What tho’no (words we draw, no daggers shake,
Yet can our warrior's a quietus make
With a bare bodkin-Now be dumb, ye railers,
And never but in honour call out Taylors !
But are these heroes tragic? you will cry.
Oh, very tragic! and I'll tell you why-
Should female artists with the male combine,
And mantua-makers with the taylors join ;
Should all, too proud to work, their trades give o'er,
Nor to be footh'd again by Six-pence more,
What horrors would ensue! First you, ye Beaux,
At once lose all existence with your cloaths !
And you, ye fair, where wou'd be your defence ?
This is no golden age of innocence !
Should drunken Bacchanals the Graces meet,
And no police to guard the naked street,
Beauty is weak, and paffion bold and strong,
Oh then-But modefty restrains my tongue.

May this night's bard a fkilful taylor be,
And like a well-made coat his tragedy.
Tho' close, yer easy,- decent, but not dull,
Short but not scanty, without buckram, FULL.


A Fragment of MENANDER :

Translated by FRANCIS FAWKES, M. A.


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HOE'ER approaches to the Lord of all,
And with his

desolates the stall
Who brings a hundred bulls with garlands dreft,
The purple mantle, or the golden veft;
Or ivory figures richly wrought around,
Or curious images with emeralds crown'd;
And hopes with these God's favour to obtain,
His thoughs are foolish, and his hopes are vain.
He, only he, may truft his pray'r will rise,
And Heav'n accept his grateful facrifice,
Who leads, benificent, a virtuous life ;
Who wrongs no virgin, who currupts no wife;
No robber he, no murd'rer of mankind,
No miser, servant to the fordid mind.
Dare to be juft, my Pamphilus, disdain
The smallett trifle for the greatest gain :
For God is nigh thee, and his purer fight
In acts of goodness only takes delight ;


He feeds the labourer for his honeft toil,
And heaps his substance as he turns the soil.
To him then humbly pay the rites divine,
And not in garments, but in goodness shine.
Guiltless of conscience thou may 'ft safely sleep,
Tho' thunders bellow through the boundless deep.

A translation of a little Sonnet wrote by PLATO, in his younger time of life,

and preserved by DIOGENES LAERTIUS.

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HILLIPS! whose touch harmonious could remove

The pangs of guilty power or hapless love,
Reft here : oppress'd by poverty no more,
Here find that calm thou gav'ft so oft before :
Sleep undisturb’d within this humble thrine,
Till angels wake thee with a note like thine,


Verses inscribed on a small Cottage, in rustic Tafte, intended as a Place

of Retirement, built by Powis, Esq. in a Grove by the River Severn.

TA Y, passenger, and tho' within,

To strike thy dazzled eye,
Yet enter, and thy ravish'd 'mind
Beneath this humble roof shall find

What gold will never buy.

Within this folitary cell,
Calm thought and sweet contentment dwell,

Parents of bliss fincere;
Peace spreads around her balmy wings,
And, banish'd from the courts of kings,

Has fix'd her mansion here.

An Occafional Prologue, Spoken by Mr. Powell, at the Opening of the

Theatre Royal in Covent-Garden, on Monday the 14th of Sept.

S when the merchant, to increase his store,

For dubious feas advent'rous quits the shore,
Still anxious for his freight, he trembling sees
Rocks in each buoy, and tempefts in each breeze;
The curling wave to mountains billows fwells,
And every cloud a fancied storm foretels :
Thus rashly launch'd on this theatric main,
Our all on board, each phantom gives us pain;
The catcall's note seems thunder in our ears,
And every hiss a hurricane appears ;
In Journal squibs we lightning's blaft efpy,
And meteors blaze in every critic's eye.

Spite of these terrors, ftill fome hopes we view,
Hopes ne'er can fail us—ince they're plac'd in you.
Your breath the gale, our voyage is secure,
And safe the venture which your smiles insure :
Tho' weak his skill, th' advent'rer must succeed,
Where candour takes the endeavour for the deed.

