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Spalter. That I deny ; You love a little mischief, so do I; And mischief I have for you.

L. Altor. How, where, when Will you stab Falbridge ?

Spatter. Yes, ma'am-with my pen.
L. Alton. Let loose, my Spatter, till to death you've

ftung 'em,
That green ey'd monster, Jealousy, among 'em.
Spatter. To dash at all, the spirit of my trade is,
Men, women, children, parions, lords and ladies.
There will he danger.
L. Alton. And there shall be pay.

(Gives in him. Spatter. In an honest way.

[Smiles and takes it. L. Alion. Should my Lord beat you

Spatter. Let them laugh that win! For all my bruises, here's gold-beater's skin.

[Chinking the purse. L. Alion. Nay, should he kill you

Spatter. Ma'am! L. Alton. My kindness meant To pay your merit with a monument. Spaiter. Your kindness, lady, takes away my breath ; We'll stop, with your good leave, on this fide death. L. Alion Attack Amelia, both in verse and prose : Your wit can make a nettle of a rose. Spatter. A stinging nettle for his lordship's breast; And to my fars and dashes leave the reit. I'll make 'em miserable, never fear; Pout in a month, and part in half a year. I know my genius, and can trust my plan ; I'll break a woman's heart with any man. L. Alon. Thanks, thanks, dear Sparter! Be severe, and

bold ! Spatter. No qualms of conscience with a purse of gold : Though pill'ries threaten, and though crabíticks tall, Your's are my heart, soul, pen, cars, bones, and all. Lady Alton alone.

[Exit Spatter. Thus to the winds, at once, my cares I scatterO'tis a charming rascal, this fame Spatter!


His precious mischief makes the storm subside!
My anger, thank my ftars ! all rose from pride.
Pride should belong to us alone of fashion ;
And let the mob take love, that vulgar passion !
Love, pity, tenderness, are only made
For poets, Abigails, and folks in trade;
Some cits about their feelings make a fuss,
And some are better bred—who live with us;
How low lord Falbridge is !-He takes a wife,
To love, and cherish, and be fix'd for life!
Thinks marriage is a comfortable ftate,
No pleasure like a variui us tete-a-tete !
Do our lords justice, for I would not wrong 'em,
There are not many


among 'em.
Our turtles from the town will fly with speed,
And I'll foretell the vulgar life they'll lead.
With love and case grown fat, they face all weather,
And, farmers both, trudge arm in arm together :
Now view their ttock, and in their nurs’ry prattle,
For ever with their children, or their cattle.
Like the dull mill-horse in one round they keep ;
They walk, talk, fondle, dine, and fall asleep;
Their custom always in the afternoon-
He bright as fol, and Me the chaste full moon !
Wak'd with their coffee, madam first begins,
She rubs her eyes, his lord ship rubs his Thins ;
She fips, and smirks ;-"Next week's our wedding-day,
« Married sev'n years !--and ev'ry hour (yawns) more

gay !

" True, Emmy, (cries my lord)--the blessing lies,
“ Our hearts in ev'ry thing (yawns ) fo fympathize !"
The day thus spent, my lord for music calls;
He thrums the base, to which my lady squalis ;
The children join, which so delights those Ninnies,
The brats seem all Guarduccis - Lovatinis.
What means this qualm :- Why, sure, while I'm

That vulgar passion, envy, is not rising !-
O no!-contempt is struggling to burst out.
I'll give it vent at lady Scalpem's route.

[Exit haflily.





Mr. BeaRD enters hastily.
SPEAK a Prologue !- What strange whim, I wonder,

Could lead the Author into such a blunder ?
lak'd the man as much- but he (poor devil!)
Fancied a Manager might make you civil.
Garrick (says he) can with a Prologue tame ·
“ The Critic's rage-Why can't you do the same?"
Because (quoth l) the case is diff'rent quite;
Garrick, you know, can Prologues fpeak, and write.
If like that Rofcius I could write, and speech it,
I might command applause, and not beseech it.
But, sure, for one who, all his live long days,
Has dealt in Crotchets, Minims, and Sol-fa's,
A Singer, to stand forth in Wit's defence,
And plead 'gainst found the folemn cause of sense ;
Persuade an audience that a play has merit,
Without a fingle air to give it fpirit;
'Tis so much out of character-so wrong
No Prologue, fir, for me,- unless in Song.

The fame (quoth I) you poets reap,

And all your gains, are owing,
To sounds that even measure keep,

And ftan as smoothly flowing:
But me the lyre wou'd better suit

Than veries of Apollo;
The fiddle, hautboy, horn, or flute,

I'm always us'd to follow.
“ Sir (says he) you'll mar

My verse and meaning too”—
Sir, muft I turn fool,

To humour such as you ?
I'll fing it if you please
Sing! cries he, in huff,

“ The town has had enough."


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and your

Oh! then I bounc'd and swore

Was I much to blame?
Had you been in my place,

Why you'd have done the same.
If for old-fashion'd tunes he's not too nice,
I'd give him fifty of 'em in a trice,
With words more fitted to his purpose here,
Than all the rhimes he'd jingle in a year.
He challeng'd me to thew a fingle sample
Of what I bragg'd—I did--as for example!
The scene is prepar'd, the Critics are met;

The judges all rang'd--a terrible thew!
E’re tryal begins the Prologue's a debt,

A debt on demand---so take what we owe.
And this is the way, Mr. Author,

To trick a plain muse up with art,
In modith Fal-lal's you must cloathe her,
And warm a cold Critic's hard heart.

With a Fal-lal-lal, &ca.
Wherefore I thus entreat, with due submission,
Between the bard and me you'd make decision.

The whole now on your arbitration we rest,
And Prologues henceforward shall surely be drest,
In what mode foever your taste shall like best.

Which none of us dare deny..
For, howe'er cruel critics and witlings may sneer,
That at times I, alas ! fomewhat dunay appear,
If to you, my belt friends, I e'er tu n my deaf ear,

May you your indulgence deny ! Then, for his fake and mine, (for we're both in a fright) Till a treat of more goût shall your palates delight, Let a poor humble Comedy please you to night;

Which surely you will not deny.


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And spoken by Mrs. A BINGTON, in the Character of

Lady Teazel.
Who was late fo volatile and gay,

Like a trade-wind must now blow all one way ;
Bend all my cares, my studies, and my vows,
To one old rutty weather-cock-my spouse ;
So wills our virtuous Bard-the pye-ball'd Bayes
Of crying Epilogues and laughing Plays.

old batchelors, who marry smart young wives, Learn from our play to regulate your

Each bring his dear to Town-all faults upon her-
London will prove


fource of honour;
Plung'd fairly in, like a cold bath, it serves,
When principles relax-to brace the nerves.
Such is my case--and yet I must deplore
That the gay dream of difiipation's o'er;
And say, ye fair, was ever lively wife,
Born with a genius for the highest life,
Like me, untimely blafted in her bloom;
Like me, condemnd to such a dismal doom?
Save money-when I just knew how to wasie it!
Leave London-just as I began to taite it!
Must I then watch the early-crowing cock ?
The melancholy ticking of a clock?
In the lone ruftic hall for ever pounded,
With dogs, cats, rats, and squalling brats surrounded ?
With humble curates can I now retire,
(While good Sir Peter boozes with the Squire)
And at back-gammon mortify my soul,
'That pants for Lu, or Autters at a vole ?
Seven's the main !-dear sound !--that must expire,
Loft at hot cockles round a Christmas fire;
The transient hour of fashion too soon spent,
“ Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content!
“ Farewell the plumed head-the cushioned Teie,
* That takes the culion from its proper seat !

• The

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