Suppofe Old Nick, before you righteous folk,
Produce a farce, brim-full of mirth and joke;
Tho' he, at other times, wou'd fire your blood;
You'd clap his piece, and fwear, 'twas devilish good!
Malice propenfe! '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 difpute,
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 bumbailiff, 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 most will require,
That Cous, 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.
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 hè fhould prove, if it content you;
That he be one of thofe who reprefent you;
The fate poetic, laws and legislature,
Like the political, in form and nature;
Phoebus, the nine, and bards of reputation,
King, peerage, commons, of the fcribbling nation.
Now, from Parnaffus' throne, the prince of wit,
It seems, hath 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 houfe is feated-
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 controul,
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 burgefs-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 unadvised scheme afide,
And frankly own himself not qualified.
EPILOGUE, Spoken by Mrs. CLIVE.
W Among the learned fons of Warwick-lane,
HATEVER difcord and diforder reign
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 wifdom we acknow
The fellows 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 licencé, make a doctor pray.
Suppofe this gown a fuit of velvet, plain,
With a gold button; and this fan-a cane;
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 licentiate fellow-what you will
I'll feel your pulfes all, and prove my skill.
The pulfes of the boxes firft I'll feel,
And by their beating will their thoughts reveal.
(he acts the doctor feeling a pulse.)
Languid, and low-Wildman's old-fashion'd story
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 worfe, with raking,
And then return-he was not worth the taking.
As for the pulfes of my friends above,
They thump for joy-when fpouses 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 he 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 fhaken;
If you perceive fome character, and wit,
With plot and humour-quantum fufficit;
Mixt up with fal volatile of fatire:
Let it quotidie note repetatur;
Tis by our noftrums you are kept alive ;
Purfue the regimen of Doctor Clive.
A PASTORAL. In the Modern Style.
ENEATH the umbrageous fhadow of a fhade,
Where glowing foliage on the surface play'd,
And golden roses 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 fpring;
While from th' alternate margin of an oak,
A woodland Naiad thus meandring spoke.
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 chatter far
Than Cupid's painted thafts, 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 blufh'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 landfcape ftampt with lyric boats,
Ah, no far hence thy aromatic strains
Recoil, and beautify our vaulted plains.
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 pass
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 spotless tygers harmonize the floods
Ev'n Thetis fmooths her brow, and laughs to fee
Kind nature weep, in fymphony with me.
This young conundrum let me firft propole,
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 blushes 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?
But fee, Aquarius fills his ample vafe,
And Taurus warbles to Vitruvian laws :
So, crab-like Cancer all her fpeed affumes,
And Virgo, ftill a maid, elaftic blooms.
My rofe-lipt ewes in myftic wonder stand
To hear me fing, and court my conscious hand.
Adieu, my goats; for ne'er fhall rural mufe
Your philofophic beards to ftroke refuse.
An Ironical Eulogium on IGNORANCE. By Dr. CLANCY, of Durrow, in Ireland.
Quanto rectius eft fe plane nihil fcire confiteri,
Knowledge, that woeful source 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 inftinct move,
And from its dictates never rove;
But always fteadily pursue
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 ftuff that loads their brain,
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