For Brentford's fate two kings could once fuffice,
In ours, behold! four kings of Brentford rife;
All smelling to one nofegay's odorous favour,
The balmy nosegay of the public favour.
From hence alone our royal funds we draw,
Your pleasure our support, your will our law.
While such our government, we hope you'll own us,
But, should we ever tyrants prove-dethrone us.

Like brother monarchs, who, to coax the nation,
Begin their reigns with some fair proclamation :
We two should ialk at least-of Reformation;
Declare that during our imperial sway,
Nor bard fhall mourn his long-neglected play;
But then the play must have some wit, fome fpirit,
And we allow'd sole umpires of its merit.

For those deep fages of the judging pit,
Whose taste is too refin'd for modern wit,
From Rome's great theatre we'll cull the piece,
And plant on Britain's stage the flowers of Greece.

If fome there are our British bards can please,
Who taste the ancient wit of ancient days,
Be our's to save from time's devouring womb
Their works, and snatch their laurels from the tomb.

For you, ye fair, who sprightlier fcenes may choose,
Where music decks in all her airs the muse,
Gay opera shall all its charms difpenfe :
Yei boaft no tuneful triumph over sense :
The nobler bard fhall still afert his right,
Nor Handel rob a Shakespeare of his night.

To greet their mortal brethen of our skies,
Here all the gods of pantomime shall rise :
Yet, 'midft the pomp and magic of machines,
Some plot may mark the meaning of our scenes :
Scenes which were held, in good king Rich's days,
By fages, no bad epilogues to plays.

If terms like these your fuffrage can engage,
To fix our mimic empire of the stage ;
Confirm our title, in your fair opinions,
And croud each night to people our dominions.

On the Right Hon. the Earl of CheSTERFIELD's Recover from a lare


Durrow in Ireland, Sept. 29.
Je disois a la nuit fombre ;
Tu vas maintenant dans ton ombre

Le cacher pour toujour :
Je redifois al Aurore,
La mantinée que tu vas eclore

Ce fera le dernier de ses jours.
N noon-day heat, a pilgrim spread
His limbs to warmth, and chaf'd his head ;



Enjoy'd the sun, whose pow'rful ray
Enliven'd once Promethean clay :
Sudden he finds a shade of night
Invade its strong meridian light:
Soon feels a dreary damp, and sees
The gloom advancing by degrees;
Till all its lucid orb was feiz'd
With darkness, thick’ning as he gaz'd:
Convulsive pangs his foul affright
With terrors of eternal night :
No hope that time may light restore ;
And noon-day was to be no more.

Thus when, of late, pale fickness spread
A dismal mift round Stanhope's head ;
That head, whose prudence states rever'd,
And ev'ry foe to virtue fear'd;
A threat'ning cloud hung o'er those eyes
Whose vigour pierc'd thro' false disguise ;
That tender heart began to grieve
Whose chiefest joy was to relieve ;
And faintly thrill'd that vital flood
Which flow'd for universal good.

Swift Fame the dismal tidings bore,
And Albion moan'd from shore to shore;
Her genius droop'd. In mournful lays
Ierne's sons attempt his praise :
O best of men! whose conduct fage
Appeas'd rebellion's horrid rage ;
Full right he held the guiding helm ;
Our lives he sav'd, who fav'd the realm.
Propitious Heav'n, your aid beftow
On him whose heart would pity show,

Eclipses are the sun's disease,
When the dark moon obftructs his rays :
As she goes off, he shines again,
And re-affumes his splendid reign.

That dreadful cloud is blown away,
Which darken'd Stanhope's lovely day :
On ev'ry face a cheerful smile
Shews joy renew'd thro' Britain's ille :
To mirth Ierne's harp resounds;
To mirth each vocal hill rebounds.
Her rural pipes his fafety greet,
In sprightly airs, and numbers sweet,
Swift Ay loud notes from filver strings,
And ev'ry muse in concert fings.


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