Suppofe Old Nick, before you righteous folk,
Produce a farce, brim-full of mirth and joke;
Tho' he, at other time, would fire your blood;
You'd clap his piece, and fwear, 'twas devilish good!
Malice prepenfe! tis falfe! it cannot be
Light is my heart, from apprehenfions free
If you would fave Old Nick, you'll never damn poor me.
LL fable is figure-I your bard will maintain it,
And, leaft you don't know it, 'tis fit I explain it :
The Lyre of our Orpheus, means your approbation;
Which frees the poor poet from care and vexation:
Should want make his mistress too keen to dispute,
Your fmiles fill his pockets--and Madam is mute;
Shou'd his wife, that's himself, for they two are but one,
Be in hell, that's in debt, and the money all gone;
Your favour brings comfort, at once cures the evil,
For 'fcaping bumbailiffs, is 'fcaping the devil,
Nay, Cerberus Critics their fury will drop,
For fuch barking monfters, your fmiles are a fop:
But how to explain what you moft will require,"
That Cows, Sheep, and Calves, fhou'd dance after the lyre,
Without your kind favour, how fcanty each meal!
But with it comes dancing, Beef, Mutton, and Veal.
For fing it, or fay it, this truth we all fee,
Your applaufe will be ever the true Beaume de Vie.
PROLOGUE to the New Comedy of THE WIDOW'D WIFE,
Spoken by Mr. HOLLAND.
O gain the public ear, the man of rhymes
Should always fpeak the language of the times
And little elfe hath been of late in hearing,
Than terms and phrafes of electioneering.
Our author therefore fends me to affure ye,
Worthy and free electors of old Drury.
How happy he fhould prove, if it content you,
That he be one of thofe who represent you;
The fate poetic, laws and legiflature,
Like the political in form and nature;
Phœbus, the nine, and bards of reputation,
King, peerage, commons, of the fcribbling nation:
Now, from Parnaffus' throne, the prince of wit,
It feems, bath iffued out his royal writ
For a new member-no offence to give
To a late worthy reprefentative;
Who, ris'n to favour, hath from us retreated,
And 'midft the lords of t'other house is seated—
His fervice loft, prefuming you may need him,
The prefent candidate would fain fucceed him.
Not that he vainly boafts, on this occafion,
He met encouragement from your perfuafion;
Or that both friends, who love, and foes, who hate him,
Have been unanimous to nominate him.
'Tis for this loyal borough, his affection
and patriot zeal, that make him risk th' election:
To his conftituents fubject to control,
With whofe good leave he means to ftand the poll;
Trufting fecure to their impartial choice,
The town uncanvafs'd for a fingle voice:
Nay, brib'd no brother burgess-bard of note.
Nor by corruption gain'd one critic's vote.
Too proud to beg, too modeft to demand,
By merit only would he fall or stand:
Nor enmity nor friendship interfering,
He only afks a fair and candid hearing.
If, after that, you should with fcorn reject him,
Or make one honeft fcruple to elect him,
He'll lay his unadvifed fcheme afide,
And frankly own himself not qualified.
EPILOGUE, Spoken by the Mrs. CLIVE.
THATEVER difcord and diforder reign
W Among the learned fons, of Warwick-lane,
Should they throw fquibs made up of Latin fcraps,
And come to pulling wigs, as women caps,
The fick efcape-Death will not lay about him,
He has more honour, than to work without 'em,
Should you (to the pit) whose skill and wisdom we ac-
knowledge,
The fellorus of this old dramatic college,
(No matter what the caufe of altercation)
Croud hither ev'ry night for difputation;
The bard, half dead before, enjoys the sport,
Gets ftrength each day, and is the better for't.
Warm'd with this fubject, let your fancies, play,
And me, by licence, make a dester, pray
Suppofe this gown a fuit of velvet, plain,
With a gold button and this fan a canex
My cap becomes a tye, moft wifely big;
Oh! no I had forgot a fmart bag wig;
No phyfic bushes now are feen in town,
For all the figns, you know, are taken down,
Call me licenciate fellow what you will
I'll feel your pulfes all, and prove my fkill.
