling, two milling, three filling, five ;
In this town of Stratford, you'll have each ingredient,
Befide a kind welcome, from me your obedient;
I'll now squeeze my fruit, put fugar and rum in,
And be back in a moment, (Bell rings) a coming,

coming, a coming.

BY

F

PROLOGUE

TO
во N T N.
WRITTEN

GEORGE COLMAN, ESQ.
Spoken by Mr. King.
ASHION in ev'ry thing bears fov'reign fway,

And words and perriwigs have both their day :
Each have their purlieus too, are modilh each
In stated districts, wigs as well as speech.
The Tyburn scratch, thick club), and Temple tye,
The parson's feather-top, frizz'u broad and high!"
The coachman's cauliflower, built tiers on tiers !
Differ not more fron bags and brigadiers,
Than great St. George's, or St. James's itilcs,
From the broad dialcet of Broad St. Giles.

What is Bon Ton ?-Oh, damme, cries a Buck-
Hálf drunk-ask me, my dear, and you're in luck!
Bon Ton's to swear, break windows, beat the watch,
Pick up a wench, drink healths, and roar a catch.
Keep it up, keep it up! damme, take your swing!
Bon Ton is life, my boy: Bon Ton's the thing!

Ah! I loves life, and all the joys it yields-
Says Madam Fussock, warm from Spital-fields.
Bone Tone's the space 'twixt Saturday and Monday,
And riding in a one-horse chair o' Sunday!
"Tis drinking tea on summer afternoons
At Bagnigge-Wells, with china and gilt spoons !
"Tis laying by our ftuff's, red cloaks and pattens,
To dance Gow-rillions, all in folks and satiins!

Vulgar!

Vulgar! cries Miss. Observe in higher life
The feather’d spinster, and thrice feather'd wife !
The Club's Bon Ton. Bon Ton's a constant trade
Of Rout, Feftino, Ball and Masquerade !
'Tis plays and puppet. News; ’ris femething nex!
'Tis lofing thousands ev'ry night at lu !
Nature it thwarts, and coniradicts all reason;
'Tis ftiff French stays, and fruit when out of feafon !
A rose, when half a guinea is the price ;
A set of bays, scarce bigger than fix mice ;
To vifit friends, you never wish to see ;
Marriage 'twixt those, who never can agree ;
Old dowagers, drejt, painted, patch'd, and curld;
This is Bon Ton, and this we call the world!

[True, says my Lord; and thou my only son,
Whate'er your faults, ne'er fin against Bon Ton !
Who toils for learning at a public school,
And digs for Greek and Latin is a fool.
French, French, my boy's the thing! jasez ! praten

chatter! Trim be the mode, whipt-syllabub the matter! Walk like a Frenchman! for on English pegs, Moves native aukwardness with two left legs. Of courtly friendship form a treach'rous league; Seduce men's daughters, with their wives intrigue ; In fightly semicircles round your nails; Keep your teeth clean-and grin, if (mall-talk failsBut never laugh, whatever jest prevails! Nothing but nonsense e'er gave laughter birth, That vulgar way the vulgar fnew their mirth. Laughter's a rude convulsion, sense that juftles, Disturbs the cockles, and distorts the muscles. Hearts may be black, but all should wear clean facess The graces, boy! the graces, graces, graces !]

Such is Bon Ton! and walk this city thro', In building, fcribbling, fighting, and virid, And various other shapes, twill rise to view. To-night our Bayes, with bold, but careless tints, Hits off a sketch or two, like Darły's prints. Should connoisseurs allow his rongh'draughts ftrike 'emy., "Twill be Bon Ton to see 'em and to like 'em.

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• The lines between crotchets are omitted at the Theatre.

AN

AN OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE

ΤΟ

MISS IN HER TEENS.

F

WRITTEN BY MR. HAVARD.
Spoken by Master and Miss Simson,
POND of your praise--the praise which moft I love,

Once more I come your clemency to prove;
Our little train must be included here,
They act with inexperience and much fear;
And let this small apology be made,
The author suffers thro' our poor parade.

For my own part-(I feel a warmih within
And sure ambition is a charming fin :)
Boldly I come Genius sometimes appears,
And itarts beyond the promise of its years :
Beneath the sun-fhine of my patron's eye
Some hafty plants must rise-and, why not I?
O cou'd I follow!--but how poor my

claim !
How few the candidates that reach to fame!
Yet let me with an humbler eye adore
The envy'd height to which I cannot foar
Let me by imitation

[Miss Simson enters... Miss.

Jack ha' done ;
Thor you're no woman, yet your tongue will run :
'Tis ours the province sure to laugh and chat;
Yours the dull senseless chord of low and flat.
Ladies, I durft to swear, my little brother,
Tho' for himself he can make such a pother,
Has never once so much as mention': mem.
And yet I hope, that very soon you'll see,
I have my merits co-as well as he.

Mafter. Sifter, this girlish prattle will not do

Miss. Be quiet, Jacky-hey day!- Who are you?
Shall you cajole the andience with fine speeches,
And leave me out-because you wear the breeches ?
No, by the charter of our sex I swear,
If any praise goes forward, I'll have share.

Maker

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