A guardian Sylph, the wanton sprite
That waited on her still,
Had teas'd her all the tedious night
With visionary ill.

"Some shock of Fate is surely nigh,"

Exclaim'd the tim'rous maid: "What do these horrid dreams imply? My Cupid can't be dead!"

She call'd her Cupid by his name,
In dread of some mishap;
Wagging his tail, her Cupid came,

And jump'd into her lap.

And now the best of brittle ware
Her sumptuous table grac'd:
The gentle emblems of the fair,
In beauteous order plac'd!

The kettle boil'd, and all prepar'd
To give the morning treat,
When Dick, the country beau, appear'd,
And, bowing, took his seat.

Well-chatting on, of that and this,

The maid revers'd her cup; And, tempted by the forfeit kiss, The bumpkin turn'd it up.

With transport he demands the prize;
Right fairly it was won!
With many a frown the fair denies:
Fond baits to draw him on !

A man must prove himself polite,
In such a case as this;

So Richard strives with all his might
To force the forfeit kiss.

But as he strove-O dire to tell!
(And yet with grief I must)
The table turn'd-the china fell,
A heap of painted dust!

"O fatal purport of my dream!"
The fair afflicted cry'd,
"Occasion'd (I confess my shame)
By childishness and pride!

"For in a kiss, or two, or three,

No mischief could be found! Then had I been more frank and free, My china had been sound."

TO MR.

YES, Colin, 'tis granted, you flutter in lace,
You whisper and dance with the fair;
But merit advances, 'tis your's to give place;
Stand off, and at distance revere:

AN EULOGIUM ON MASONRY.
SPOKE BY MR. DIGGS, AT EDINBURGH.

SAY, can the garter, or the star of state,
That on the vain, or on the vicious wait,
Such emblems, with such emphasis impart,
As an insignium near the Mason's heart?
Hail sacred Masonry, of source divine,
Unerring mistress of the faultless line,
Whose plumb of Truth, with never-failing sway,
Makes the join'd parts of Symmetry obey!

Hail to the Craft, at whose serene command The gentle Arts in glad obedience stand: Whose magic stroke bids fell Confusion cease, And to the finish'd Orders yield its place; Who calls Creation from the womb of Earth, And gives imperial cities glorious birth.

To works of art her merit 's not confin'd, She regulates the morals, squares the mind

By her side as you saunter along;

And points the tide of passions where to roll; On Virtue's tablets marks each sacred rule,

that,

Nor lisp out the end of your song.

;

Where Nature's mystic laws unfolded stand, And Sense and Science, join'd, go hand in hand.

O! may her social rules instructive spread, Till Truth erect her long-neglected head; Till, through deceitful Night she dart her ray, And beam, full glorious, in the blaze of day ! Till man by virtuous maxims learn to move; Till all the peopled world her laws approve, And the whole human race be bound in brother's love.

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.

For faults that flow from habit more than nature, We'll blend, with honest mirth, some wholesome satire.

Now for our bark-the vessel 's tight and able! New built!-new rigg'd!-[Pointing to the scenes] with canvass-mast-and cable! Let her not sink,-or be unkindly stranded, Before the moral freight be fairly landed! For though with heart and hand we heave together, 'Tis your kind plaudit must command the weather: Nor halcyon seas,-nor gentle gales attend us, Till this fair circle with their smiles befriend us.

A PROLOGUE,

SPOKE AT THE OPENING OF THE THEATRE AT YORK, AFTER
IT WAS ELEGANTLY ENLARGED.

ONCE on a time his earthly rounds patrolling,
(Your heathen gods were always fond of strolling)
Jove rambled near the cot of kind Philemon,
When night, attended by a tempest, came on;
And as the rain fell pattering, helter skelter,
The deity implor'd the hind for shelter.

Philemon plac'd his godship close beside him,
While goody Baucis made the fire that dry'd him;
With more benevolence than one that 's richer,
He spread the board, he fill'd the friendly pitcher;
And, fond to give his guest a meal of pleasure,
Sung a rough song, in his rude country measure.
Jove was so pleas'd with these good-natur'd sallies,
Philemon's cot he conjur'd to a palace.

Taste, like great Jupiter, came here to try us, (Oft from the boxes we perceiv'd her spy us) Whether she lik'd us and our warm endeavours, Whether she found that we deserv'd her favours, I know not

but 'tis certain she commanded Our humble theatre should be expanded.

