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Now for it, Sirs; I beg, from top to bottom,
You'll keep your features fix'd till I have got 'em.
Firft for fine gentlemen my fancy ftretches,

They'll be more like, the flighter are the sketches.
Such unembodied form invention racks;

Pale cheeks, dead eyes, thin bodies, and long backs-
They would be beft in fhades, or virgin's wax.
To make fine ladies like, the toil is vain,
Unless I paint 'em o'er and o'er again :

In frost, tho' not a flower its charms discloses,
They can, like hot-houfes, produce their rofes.
At you, Coquettes, my pencil now takes aim !
In love's change-alley playing all the game,
I'll paint you ducklings waddling out quite lame.
The prude's moft virtuous fpite I'll next pourtray;
Railing at gaming-loving private play.
Quitting the gay bon-ton, and would-be-witty,
I come to you, my patrons, in the city:

I like your honeft, open English looks;

They fhew too-that you well employ your cooks!
Have at you, now-nay, Mifter-pray don't ftir,
Hold up your head, your fat becomes you, Sir;
Leer with your eyes-as thus-now fmirk-Well done!
You're ogling, Sir-a haunch of venifon.

Some of your fickle patriots I fhall pass:

Such brittle beings will be beft on glafs.

Now, courtiers, you-looks meant your thoughts to fmother,
Hands fix'd on one thing-eyes upon another.

For politicians I have no dark tints-
Such clouded brows are fine for wooden prints.
To diftant climes if modern Jafons roam,
And bring the golden fleece with curfes home,
I'll blacken them with Indian ink-but then
My hands, like theirs, will ne'er be clean again.
Tho' laft, not least in love, I come to you * !
And 'tis with rapture nature's fons I view;
With warmest tints fhall glow your jolly faces,
Joy, love, and laughter, there have fix'd their places,
Free from weak nerves, bon ton, ennui, and foreign graces.
I'll tire you now no more with pencil strictures;

I'll copy thefe-next week fend home your pictures.

To the Galleries.

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PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE to the Comedy of BON TON.

Written by Mr. COLMAN;

Spoken by Mr. KING.

ASHION in ev'ry thing bears fov'reign fway,
And words and periwigs have both their day:
Each have their purlieus too, are modish each
In ftated districts, wigs as well as fpeech.
The Tyburn fcratch, thick clubs, and Temple tye,
The parfon's feather-top, frizz'd broad and high!
The coachman's cauliflower, built tiers on tiers!
Differ not more from bags and brigadiers,
Than Great St. George's, or St. James's ftiles,
From the broad dialect of Broad St. Giles.

What is BON TON-Oh, damme, cries a Buck,
-Half drunk-afk me, my dear, and you're in luck;
Bon Ton's to fwear, break windows, beat the watch,
Pick up a wench, drink healths, and roar a catch.
Keep it up! keep it up! damme, take your fwing!
Bon Ton is life, my boy; Bon Ton's the thing!
An! I loves life, and all the joys it yields-
Says Madam Fuffock, warm from Spital-fields.
Bone Tone's the space 'twixt Saturday and Monday,
And riding in a one-horse chair o' Sunday!
'Tis drinking tea on fummer afternoons

At Bagnigge Wells, with china and gilt spoons !
'Tis laying by our ftuffs, red cloaks, and pattens,
To dance cow-tillions, all in filks and fattins!

Vulgar! cries mifs. Obferve in higher life.
The feather'd fpinster, and thrice feather'd wife!
The CLUB's Bon Ton. Bon Ton's a conftant trade
Of rout, feftino, ball and masquerade!

'Tis plays and puppet- fhews, 'tis fomething new;

"Tis lofing thousands ev'ry night at Lu!

Nature it thwarts, and contradicts all reafon ;

'Tis ftiff French ftays, and fruit when out of feafon !
A rofe, when half a guinea is the price;

A fet of bays, fcarce bigger than fix mice;
To vifit friends you never wish to fee;
Marriage 'twixt thofe who never can agree;
Old dowagers dreft, painted, patch'd, and curl'd;
This is Bon Ton, and this we call the world.

P 2

[True,

[True, fays my Lord; and thou, my fon, Whate'er your faults, ne'er fin against Bon Ton ! Who toils for learning at a public school,

And digs for Greek and Latin, is a fool.

French, French, my boy's the thing! jafez! prate, chatter !
Trim be the mode, whipt fyllabub the matter!
Walk like a Frenchman! for on English pegs
Moves native aukwardness with two left legs.
Of courtly friendship form a treacherous league;
Seduce men's daughters, with their wives intrigue;
In fightly femicircles round your nails;

Keep your teeth clean-and grin, if small talk fails-
But never laugh, whatever jest prevails!

Nothing but nonfenfe e'er gave laughter birth,
That vulgar way the vulgar fhew their mirth.
Laughter's a rude convulfion, fenfe that jules,
Disturbs the cockles, and distorts the mufcles.
Hearts may be black, but all thou'd wear clean faces;
The Graces, boy! The Graces, Graces, Graces!]
Such is BON TON! and walks this city thro';
In building, fcribbling, fighting, and virtâ,
And various other fhapes, 'twill rife to view.
To-night our Bayes, with bold, but carelefs tints,
Hits off a sketch or two, like Darly's prints.