The pulfes of the boxes first I'll feel,
And by their beating will their thoughts reveal,
(fhe acts the doctor feeling a pulfe,)
Languid and low-Wildman's old-fashion'd ftory
Was much too nervous, to be fet before ye;
For twelve long years a tender wife forfaking,
Worn out with wand'ring, and, what's worse, with raking,
And then return-he was not worth the taking.
As for the pulfes of my friends above,
They thump for joy when spouses kifs and love,
Blefs their young hearts--what means this palpitation?
Each mifs's blood is now in agitation!
Each quick pulfation for Narciffa beats?
When the went off-they fcarce could keep their feats.
When Lombard talk'd of bribes-how lik'd you that?
(to the pit.)
Some pulfes in this houfe went-pat, pat, pat.
If this our night's prefcription you have taken
Without wry faces, or your heads much shaken ;
If you perceive fome character, and wit
With plot and humour-quantum fufficit
Mixt up with fal volatile of fatire:
Letit-quotidie noli reparaturs
'Tis by our noftrums you are kept alive;
Purfue the regimen of Doctor Clive,
A PASTORAL. In the Modern Style,
BENEATH the umbrageous fhadow of a fhade,
Where glowing foliage on the furface play'd,
And golden rofes fann'd the filver breeze,
In many a maze light echoing through the trees,
Paftora tun'd the fweetly-panting ftring,
And ruddy notes thus wak'd the flattering fpting
While from th' alternate margin of an oak,
A woodland Naiad thus meandering fpoke,
The reed difports upon the founding thorn,
And Philomel falutes the noon-tide morn,
The buzzing bees, poetic from their hive,
In fmooth alliteration feem alive;
But ah! my virgin fwain is chafter far
Than Cupid's painted fhafts, or sparrows are;
Sparrows, that perch, like Sappho's, on my lay,
Or hop in concert with the dancing day.
What found was that, which dawn'd a bleating hue,
And blush'd a figh? Paftora, was it you?
Your notes, fweet maid, this proverb ftill fhall foil,
The pot that's watch'd was never known to boil.'
Ah, no! whate'er thou art, or figh, or word,
Or golden water fam'd, or talking bird;
Source of my joy, or genius of my notes,
Or Ocean's landscape ftampt with lyric boats,
Ah, no! far hence thy aromatic strains
Recoil and beautify our vaulted plains.
Thy dazzling harmony affects me fo,
In azure fymmetry I figh-ah, no!
Ah, no! ah, no! the woods irradiate fing,
Ah, no! ah, no! for joy the grottos ring;
E'en Heraclitus' vocal tears would flow,
To hear thee murmur thy melodious No!
Thy voice, 'tis true, Paftora, gilds, the sky,
But woods and grottos flutter in my eye,
When night pellucid warbles into day,
And morn fonorous floats upon the May,
With well-blown bugle through the wilds of air
I roam accordant, while the bounding hare
In covert claps her wings, to fee me pafs
Ethereal meadows of tranfparent grafs.
Magnetic thunders now illume the air,
And fragrant mufic variegates the year,
Light trips the dolphin through cerulean woods,
And fpotlefs tygers harmonize the floods
E'en Thetis fmooths her brow, and laughs to fee
Kind nature weep, in fymphony with me.
This young conundrum let me first propofe,
It puzzles half our dainty belles and beaux.
What makes my lays, in blue-ey'd order fhine
So far fuperior, when compar'd with thine?
Expound me this, and I'll difclaim the prize,
Whofe luftre blufhes with Peruvian dyes.
When crowing foxes whistle in their dens,
Or radiant hornpipes dance to cocks and hens,
What makes fly Reynard and his cackling mate,
That fav'd the capitol, refign to fate?
An Ironical Eulogium on IGNORANCE. By Dr. CLANCY, of Durrow, in Ireland;
Quanto rectius eft fe plane nihil feire confiteri.
Nowledge, that woeful fource of ftrife,
The peft and bane of human life,
Deriv'd from Adam's fatal tree,
To curfe his wretched progeny;
Has made all true enjoyments lefs
Than what our fellow-brutes poffefs;
Who by unerring instinct move,
And from its dictates never rove;
But always fteadily purfue
What fimple nature bids them do.
This true affertion muft furprife,
And fhock the learned and the wife,
Who look on all-with proud difdain,
That want the stuff that loads their brain.
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