That he would tell him all he knew,
Nor heed the event, fo all were true.
His chamberlain, a fubtle man,
Who could both truth and int'rest scan,
Perceiving by the monarch's brow,
He really meant the truth to know;
First, bowing low-My liege, faid he,
Your fubjects high and low agree,
That if your council were but true,
And you things fairly from them knew;
In ev'ry point this understood,
You would be gracious, great, and good;
For well they know your princely nature,
Heav'n never form'd a better creature!
A gleam of truth he thus reveal'd,
Behind, a cloud of words conceal'd.
Hinted at what he could not name,
And on the council laid the blame.
The fool who heard what both had told,
And in the cause of truth more bold;
Or elfe, which furely was the cafe,
Prompted thereto by heavenly grace,
First figh'd, as he his lungs had torn,
Then laugh'd the courtiers both to fcorn.
"Sir king, faid he, if fo it was,
As this wife lord has put the cafe,
Be fure your council have done right-
Topleafe is always their delight.
From them, if ill advice be had,
It is because the king is bad.
Take not on trust if would find
you
your mind."
The truth, go look it in
The monarch paus'd, amaz'd to hear
Language fo foreign to his ear;
Began to weigh the golden rule,
And took the counsel of a fool.
Confcience flood ready at his call,
And, as he afk'd-it anfwer'd all.
He quickly felt the good of this,
Difcern'd whate'er he'd done amifs
He faw, nor ftarted at the fight,
Refolving foon to fet things right;
And thus by Providence infpir'd,
The fool wrought what the king defir'd.
The weak, the wanton, and the wild,
Were from the monarch's court exil'd;
The grave, the gen'rous, and the good,
Before the king in office stood;
We twine the feftive wreath, the fhrines adorn,
'Tis not our King's alone, 'tis Britain's natal morn.
Bright examples plac'd on high
Shine with more diftinguish'd blaze;
Thither nations turn their eye,
And grow virtuous as they gaze.
Thoughtlefs eafe, and fportive leifure,
Dwell in life's contracted sphere,
Public is the monarch's pleafure,
Public is the monarch's care:
If Titus fmiles, the obfervant world is gay,
If Titus frowns, or fighs, We figh and lofe a day!
Around their couch, around their board
A thousand ears attentive wait,
A thousand bufy tongues record
The fmalleft whispers of the great,
Happy those whom truth fincere
And confcious virtue join to guide!
Can they have a foe to fear,
Can they have a thought to hide ?
Nobly they foar above th' admiring throng
Superior to the power, the will of acting wrong.
Such may Britain find her kings!-
Such the mufe of rapid wings
Wafts to fome fublimer fphere:
Gods, and heroes mingle there.
Fame's eternal accents breathe,
Black Cocytus howls beneath;
Evin Malice learns to blush, and hides her ftings.
-O fuch may Britain ever find her kings!
Two Songs fung at the Musical Entertainment, &c. given at the Queen's Palace, June 6, 1763, in honour of bis Majefty's Birth-day.
FIRST SON G.
TO Peace and Love, in courts but feldom seen,
This fmiling day has facred been :
And may they here, united reign,
While winter chills, or fummer warms the plain!
May SHE, whofe duty is her joy,
Still, ftill on tasks of love her hours employ
To chear her King, to charm her Friend:
On his and Britain's Hope, with pleasure tend
That lovely, that unfolding rofe,
With care to watch, and cherish, as he grows;
While, with a Mother's foft furprize,
She fees, in him renew'd, his Parent rise !
SECOND SONG.
LET harmony reign,
And let pleasure abound;
While in sparkling champain
This health goes around:
The King!-may his birth-day fucceffively fimile
With joy on himfelf, and with peace to his ifle!
All white be his moments, and bear on their wing,
In the brightness of fummer, the foftnefs of fpring!
May fhe, who bestow'd him on Britain this morn,
Live long, his mild fway to applaud and adorn!
May each loyal gueft, that around him is feen,
Embrace as a Sifter, whom love made his Queen!
Then let harmony reign,
Then let pleasure abound;
While in fparkling champain
These wishes go round!
To the ENGLISHMAN at BOURDEAUX,
Performed fince the conclufion of the peace, with uneversal applause at Paris. TOO long by fome fatality misled,
From pride refulting, or from folly bred :
Each clime to all the virtues lays a claim,
And foars, felf-flatter'd, to the top of fame :
Confines each merit to itself alone,
Or thinks no other equal to its own;
E'en the pale Ruffian thiv'ring as he lies,
Beneath the horror of his bitterest skies,
While the loud tempeft rattles o'er his head,
Or bursts all dreadful on his tott'ring fhed,
Hugs a foft fomething closely to his foul,
That fooths the cutting fharpness of the pole,
Elates his bofom with a confcious pride,
And fmiles contempt on all the world befide.