The orders she pronounc'd were scarcely ended, But, like Philemon's house, the stage extended : And thus the friendly goddess bids me greet ye; 'Tis in that circle [pointing to the boxes] she designs to meet ye:

Pedants would fix her residence with heathens,
But she prefers old York to Rome or Athens.

A PROLOGUE,

SPOKE AT THE OPENING AN ELEGANT LITTLE THEATRE

AT WHITBY.

FROM Shakspeare-Jonson-Congreve-Rowe

and others

The laurel'd list, the true Parnassian brothers!
Hither we 're sent, by their supreme direction,
To court your favour, and to claim protection.
Our hopes are flatter'd with the fair's compliance;
Beauty and Wit were always in alliance!
Their mutual sway reforms the rude creation,
And Taste 's determin'd by their approbation.

The tragic Muse presents a stately mirror,
Where Vice surveys her ugly form with terrour:
And as the fiend departs-abash'd-discarded-
Imperial Virtue 's with the palm rewarded.
The comic glass, from modern groups collected,
Shows fops and fools of every class-dissected:
It marks the fair coquet's unfaithful dealings,
And proves that haughty prudes may have their
failings.

A PROLOGUE,

ON OPENING THE THEATRE AT WHITBY THE ENSUING
SEASON.

O'ER the wild waves, unwilling more to roam,
And by his kind affections call'd for home;
When the bold youth that ev'ry climate tries
'Twixt the blue bosoms-'twixt the seas and skies—
When he beholds his native Albion near,
And the glad gale gives wings to his career,
What glowing ecstasies, by Fancy drest,
What filial sentiments expand his breast!
In the full happiness he forms on shore,
Doubts-dangers-and fatigues are felt no more.

Such are the joys that in our bosoms burn!
Such the glad hopes that glow at our return!
With such warm ardours you behold us meet,
To lay, once more, our labours at your feet.

(Not without hopes your patronage will last) We bend with gratitude for favours past. That our light bark defy'd the rage of winter, Rode ev'ry gale-nor started ev'n a splinter; We bow to Beauty-('twas those smiles secur'd her) And thank our patrons who so kindly moor'd her. Still-still-extend your gentle cares to save her, That she may anchor long in Whitby's—favour.

A PROLOGUE,

SPOKE IN THE CHARACTER OF A SAILOR, ON OPENING THE NEW THEATRE AT NORTH SHIELDS.

[Without. HOLLO! my masters, where d'ye mean to stow us? We're come to see what pastime ye can show us; Sal, step aloft-you shan't be long without me, I'll walk their quarter deck and look about me.

[Entert

Tom and Dick Topsail are above-I hear 'em, Tell 'em to keep a birth, and, Sal-sit near 'em : Sal's a smart lass-I 'd hold a butt of stingo In three weeks' time she'd learn the playhouse lingo: She loves your plays, she understands their meaning, She calls 'em-MORAL RULES made entertaining: Your Shakspeare books, she knows 'em to a tittle; And I, myself (at sea) have read-a little.

At London, sirs, when Sal and I were courting, I tow'd her ev'ry night a playhouse sporting: Mass! I could like 'em and their whole 'paratus, But for their fiddlers and their damn'd sonatas; Give me the merry sons of guts and rosin, That play-God save the King, and Nancy Daw[Looking about.

.son.

doyzen'd,

Tis snug enough!-'Tis clever for the size on 't:
And they can treat with all that's worth regarding
On board the Drury Lane or Common Garden.
[Bell rings.
Avast!-A signal for the lanch, I fancy :
What say you, Sam, and Dick, and Doll, and Nancy',
Since they have trimm'd the pleasure-barge so
tightly,

Sha'n't you, and I, and Sal, come see them nightly?
The jolly crew will do their best endeavours,
They'll grudge no labour to deserve your favours.
A luckier fate they swear can ne'er behap 'em
Than to behold you pleas'd, and hear you-clap 'em.

AN EPILOGUE,

SPOKE AT NORWICH, IN THE CHARACTER OF MRS. DEBORAH
WOODCOCK, IN LOVE IN A VILLAGE.

AFTER the dangers of a long probation,
When, Sybil like, she's skill'd in penetration;
When she has conquer'd each unruly passion,
And rides above the rocks that others dash on;
When deeply mellow'd with reserve and rigour,
When decent gravity adorns her figure,
Why an old maid, I wish the wise would tell us,
Should be the standing jest of flirts and fellows!

In maxims sage! in eloquence how clever!
Without a subject she can talk -for ever!
Rich in old saws, can bring a sentence pat in,
And quote, upon occasion, lawyer's latin.

