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Spare our's awhile .--Let her some substance get,
Plumpt high with fame.--She's scarce a mouthful yete
Or would you, ladies, Atrike these giants dumb,
You can protect her from their Fee, Fa, Fum !
Though humble now, how soon would the be vain,
Should you but cry.-- Bravo!-We'll come again,
To raise your smiles, were it her happy lot,
For smiles are honest, when the hands are not ;
Should you our little songstress 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 !
H E CUB
WRITTEN BY MR. LLOYD
Spoken by MR. GARRICK,
GRÆCIAN bard, two thousand years ago,
Plan'd this sad fable of illustrious woe;
Waken'd each soft emotion of the breast,
And callid forth tears that would not be suppress’d.
Yet, oh ye mighty Sirs, of judgment chalte,
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 social 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 stilts, our play’rs would stalk and rage,
And at three steps, ftride o'er a modern stage;
Each gefture then would boast unusual charms,
From lengthen'd legs, stufd body, sprawling arms !
Your critic eye would then no pigmies see,
But bukins 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
Expreslive, inexpresive, all alike!
Less change of face, than in our Punch they saw,
For Punch can roll his eyes, and wag his jaw,
With one set glare they mouth'd the rumbling verse;
And Gog and Magog look'd not half so fierce !
Yet though depriv'd of instruments like these ;
Nature, perhaps, may find a way to please;
Which, wheresoe'er the glows with genuine flame,
In Greece, in Rome, in England, is the same.
Of raill’ry then, ye modern wits, beware,
Nor damn the Græcian poet for the play'r.
Their's was the kill, with honeft help of art,
To win, by jaft degrees, the yielding heart.
What if our Shakespeare claims the magic throne,
And in one intant makes us all his own :
They differ only in the point of view,
For Shakespeare's nature, was their nature too.
S ET H O NA
WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK.
Spoken by Mrs. BARRY.
S it is prov'd by fobolars of great fame,
That Gipfies and Egyptians are the same ;
I, from my throne of Memphis, shift the scene,
And of the Gipfies, now step forth the Queen!
Suppose, that with a blanket on my shoulder,
An old strip'd jacket, petticoat ftill older,
With ebon locks, in wild disorder spread,
The diadem, a clout about my bead;
My dingy Majesty here takes her stand,
Two children at my back, and one in hand ;
With curtsey thus-and arts my mother taught,
I'll tell your fortunes, as a Gipsey ought :
Too far to reach your palms--I'll mark your traces,
Which face has drawn upon your comely faces ;
See what is written on the outward skin,
And from the title page, know all within :
First, in your faces * I will mark each letter
Had they been cleaner, I had seen 'em better ;
Yet through that cloud some rays of run-fhine dart,
An unwash'd face oft veils the cleanest heart.
That honest Tar, with Nancy by his fide,
So loving, leesing, 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 some look gay;
As in Change-Alley they have pass'd the day,
City Barometers ! - for as stocks go,
What Mercury they have, is high or low.
What's in the wind which makes that Patriot vere?
He smells a contract or lott'ry next year ;
Some Courtiers too I see whose features low's,
just turning Patriots, they begin to four ;
What in your faces can a Gipsy see?
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 no lines can spy
To tell their fortunes- and I'll tell you why ;
Those fine-drawn lines, which would their face display,
Are by the hand of fashion brush'd away ;
Pity it is, on beauty's fairelt spot,
Where nature writes her best 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 TORTUNB can be only told by you.
E P I L O G U Ę
To & H o L E R I c M A N.
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
P'll draw the out-lines-finish at my leisure,
A groupe like you wou'd be a charming treasure !
Here is my pencil, here my sketching book,
Where for this work, I memorandums took ;
I wiil in full, three quarters, and profile,
Take your sweet faces, nay, your thoughts I'll feal';.
From my good friends above, their wives and doxies,
Down to Madame, and Monsieur, 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 stretches
They'll be more like, the fighter 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 frost, tho' not a flower its charms disclores,
They can, like hot houses, produce their roses.
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 most 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 honest, open, English looks;
They show tooấthat you well employ ycar cooks!
Have at you now---Nay, Mifter-pray don't ftir,
Hold up your head, your fat becomes you, Sir ; ;
Leer with your eyes as thus—now (mirk—well done!
You're ogling, Sir-a haunch of venison.
Some of you fickle Patriots I shall pass,
Such brittle beings, will be best on glass.
Now Courtiers you---looks meant your thoughts to smother,
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 last, not least in love, I come to You !
And 'tis with rapture, nature's sons I view;
With warmeft rints Mall glow your jolly faces,
Joy, love, and laughter, there have fix'd their places,
Free from weak nerves, bon-ton, ennui, and foreign
I'll tire you now no more with pencil ftri&ures ;
I'll copy these next week send home your piauresi
Simple, and unadorn'd, attempts the Stage..
Our filly Bard, more simple than his tale,
Thinks on your polish'd manners to prevail ;
What in those barb'rous days were counted crimesz.
Are flips of course in these enlighten'd times :-
Let not your Ancestors too rude appear,
Though firm in friendthip, and in love fincere.
Love then like glory did each heart inflame,
Beauty was virtue, and to win
Now Lovers lose their Mistresses with grace,
As at New Market they would lose a race,
Where, if in hopes they seem a little crossid,
*Tis for the money of the match that's lost.