Should connoiffeurs allow his rough draughts ftrike 'em,
'Twill be Bon Ton to fee 'em and to like 'em.

Vers a Mademoiselle CLAIRON, a l'occafion d'une Féte connue sous le nom di l'Inauguration de la Statue de M. De VOLTAIRE, & célébrée chez Mademoifelle CLAIRON en Octobre, 1772, dans laquelle cette actrice, babillie en prétreffe d'Apollon, pofa une Couronne de Lauriers fur le Busie de l'Auteur de Zaire, & Recita un Oce de M. MARMONTEL, en fen banPar M. de Voltaire.

neur.

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The lines between crotchets are omitted at the theatre.

T

To Mr. GARRICK, on the Report of his leaving the Stage.

WE

HEN-rarely now to public eyes confefs'd

The fun of Shakespeare beams on Garrick's break,

To circling crowds he deals the electric fire,

As joy or grief, as love or rage, infpire.
Such ftorms of mirth once eafy Pritchard rais'd;
Such wat'ry eyes on melting Cibber gaz'd ;-
But ah! their chaplets fade beneath the tomb,-
On Garrick's head may wreaths more lafling bloom!
But fay, fhall Fame declare, while Shakespeare dies,
His old confed'rate, England's Rofcius, flies?
Sees Smith inter his lovers' cold remains,
And favage Macklin hang his kings in chains
Nature's plain drefs far off lets Reddish fling,
And lead her forth a prim, patch'd, powder'd thing?
Shall equal wrong attend his publish'd lays,
Where critic ivy choaks poetic bays?
His obvious fenfe fhall Warburton refine,
And Hanmer fmooth each nobly rugged line?
His language Tibbald vamp with faithlefs art,
And Upton's learning freeze his plastic heart?
Shall final ruin Johnfon, Stevens, bring,
Who clog, with notes of lead, his active wing;
While prefs'd he finks, and but furvives to tell
That Sexton Capel tolls his paffing bell?

Garrick! 'tis thine his fuff'ring worth to fhield,
Beftride the vanquish'd, and regain the field;
One meaning glance of eyes, like thine, can show
What lab'ring critics boaft in vain to know.--
Once more let Cawdor grafp his midnight feel,
And John his with half utter, half conceal;
In death's fad hour bid gay Mercutio fmile,
Or Sportive Philip Auftria's calf revile;
Elfe, idly fculptur'd, Hampton's God appears
A boast of wealth, a fight for gaping peers;
For, while thy tongue deferts his friend lefs ftrain,
Thy generous hand has rear'd his fhrine in vain.

GRACE.

By Mr. GARRICK.

YB what is GRACE

E beaux efprits, fay, what is GRACE?

Or is it all the three combin'd,
Guided and foften'd by the mind?

P 3

Where

Where it is not, all eyes may fee;
But where it is, all hearts agree:
'Tis there, when eafy in its state,
The mind is elegantly great;

Where looks give fpeech to every feature,
The fweeteft eloquence of nature;
A harmony of thought and motion,
To which at once we pay devotion.
-But where to find this nonpareil!
Where does this female wonder dwell,
Who can at will our hearts command ?
-Behold in public-CUMBERLAND!

VERSES upon Mrs. CREWE. By the Hon. Mr. CHARLES Fox.
WHERE the lovelieft expreffion to features is join'd,
By nature's most delicate pencil defign'd;

Where blushes unbidden, and fmiles without art,
Speak the foftnefs and feeling that dwell in the heart.
Where in manners inchanting, no blemish we trace,
But the foul keeps the promise we had from the face:
Sure philofophy, reafon, and coldness must prove
Defences unequal to fhield us from love:
Then tell me, myfterious enchanter, Oh tell!
By what wonderful art, by what magic fpell,
My heart is fo fenc'd that for once I am wife,
And gaze without raptures on Amoret's eyes :
That my wishes, which never were bounded before,
Are here bounded by friendship, and afk for no more?
Is't reafon No; that my whole life will belye,

For who fo at variance as reafon and I?

Is't ambition that fills up each chink of my heart,
Nor allows any fofter fenfation a part?

Oh no! For in this all the world must agree,
One folly was never fufficient for me.

Is my mind on diftrefs too intenfely employ'd,
Or by pleasure relax'd, by variety cloy'd'?

For alike in this only, employment and pain,

Both flacken the fprings of those nerves which they ftrain.
That I've felt each reverse that from fortune can flow,
That I've tafted each blifs that the happiest know,

Has ftill been the whimfical fate of my life,

Where anguish and joy have been ever at ftrife.

But, tho' vers'd in th' extremes both of pleasure and pain,
I am still but too ready to feel them again :

If then for this once in my life I am free,

And escape from a fnare might catch wifer than me;

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