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• The spirit stirring drum !--card-drums I mean“ Spadiile, odd trick, pam, palto, king and queen! “ And you, ye knockers, that with brazen throat “ The welcome visitor's approach denote, “ Farewell !-All quality of high renown, “ Pride, pomp and circumftance of glorious Town, " Farewell !- your revels I partake no more, “ And Lady Teazel's occupation's o'er !". - All this I told our Bard-he smild, and said, 'twas clear I ought to play deep Tragedy next year: Mean while he drew wise morals from his play, And in these solemn periods italk'd away. “ Blest were the Fair, like you her faults who itopt, “ And clos'd her follies when the curtain drop: ! « No more in vice or error to engage, " Or play the fool at large on life's great stage !"
Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON. N Parliament, whene'er a
Which makes the Chief look grave, and bite his thumbs, A knowing-one is sent, fly as a mouse, To peep into the humour of the house : I am that mouse; peeping at friends and foes, To find which carry it-the Ayes or Noes : With more than pow'r of parliament you fit, Despotic representatives of wit ! For in a moment, and without much pother, You can disolve this piece, and call another! As 'cis no trealon, let us frankly see, In what they differ, and in what agree, The said fupreme assembly of the nation, With this our great Dramatic Convocation ! Business in both oft meets with interruption : In both, we trust, no brib'ry or corruption;
Both proud of freedom, have a turn to riot,
And the belt Speaker cannot keep you quiet :
Nay, there as here he knows not how to steer him
When order, order's drown'd in hear him, hear bim!
We have, unlike to them, onc constant rule,
We open doors, and choose our gall’ries full:
For a full houle both send abroad their summons;
With us together fit the Lords and Commons.
You Ladies here have votes -debate, dispute,
There if you go (O fye for shame!) you're mute :
Never was heard of such a persecution,
'Tis the great blemish of the conítitution !
No human laws should nature's rights abridge,
Freedom of speech ! our dearelt privilege :
Ours is the wiser iex, though deem'd the weaker ;
I'll put the question-if you chuse me speaker :
Suppose me now be wigg’d, and seated here,
I call to Order ! you, the Chair! the Chair !
Is it your pleasure that ibis Bill should pass —
Which grants this Poet, upon Mount Parnass,
A certain spot, where ni ver grew or corn, or grass?
You that would pays this play, Jay Aye, and ja ve it ;
You that say No would damn it-tbe Ayes have it.
WRITTEN BY MR. CUMBERLAND.
Spoken by Mr. REDDISH.
N classic times, as learned anthors say,
The herald Prologue, 'ere the sports began,
Fairly stept forward and announc'd the plan :
In few plain words he ran the fable through,
And, without favour, publith'd all he knew.
An honest custom : for i he plan was clear;
The scene was simple, and the Muse sincere;
No tawdry fashions warp'd the public talte,
The times were candid, and the fage was chafte.
Can we expect, in these enlighten'd days,
A courtly age should hold such vulgar ways ?
Or that a blabbing prologue should disclose,
Scenes, which no Muse of fashion ever shows.
No, Sirs Sethona is the lady's name
She lives at Memphis-of unsullied fame :
A Tyrant woo'd ber---but she likid another,
And once 'twas fear'd her lover was her brother,
As for the rest, a little patience borrow,
The Chronicle will tell you all to-morrow.
Authors are now so over modest grown,
They publish all men's writings, but their own.
But let no living bard conceive offence,
Nor take the general in a partial sense.
Peace to all such ! the lab'ring bee must feed
From flow'r to flow'r; perchance from weed to weed ;
And should the comb unwelcome favour yield,
The fault's not in the fabric, but the field;
The critic wasp, mean while upon the wing,
(An infect fraught with nothing but a sting)
Disturbs th’industrious hive, for malice sake,
Marring that honey, which he cannot make.
An absent bard, engag'd in distant war,
This night appears by proxy at your bar :
As o'er Arabia's wilds he took his way,
From sultry Ormus and the realms of day,
His active mind, superior to its toil,
Struck out these scenes upon the burning foil.
No cooling grottoes, no umbrageous groves,
To win the Graces, and allure the Loves;
No Heliconian fount, wherein to dip,
And Nake the burning fever on his lip;
Before him all is desert, wasle, and dry,
Above him flames the tyrant of the sky;
Around his temples gath’ring whirlwinds fight,
And drifts of scorching duit involve the light:
Oh, snatch your Poet from impending death,
And on his Shrine we'll hang his votive wreath.
An ADDRESS to the TOWN,
by way of EPILOGUE to »TIS WELL IT'S NO WORSE.
Spoken by Mr. King.
NSTEAD of an Epilogue, round, smart, and terse,
Let poor fimple me, and in more simple verse,
Just handle the text-It is well it's no worse.
The brat of this night hould you cherith and nurse,
And hush it, and rock it, tho' you fill not his purse,
The Daddy will say, that'Tis well it's no worse.
Or should his strange fortune turn out the reverse,
That his pockets you fill, tho' his play you should curse,
Still our author will say-It is well it's no worse.
Should you put the poor bard and his brat in one herse,
Yet to give to the A&ors fome praise not averse,
We comfort ourselves-It is well it's no worfe.
The town with each poet will push carte and tierce ;
If the bard can fo guard, that his buff you don't pierce,
Tho' you pink him a little—'Tis well it's no worse.
Should the play-house be full, tho' the critics so fierce,
The managers, actors, and author afperse,
We shrug up our shoulders—'Tis well it's no worse.
But Should you to damn be resolv’d, and perverse,
If quietly after, from hence you disperse,
We wilh you good night-and-'Tis well it's no worfe.
Spoken by Mr. King. I'M vex d.-.quite vex’d--and you'll be vex’d—that's
, To deal with fubborn Scribblers! there's the curse!
Write moral Plays-r the Blockhead! why, good people,
You'll soon expect this House to wear a Steeple?
For our fine Piece, to let you into facts,
Is quite a Sermons-only preach'd in Alts.
You'll scarce believe me, 'till the proof appears,
But even l, Tom Fool, must Thed some tears :
Do, Ladies, look upon me-nay, no fimp'ring-
Think you this face was ever made for whimp'ring?
Can I a cambrick handkerchief display, -
Thump my unfeeling breart, and roar away?
Why this is comical, perhaps he'll say—
Resolving this strange aukward Bard to pump,
I ask'd him what he meant?-He, somewhat plump,
New purs'd his belly, and his lips thus biting,
I must keep up the digniry of writing!
You may; but, if you do, Sir, I must tell
ye, You'll not kecp up that dignity of belly. Siill he preach'd on--" Bards of a former age “ Held up abandon'd Pictures on the Stage ; .“ Spread out their Wit with fascinating art, " And catch'd the Fancy, to corrupt the Heart; “ But, happy change !--in these more moral days, “ You cannot sport with l'irtue, ev'n in Plays; 56 On Virtue's side his pen the Poet draws, “ And boldly asks a Hearing for his Cause." Thus did he prunce and swe!! -The man may prate, And feed these whimsies in his addle pate, That you'll protect his Muse, because she's good, A Virgin, and fo chaste !- lud ! O lud! No Muse the Critic Beadle's lash escapes, Tho' virtuous, if a Dowdy and a Trapes: If his come forth a decent, likely Lass, You'll speak her fair, and grant the proper pass; Or should his brain be turn'd with wild pretences, In three hours time you'll bring him to his senses ; And well you may, when in your pow'r you get him; In that short space, you blifter, bleed, and sweat him, Among the Turks, indeed, he'd run no danger; They sacred hold a Madman and a Stranger.