Set up that toast, that culprit, nobus corum, 'Tis done-and she 's demolish'd in turorum. If an old maid's a dragoness on duty, To guard the golden fruit of rip'ning beauty; "Tis right, for fear the giddy sex should wander, To keep them in restraint by decent slander. When slips are made, 'tis easy sure to find 'em ; We can detect before the fair design'd them.

As for the men, whose satire oft bath stung us, Many there are that may be rank'd among us. LAW, with long suits and busy mischiefs laden, In rancour far exceeds the ancient maiden. 'Tis undeny'd, and the assertion's common, That modern PHYSIC is a mere old woman. The puny fop that simpers o'er his tea dish, And cries,-" Indeed-Miss Deb'rah 's- quite old Of doubtful sex, of undetermin'd nature, [maidish!" In all respects is but a virgin cretur.

Jesting apart, and moral truths adjusting! There's nothing in the state itself disgusting; Old maids, as well as matrons bound in marriage, Are valu'd from propriety of carriage: If gentle sense, if sweet discretion guide 'em, It matters not though coxcombs may deride 'em ; And virtue's virtue, be she maid or wedded, A certain truth! say- -Deb'rah Woodcock said it.

This was the plan propos'd by our compiler. Though Caution told him-the presumption 's glaring!

Dauntless, he cry'd, "It is but nobly daring!
Can we peruse a pathos more than Attic,
Nor wish the golden measure stamp'd dramatic!
Here are no lines-in measur'd pace that trip it,
No modern scenes-so lifeless! so insipid!
Wrought by a Muse-(no sacred fire debarr'd her)
'Tis nervous! noble! 'tis true northern ardour!

"Methinks I hear the Grecian bards exclaiming, (The Grecian bards no longer worth the naming) In song, the northern tribes so far surpass us, One of their Highland hills they 'll call Parnassus; And from the sacred mount decrees should follow, That Ossian was himself-the true Apollo."

Spite of this flash-this high poetic fury,
He trembles for the verdict of his jury:
As from his text he ne'er presum'd to wander,
But gives the native Ossian to your candour,
To an impartial judgment we submit him,
Condemn-or rather (if you can) acquit him.

AN

EPILOGUE TO THE MUSE OF OSSIAN.

IN fond romance let Fancy reign creative!
Valour among the northern hills is native;
The northern hills, 'tis prov'd by Ossian's story,
Gave early birth to Caledonian glory;
Nor could the stormy clime, with all its rigour,
Repel, in love or war, the hero's vigour.

When bonour call'd, the youth disdain'd to ponder,
And as he fought, the fav'rite maid grew fonder.
The brave, by beauty were rejected never,
For girls are gracious when the lads are clever.

If the bold youth was in the field vindictive, The bard, at home, had ev'ry power descriptive; He swell'd the sacred song, enhanc'd the story, And rais'd the warrior to the skies of glory.

That northern lads are still unconquer'd fellows, The foes of Britain to their cost can tell us ; The sway of northern beauty, if disputed, Look round, ye infidels, and stand confuted: And for your bards, the letter'd world have known 'eni,

They're such-the sacred Ossian can't disown 'em.

To prove a partial judgment does not wrong you, And that your usual candour reigns among you, Look with indulgence on this crude endeavour, And stamp it with the sanction of your favour.

AN EPILOGUE,
SPOKE IN THE character of LADY TOWNLEY, IN THE
PROVOKED HUSBAND.

Ar lady-let me recollect-whose night is 't?
No matter at a circle the politest;
Taste summons all the satire she is able,
And canvasses my conduct to the table.

"A wife reclaim'd, and by an husband's rigour! A wife with all her appetites in vigour ! Lard! she must make a lamentable figure! "Where was her pride? Of ev'ry spark divested! To mend, because a prudish husband press'd it!

What to prefer his dull domestic quiet,
To the dear scenes of hurricane and riot!
Parties disclaim'd, the happy rout rejected!
Because at ten she's by her spouse expected!
Oh, hideous! how immensely out of nature!
Don't you, my dears, despise the servile creature?"
Prudence, although the company be good,
Is often heard, and sometimes understood.
Suppose, to justify my reformation,
She'd give the circle this concise oration.
"Ye giddy group of fashionable wives,
That in continued riot waste your lives;
Did ye but see the demons that descend,
The cares convulsive that on cards attend;
The midnight spectres that surround your chairs,
(Rage reddens here-there Avarice despairs)
You'd rush for shelter where contentment lies,
To the domestic blessings you despise.

