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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;
Yet who, that sees her portraits, won't declare,
In them the image of herself we find:

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.



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,
Soft as the fleeces of descending snow;
Whose arm omnipotent can spread alarms,
Whose gentle voice can rouse the world to arms ;
Pitt, the great statesman, whose persuasive voice
Could make a nation in its ills rejoice ;
Could make John Bull with taxes blest, a store,
Cry out in extacy, encore, encore ;
Could make the budget, (that Pandora's Box,
Once but a Calf, now grown into an Os,)
So light appear, John Bull was wont to say
He felt no pressure, it so lightly lay;
So small in stature seem, tho' grown so big,
He call'd the budget, Billy's sucking pig.
Yet some then thought, in spite of John's wise head,
Pitt's pig so heavy, 'twas a pig of lead.
Sure beast so strange was never seen before,
The more it suck’d, it grunting squeak’d for more ;
Yet stranger too, tho' that may seem a jest,
Its mother strengthen’d, when it drain’d her breast !
This Pitt affirm’d, and he a Heav'n born man,
Knows more fur certain than poor mortals can;
Then thus he prov'd it; Britain, when at war,
Fresh strength acquires from cv'ry wound and scar;


To it doth Heav'n such wond'rous vigour send,
The more it spends, the more it still can spend.

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,
Her friends ụnable to get in or out ;
Pinion’d and squeez'd like fowls upon a spit,
All parts choak’d up, box, gallery, and pitt,
Six inches square to stand on, six to sit ;
Then would your Brookes with gratitude run o'er,
As when the rains in sudden torrents pour,
And in a flood of joy raise up her head,
Dripping like Neptune's on his oozy bed.
Whilst rich Old Thames, who owes so much to Brooks,
Would thank you with his best, his gentlest looks,
Smooth his rough waves, and swelling high bis tide,
Enable frigates at Southend to ride.
And Thames with Neptune in close friendship join'd,
A fig for all the Powers on earth combin’d.
At all events to Brookes this praise is due,
To please her friends has been her only view;
Her bill of fare perchance, a little odd,
For which don't lash her with the critic's rod.

Did you not think me now a horrid bore,
I'd crave your intʼrest for your native Shore,
And trespass on your time one moment more.
Close to the sea too shall I plead in vain,
When Southend shore to you is no small gain;


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