CIBBER'S IRONICAL LINES ON HIMSELF.

(In reply to the assertion of his enemies that he had written praises of his own genius.)

AH! bah! Sir Coll, is that thy way,

Thine own dull praise to write?

And wouldn't thou stand so sure a lay?
No, that's too stale a bite.

Nature and Art in thee combine,

Thy talents here excel,

All shining Brass thou dost outshine
To play the cheat so well.

Who sees thee in Iago's part,

But thinks thee such a rogue?

And is not glad with all his heart,

To hang so sad a dog?

When Bayes thou playest, Thyself thou art;
For that by Nature fit,

No blockhead better suits the part,

Than such a Coxcomb wit.

In Wronghead too, thy Brains we see,
Who might do well at Plough;
As fit for Parliament was he,

As for the Laurel, Thou!

Bring thy protected verse from Court,
And try it on the Stage;

Here it will make much better sport

And set the town in rage.

There Beaux and Wits and Cits and Smarts,

Where Hissing's not uncivil,

Will show their hearts to thy deserts

And send them to the Devil.

But ah! in vain, 'gainst Thee we write,
In vain thy verse we maul,
Our sharpest Satyr's thy Delight,
For Blood! thou'lt stand it all.

Thunder, 'tis said the Laurel spares;
Nought but Thy brows could blast it;
And yet, O curst, provoking Stars!
Thy comfort is, thou hast it.

WHAT

OF

THE BLIND BOY.

O SAY what is that thing call'd Light,
Which I must ne'er enjoy;

What are the blessings of the Light,
O tell your poor blind boy!

You talk of wondrous things you see,
You say the sun shines bright;
I feel him warm, but how can he
Or make it day or night?

My day or night myself I make
Whene'er I sleep or play;
And could I ever keep awake
With me 'twere always day.

With heavy sighs I often hear
You mourn my hapless woe;
But sure with patience I can bear
A loss I ne'er can know.

Then let not what I cannot have
My cheer of mind destroy,
Whilst this I sing, I am a king
Although a poor blind boy.

FROM SHE WOU'D AND SHE WOU'D NOT.

This business will never hold water.

FROM WOMAN'S WIT.

Possession is eleven points in the law.
Words are but empty thanks.

FROM LOVE'S LAST SHIFT.

As good be out of the world as out of the fashion.

We shall find no fiend in hell can match the fury of a disappointed woman-scorned! slighted! dismissed without a parting pang.

FROM THE RIVAL FOOLS.

Stolen sweets are best.

FROM CÆSAR IN EGYPT.

Is there a crime

Beneath the roof of heaven, that stains the soul
Of man with more infernal hue than damn'd

Assassination?

How sudden are the blows of fate! what change,
What revolution, in the state of glory!

Oh! had he ever lov'd, he would have thought

The worst of torture bliss, to silent parting.

Virtue never is defac'd! unchanged

By strokes of fate, she triumphs o'er distress,
And every bleeding wound adorns her beauty.

FROM RICHARD III.

LIFE'S but a short chase, our game-content.
Which most pursued, is most compelled to fly :
And he that mounts him on the swiftest hope,
Shall soonest run his courser to a stand;
While the poor peasant from some distant hill,
Undanger'd and at ease, views all the sport,
And sees content take shelter in his cottage.

Why now my golden dream is out—
Ambition, like an early friend, throws back
My curtains with an eager hand, o’erjoyed
To tell me what I dreamt is true-a crown,
Thou bright reward of ever-daring minds;
Oh! how thy awful glory fills my soul!

Nor can the means that got thee dim thy lustre;

For, not men's love, fear pays thee adoration,

And fame not more survives from good than evil deeds.

Th' aspiring youth that fir'd th' Ephesian dome,

Outlives in fame the pious fool that rais'd it.