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THE GRECIAN DAUGHTER.
Spoken by Mr. Weston,
He peeps in at the Stage Door.
[P! music! music!-Have you more to play?
somewhat I'd offer-Stop your cat-gut, pray.
Will you permit, and not pronounce me rude,
A Bookseller one moment to intrude ?
My name is Fools Cap:--Since you saw me laft,
Fortune hath giv'n me a rare helping cast.
To all my toils a wife hath put a stop-
A devil then; but now I keep a shop.
My master died, poor man !- He's out of print
His widow,--she had eyes, and tok my hint.
A prey to grief she could not bear to be,
And so turn'd over a new leaf with me.
I drive a trade ; have Authors in my pay,
Men of all work, per week, per sheet, per day.
Trav'llers who not one foreign country know;
An: Pafi'ral Poets in the sound of Bow.
Translators - from the Greek they never read;
Cantabs and Sophs-in Covent Garden bred.
Historians, who can't write ; - who only take
Scissars and past? ; ---cut, vamp; a book they make.
I've treated for this Play ; can buy it too,
If I could learn what you intend to do.
If for nine nights you'll bear this tragic ftuff;
I have a News-paper, and there can puff.
A news paper does wonders! -None can be
In debt, in love, dependent, or quite free,
Ugly or handsome, well, or ill in bed,
Single or married, or alive or dead,
But we give life, deaih, virtue, vice with ease;
In short, a News-paper does what we please.
There jealous Authors at each other bark ;
Till truth leaves not one glimple, no, not one spark;
But lies mect lies, and joitle in the dark.
Our Bard within has often felt the dart
Sent from our quiver, levell d at his heart.
I've press’d him, ere he plays this desp'rate game,
To answer all, and vindicate his name,
But he, convinc'd that all but Truth must die,
Leaves to it's own mortality the Lie.
Would any know,--while Parties fight pellmell,
How he employs his pen ?-his Play will tell.
To that he truits; that he submits to you,
Aim'd at your tend'rest feeling ,-moral,
The Scenes, he hopes, will draw the heart-felt tear :
Scenes that come home to ev'ry bolom here.
If this will do, I'll run and buy it fraight;
Stay-Let me see ;-I think I'd better wait
Yes ;-I'll lie snug, till you have fix'd it's fate.
Between Miss GRANTHAM and OLD WILDING,
WRITTEN BY A MAN OF FASHION.
11. Gr. OLD, Sir.
Our plot concluded, and ftrit justice done,
1 et me be heard as counsel for
Acquit I can't; I mean to mitigate :
Profcrible all lying, what would be the fate
Of this, and every other earthly state ?
Consider, Sir, if once you cry it down,
You'll shut up ev'ry coffee-house in town:
The tribe of politicians will want food ;
Ev'n now half-famili'd-for the public good.
All Grub-street murderers of men and sense,
And every office of intelligence,
All would be bankrupts, the whole lying race,
And no Gazeite to publish their disgrace.
O.Wild. Too mild a sentence! must the good and great
Patriots be wrong’d, that Bookfellers may eat?
M. Gr. Your patience, Sir; yet hear another word,
Turn to that hall where justice wields her sword:
Think in what narrow limits you would draw,
By this proscription, all the sons of law:
For 'tis the fix'd, determin'd rule of courts,
Vyner will tell you, nay, even Coke's Reports,
All pleaders may, when dificulties rise,
To gain one truth, expend a hundred lyes.
0. Wild. To curb this practice I am somewhat loath ; A lawyer has no credit but on oath.
M. Gr. Then to the softer sex some favour thew : Leave no possession of our modest No!
0. Wild. Oh, freely, Ma'am, we'll that allowance give,
So that two Noes be held affirmative,
Provided ever, that your pish and fie,
On all occasions, should be deem'd a lye.
