For 'tis the fix'd, determin'd rule of courts,
Vyner will tell you, nay, even Coke's Reports,
All pleaders may, when difficulties rife,
To gain one truth, expend a hundred lyes.
O. Wild. To curb this practice I am fomewhat loath ; A lawyer has no credit but on oath.
M. Gr. Then to the fofter fex fome favour shew: Leave no poffeffion of our modest No!
O. 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 occafions, fhould be deem'd a lye.
M. Gr. Hard terms!
On this rejoinder then I reft my cause;
Should all pay homage to Truth's facred laws,
Let us examine what would be the cafe:
Why, many a great man would be out of place.
O. Wild. 'Twould many a virtuous character restore. M. Gr. But take a character from many more.
O. Wild. Tho' on the fide of bad the ballance fall,
Better to find few good, than fear for all.
M. Gr. Strong are your reafons; yet, ere I fubmit,
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 fubjects for our author's ridicule ?
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 fucceffion reign,
And hold, by turns, the Enthusiast in their train.
He (to whofe rapid eye the Mafe hath giv'n,
To glance from Heav'n to earth, from earth to Heav'n;")
O'erlooks all vulgar arts and fober rules,
And leaves the world to knaves and thriving fools
By all admir'd, rewarded, and careft,
No future cares perplex his anxious breaft;
No gloomy wants the fmiling hours o'ercaft,
He paints each year propitious as the last;
Whilft his warm heart, for ever unconfin'd,
Expands for all the wants of all mankind.
Hence private griefs from virtuous weakness flow;
Hence focial pleasures prove domestic woe.
Oft on this spot the Mufe, with folemn mien,
And artful fadnefs, fills the tragic fcene;
The well-feign'd forrows your attention gain,
Whilft the prompt tear attefts the pleafing pain.
But our fad ftory needs no Poet's art,
To tutor grief, and heave the (welling heart.
To you the deep diftrefs is not unknown;
And, Britons! you have made the cause your own.
-O may your gentle bofoms never prove
The untimely loís of thofe you dearly love!
Since thus your feeling hearts the aid fupply,
To foothe the Widow's pangs, and Orphan's figh:
BY THE AUTHOR OF THE TRAGEDY.
Spoken by Mifs YOUNGE.
A! ha! poor creature! how you trembling ftand!' Come to the Bar, Sir, and hold up your hand; ́ You won't by Council then you'd have it done, And I must plead your caufe-well, get you gone. [Coming forward to the Audience. Now for the great Tribunal of old Drury; Are you all fworn there-Gem'men of the Jury? Good men, and true, I hope-ftay, let me fee, Amongst you all he challenges-but three. Phyficians, Lawyers, Parfons he admits, Beaux, Ladies, Courtiers, Macaronies, Cits, And only fcratches-Critics, News-writers, and Wits.,
The Critic firft we banish from our feffion,
Death is his trade, and damning-his profeffion;
Difqualify'd because, to fay no further,
Butchers are never heard in cafe of murther.
Next we difclaim'd th' Artificers of News,
Who live by fibs, and flourish by abuse;
They must condemn, or lose their daily bread;
If they don't cut, and flash-they're never read;
Like fabled Giants here they roam for food,
And fe! fa! fum! fnuff up an Author's blood;
In the next Ledger hang him up to roaft,
Or tear him piece-meal in-the Morning Poft.
To Wits we laft except, and 'have all other,
The hero of our tale-a Rival Brother!
As rogues, juft fcap'd the gallows, join the fhrieves,
Turn hangmen, and tuck 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 fhould die,
They'll gladly join to write-its Elegy;
But if the child is irong, and like to live,
That is a crime they never can forgive.
From fuch let English Juries ftill be free,
Our Author here appeals to your decree,
The Public is a Court of Equity.
If he has fhock'd your tafte, your fenfe, or reafɔn,
Or against nature guilty been of treafon,
Off with his head;-but if with honeft art
His well-meant fcenes have touch'd the feeling heart; If they have rais'd your pity, wak'd your fears,
Or fweetly have beguil'd you of your tears."
Let venial errors your indulgence claim,
Your voice his triumph, your applaufe his fame.
Speak by your Foreman-what fays Goodman Pit?
Will you condemn the Prifoner, or acquit ?
Your Verdict, Sirs, Not Guilty-if you pleafe-
You fmile-Acquitted-hope you'll pay his fees.
Spoken by Mrs. MATTOCKS.
Enter as Lucy with a pack of cards.
ERE they are ladies!-Should thefe charming packs
Be doubly loaded with a filthy tax?
"My card to your's, my lord, a thousand pound!"
Oh! charming fport!-Oh! might I deal 'em round!
Yet I will use them, and, oh! deign to lift,
Though 'tis no lecture on the game of whitt.
The future doom of gamefters to explore,
I, like the Sybil's leaves, the cards turn o'er;
Nor think, ye fair, these books of fate deceive,
These only books, 'tis modifh to believe.
First, with long ftaff, fhort coat, a fwag'ring fpark,
Some gambler 'prentice, or attorney's clerk,
His fortune afks. What card defcribes these cubs ?
Oh! here I have him-in the knave of clubs.
By clear conftruction of thefe pips I read,
Thus he will play his cards, and thus fucceed.
At Hazard, Faro, Brag, he joins the groupe,
And ends a knave, as he commenced a dupe:
And thence, his broken fortunes to repair,
At Hounslow first, then Tyburn, takes the air.
Here, in the king of diamonds, pictur'd ftands
An heir, juft warm in his dead father's lands.
Now hey for cards and dice, his elbows shake,
The fympathizing trees and acres quake!
His cooks lament, dogs howl, and grooms regret,
Their fate depending on each defp'rate bet.
Now dup'd, the bullet whizzes through his head,
And fhatters duft to duft, by lead to lead.
Lo! next to the prophetic eye there farts
A beauteous gamefter, in the queen of hearts!
The cards are dealt, the fatal pool is loft,
And all her golden hopes for ever croft.
Yet ftill this card-devoted fair I view,
Whate'er her lack, to honour ever true;.
So tender there, if debts crowd falt upon her,
She'll pawn her virtue, to preserve her honour.
Thrice happy were my art, could I foretel,
Cards would be foon abjur'd by each fond belle:
Yet I pronounce, who cherish fill this vice,
And the pale vigil keeps of cards and dice,
'Twill in their charms ftrange havock make, ye fair!
Which rouge in vain fhall labour to repair:
Beauties fhall grow meer hags; toafts, wither'd jades,
Frightful, and ugly, as the queen of Spades.
Spoken by a SCOTCHMAN.
He enters finging.
OW fweet are the Banks upon Tweed!
Troth very sweet it is agreed;
But England has fuch fweets in tore,
As never blefs'd our Scottish thore,
Till bonny Sawney came in pow'r.
Our Patriarch, Patriot, muckle Sawney,
Makes Scotland flow with milk and honey,
By dint of pow'rful English Money.
The Southern Lads, fo trim and gay,
To Caledonian Lads give way,
I ken they dinna like the Play.
But that is neither here or there,
For Sawney has the Royal Ear,
So let 'em rail, we need nae care.
This Book which I just now have bought.
[Pulls out the British Antidote.
Convinces me in what I thought:
This Book difplays their paultry malice,
Which to us all would give-the gallows;
But that, thank God! we need not dread,
While my gued Laird ftill fhines the head;
For, tho' a Stuart, well 'tis known,
He loves the King upon the Throne,
Till he finds time to pull him down.
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