'Tis your's, O France, the earliest to unbind
This more than Gordian manacle of mind!
To-night we bid your justice may be fhewn
To foreign virtues equal with your own;
Think, nobly think," when nature first was born,
And fair creation kindled into morn,
The world was but one family, one band,
Which glow'd all grateful to the heavenly hand;
Thro' ev'ry breaft a focial impulfe ran,
Link'd beaft to beast, and fasten'd man to man,
And the fole diff'rence which he heard, or had,
Dwelt in the fimple phrafes," good or bad."
Then scorn to give fuch partial feelings birth,
As claim but one poor competence of earth;
Be more than French; on ev'ry country call,
And rife, exalted, citizens of all.
EPILOGUE.
THE anxious ftruggle happily o'erpaft,
And ev'ry party fatisfy'd at laft;
It now remains to make one fhort essay,
And urge the moral leffon in the play.
In arts long fince has Britain been renown'd,
In arms high honour'd, and in letters crown'd:
The fame great goddefs who fo nobly fung,
In Shakespear's ftrains, and honey'd o'er his tongue,
Their deathlefs Marlbro' to the triumph led,
And wreath'd eternal laurels round his head;
Yet tho' the trump of never-dying fame
Strikes heav'n's high arches with the British name;
Tho' on the fands of Africa it glows,
Or cafts a day-light on the Zemblian fnows;
Still there are faults in Britain to be found,
Which fpring as freely as in common ground,
We are too gay, they frequently too fad ;
We run stark wild;-they melancholy mad;
Extremes of either reafon will condemn,
Nor join with us, nor vindicate with them.
The human genius, like revolving funs,
An equal circuit in the bofom runs :
And tho' the various climates where 'tis plac'd,
Muft ftrike out new diverfities of taste,
To one grand point eternally it leans,
Howe'er it warps or differs in the means.
Hence on no nation let us turn our eyes,
And idly raife it fpotlefs to the fkies;
Nor ftill more idly let our cenfures fall,
Since knaves and madmen may be found in all.
Here then we reft, nor further can contend,
For fince the beft will find fome fault to mend,
Let us, where'er the virtues fhed their fire,
With fervor reverence, and with zeal admire;
Exert our care the gath'ring blaze to trace,
And make the progrefs only, not the place:
Confefs alike the peafant's and the king's,
Nor once confider in what foil it fprings.
EPILOGUE to the new tragedy of ELVIRA,
Written by Mr. GARRICK.
Spoken by Mrs. CIBBER, in the character of ELVIRA.
Adies and gentlemen-'tis fo ill bred-
We have no epilogue, because I'm dead;
For he, our bard, with frenzy-rolling eye,
Swears you fhan't laugh, when he has made you cry.
At which I gave his fleeve a gentle pull,
Suppofe they should not cry, and fhould be dull:
In fuch a cafe, 'twould furely do no harm;
A little lively nonfenfe taken warm:
On critic ftomachs delicate and queafy,
'Twill even make a heavy meal fit easy.
The town hates Epilogues.-It is not true,
I answer'd that for you. and you-and you -
(To pit, boxes, ift gallery.
They call for epilogues and hornpipes too-
(To the upper gallery.
Madam, the critics fay-To you they're civil,
Here if they have 'em not, they'll play the devil;
Out of this house, fir, and to you alone,
They'll fmile, cry bravo! charming!--Here they groana
A fingle critic will not frown, look big,
Harmlefs and pliant as a fingle twig.
But crowded here they change, and 'tis not odd,
For twigs, when bundled up, become a rod.
Critics to bards, like beauties to each other,
When tête à tête their enmity they fmother!
"Kifs me, my dear--how do you?--charming creature!
"What shape! what bloom! what fpirit ineach feature!
"You flatter me-'pon honour, no-you do
"My friend-my dear-fincerely yours-adieu:"
But when at routs, the dear friends change their tone-
I fpeak of foreign ladies, not our own.
Will you permit, good firs, thefe gloomy folk,
To give all tragedy without one joke?
They gravely tell us--tragedy's defign'd
To purge the paffions, purify the mind;
To which I fay, to ftrike thofe blockheads dumb,
With phyfic always give a fugar-plum;
I love thefe fugar-plums in profe or rhimes;
No one is merrier than myfelf fometimes;
Yet I, poor I, with tears and conftant moan,
Am melted down almoft to fkin and bone:
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