M. Gr. Hard terms !
On this rejoinder then I rest my cause;
Should all pay homage to Truth's facred laws,
Let us examine what would be the case :
Why, many a great man would be out of place,
0. Wild. 'Twould many a virtuous character restore. M. Gr. But take a character from many more.
0. Wild. Tho' on the side of bad the ballance fall, Better to find few good, than fear for all.
M. Gr. Strong are your reasons ; yet, ere I submit, I mean to take the voices of the pit. Is it your pleasures that we make a rule, That ev'ry lyar be proclaim'd a fool, Fit subjects for our author's ridicule?
WRITTEN BY A FRIEND.
Spoken by Mrs. BULKELEY.
ARD is the task to trace the Poet's life,
Where praise and cenfure ever are at ftrife ;
Where wit and weakness in successi'n reign,
And hold, by tuins, the Enthusiast in their train.
He (to whole rapid cye the Muse hath giv’n, "Toglance from Heav'n to earth, from earth to Heav'n;")
O’erlooks all vulgar arts and sober rules,
And leaves the world to knaves and thriving fools :
By ail admir'd, rewarded, and carest,
No future cares perplex his anxious breast;
No gloomy wants the smiling hours o’ercast,
He paints each year propitious as the last;
Whilst his warm heart, for ever unconfin'd,
Expands for all the wants of all mankind.
Hence private griefs from virtuous weakness flow;
Hence social pleasures prove domestic woe.
Oft on this spot the Muse, with solemn mien,
And artful sadness, fills the tragic scene ;
The well-feign'd sorrows your attention gain,
Whilst the prompt tear attests the pleasing paia.
But our sad story needs no Poet's aft,
To tutor grief, and heave the swelling heart.
To you the deep distress is not unknown;
And, Britons !
have made the cause your owna
-O may your gentle bosoms never prove
The untimely loís of those you dearly love!
Since thus your feeling hearts the aid fupply,
To soothe the Widow's pangs, and Orphan's figh:-
Ε Ρ Ι
0 G U E
* Μ Α Τ Ι L
BY THE AUTHOR OF THE TRAGEDY.
Spoken by Miss Younge.
A ! ha! poor creature ! how you trembling rund !
Come to the Bar, Sir, and hold up your hand;'
You won'ty Council then you'd have it done,
And I must plead your cause-well, get you gone.
[Coming forcuard to the Audience. Now for the great Tribunal ot old Drury ; Are you all sworn there---Gem'men of the Jury? Good men, and true, I hope-stay, let me see, Amongst you all he challenges--but three. Physicians, Lawyers, Parsons he admits, Beaux, Ladies, Courtiers, Macaronies, Cits, And only scratches-Critics, News-writers, and Wirs.
The Critic first we banish from our session,
Death is his trade, and damning his profeflion ;
Dilqualify'd--because, to say no further,
Butchers are never heard in case of murther.
Next we disclaim'd th’ Artificers of News,
Who live by fibs, and Rourith by abuse ;
They must condemn, or lose their daily bread;
If they don't cut, and flash- they're never read;
Like jabled Giants here they roam for food,
And fe! fa! sum! snuff up an Author's blood;
In the next Ledger hang him up to roast,
Os tear him piece-meal in--the Morning Poft.
To Wits we last except, and ’have all other,
The hero of our tale---a Rival Brother!
As rogues, just scap'd the gallows, join the shrieves,
Turn hangmen, and cuck up their fellow thieves ;
So Bards condemn'd, exert the Critic's skill,
And execute their Brethren of the Quill!
If like their own, indeed, the brat should die,
They'll gladly join to write-its Elegy ;
But if the child is itrong, and like to live,
That is a crime they never can forgive.
From such let English Juries still be free,
Our Author here appeals to your decree,
The Public is a Court of Equity.
If he has Mock'd your tafte, your sense, or reason,
Or against nature guilty been of treason,
Off with his head ;- but if with honest art
His well-meant scenes have touch'd the feeling heart;
If they have rais'd your pity, wak'd your
Or sweetly have beguild you of your tears.”
Let venial errors your indulgence claim,
Your voice his triumph, your applause his fame.
Speak by your Foreman-what says Goodman Pit?
Will you condemn the Prisoner, or acquit?
Your'Verdiet, Sirs, Nor Guilty--if you please--
You smile-- Acquitted-hope you'll pay his fees.