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The hapless youth in an enchanting dream,
Thus views with extacy his fair one's charms; And whilst the playful tints of fancy beam,
Believes he clasps bis mistress in his arms.
Till şadly waking, with tumultuous joy,
He finds the object of his ardor fed, Again for lost Eliza heaves a sigh,
And bends with sorrow o'er the silent dead.
Like Lillystone did great Apelles draw,
When he so graceful shap'd the queen of love ; Man strangely felt, in spite of Nature's law,
The lifeless canvass could his passions move.
Titian's soft colouring, Guido's graceful air,
Proclaim an artist of superior kind;
Such soft emotions in her bosom reign,
Such grace and dignity her mind adorn, As prove that Lillystone, howe'er she feign, Is not a mortal, but an angel born.
A PROLOGUE of mine to JANE SHORE,
Spoken by me at the Theatre in Southend the Night of
Miss Brookes's Benefit.
IN that just mirror of the human mind, Shakespeare's immortal page, this truth we find; .. The world's a stage, all men and women play’rs, Where each variety of acting shares. And Shakespeare's judgment who'll presume to doubt, Will any in this house or any out ? If any here should dare our bard t' asperse, And think that he, like minor sons of verse, Took not from life those characters he drew, All how unlike each other, all how true ; With modern novels Shakespeare's plays compare, Tho' here we see all truth, all fiction there; Such sceptic minds no pow'r on earıh could move, Not the fine arguments of England's Jove;
Him from whose lips the gentle accents flow,
To it doth Heav'n such wond'rous vigour send,
But hence these jokes on patriot god-like Pitt, Jokes only meant to shew your poet's wit ; Who like some fishermen, his wit once set, Takes all for fish, that come into his net. Trust me who thinks not Pitt all good and wise, Knows not where virtue, where true honor lies; Or did not bigot hate and party zeal Lock up his soul in adamantire steel, Candid he'd own, Pitt's rich capacious mind Proves him a Premier born, to save mankind : Whilst Bonaparte, whom the devil take, Shews that he's born for whom, his own dear sake; Old Nick's sweet babe, to whom some' witch gave suck, Aud for his fortune gave, the devil's luck.
Gentle Jane Shore to-night with meagre looks, (Her face not much unlike the phiz of Brookes,) Implores your patronage, yet lanker still, Will be Brooke's visage, if her house don't fill. No cheeks more smooth than hers, nor any plumper, Should she behold this house to-night a bumper;
Should she behold, like Lady Faddle's rouť,
Did you not think me now a horrid bore,