"Or if you 've no regard to moral duty, ('Tis trite but true)—quadrille will murder beauty." Taste is abash'd, (the culprit) I'm acquitted, They praise the character they lately pity'd; They promise to reform-relinquish play, So break the tables up at-break of day.

To quell Adversity-or turn her darts,
To stamp fraternity on gen'rous hearts:
For these high motives-these illustrious ends,
Celestial Charity to night descends.

Soft are the graces that adorn the maid,
Softer than dew-drops to the sun-burnt glade!
She's gracious as an unpolluted stream,
And tender as a fond young lover's dream!
Pity and Peace precede her as she flies,
And Mercy beams benignant in her eyes!
From her high residence, from realms above,
She comes, sweet harbinger of heavenly love!
Her sister's charms are more than doubly
bright,

From the kind cause that call'd her here to night.
An artless grace the conscious heart bestows,
And on the generous cheek a tincture glows,
More lovely than the bloom that paints the vernal

rose.

The lofty pyramid shall cease to live' Fleeting the praise such monuments can give! But Charity, by tyrant Time rever'd, Sweet Charity, amidst his ruins spar'd, Secures her votaries unblasted fame, And in celestial annals saves their name.

AN EPILOGUE,

SPOKE AT EDINBURGH, IN THE CHARACTER OF LADY
FANCIFUL.

FANCY, we 're told, of parentage Italic,
And Folly, whose original is Gallic,
Set up to sale their vast misshapen daughter,
And Britain, by a large subscription, bought her.
The fertile soil grew fond of this exotic,
And nurs'd her, till her pow'r became despotic;
Till ev'ry would-be beauty in the nation
Did homage at the shrine of Affectation.
But Common-Sense will certainly dethrone her,
And (like the fair-ones of this place) disown her.
If she attempts the dimpled smile, delightful!
The dimpled smile of Affectation's frightful:
Mark but her bagatelles-her whine-her whim-

per

Her loll-her lisp her saunter, stare-her simper;

All outrés, all-no native charm about her,
And Ridicule would soon expire without her.

Look for a grace, and Affectation hides it;
If Beauty aims an arrow, she misguides it:
So awkwardly she mends unmeaning faces,
To Insipidity she gives-grimaces.

Without her dear coquetish arts to aid 'em, Fine ladies would be just as-Nature made 'em, Such sensible-sincere-domestic creatures, The jest of modern belles, and petit maitres. Safe with good sense, this circle 's not in danger, But as the foreign phantom 's-here a stranger, I gave her portrait, that the fair may know her, And if they meet, be ready to forego her; For trust me, ladies, she 'd deform your faces, And with a single glance destroy the graces.

AN EULOGIUM ON CHARITY.

SPOKE AT ALNWICK, IN NORTHUMBERLAND, AT A CHARI-
TABLE BENEFIT PLAY, 1765.

To bid the rancour of Ill-fortune cease,
To tell Anxiety-I give thee peace,

AN EPILOGUE,

DESIGNED TO BE SPOKE AT ALNWICK, ON RESIGNING THE PLAYHOUSE TO A PARTY DETACHED FROM THE EDINBURGH THEATRE.

To Alnwick's lofty seat, a sylvan scene! To rising hills from distance doubly green, "Go," says the god of wit, "my standard bear, These are the mansions of the great and fair', 'Tis my Olympus now, go spread my banners there."

Led by fond Hope, the pointed path we trace, And thank'd our patron for the flowery place; Here-we behold a gently waving wood! There we can gaze upon a wand'ring flood!

The landscape smiles!—the fields gay fragrance

wear!

Soft scenes are all around-refreshful air!
Slender repast indeed, and but cameleon fare!

A troop, at certain times compell'd to shift,
And from their northern mountains turn'd adrift;
By tyrant managers a while consign'd,
To fatten on what forage they can find ;
With lawless force our liberty invades,
And fain would thrust us from these fav'rite shades;
But we (since Prejudice erects her scale,
And puffs and petty artifice prevail)

To stronger holds with cool discretion run,
And leave the conquerors to be-undone.

With gratitude, still we 'll acknowledge the fa

vours

So kindly indulg'd to our simple endeavours;
To the great and the fair we rest thankfully debtors,
And wish we could say, we gave place to our betters.

The countess of Northumberland, who honoured the charity with her presence.

The earl and countess of Northumberland, lord and lady Warkworth, &c.