A time there was, when glory was my guide, My pride forbids it ever should be said,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside; My heels eclips'd the honours of my head;
Unaw'd by pow'r, and unappall'd by fear, That I found humour in a pyeball vest,
With honest thrift I held my honour dear; Or ever thought that jumping was a jest,
But this vile hour disperses all my store,

[Takes off his mask. And all my hoard of honour is no more;

Whence and what art thou, visionary birth? For, ah! too partial to my life's decline, Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth : Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine; In thy black aspect every passion sleeps, Him I obey, whom Heav'n himself obeys, The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps. Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin'd to please. How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood, Here then at once I welcome ev'ry shame, Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu'd ! And cancel at threescore a life of fame;

Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
No more my titles shall my children tell, Whoše only plot it is to break our noses ;
The old buffoon will fit my name as well; . Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise,
This day beyond its term my fate extends, And from above the dangling deities.
For life is ended when our bonour ends.

And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew ?
May rosin'd lightning blast me, if I do?

No I will act-I'll vindicate the stage: PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. ZOBEIDE.

Off! off! vile trappings ! a new passion reigns !

The mad'ning monarch revels in my veins. In these bold times, when learning's sons ex- Ob ! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme : plore

“Give ine another horse! bind up my wounds! The distant climates, and the savage shore ;

soft-twas but a dreain." (treating ; When wise astronomers to India steer,

Aye, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no reAnd quit for Venus many a brighter here; If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, 'Twas thusthat Ásop's stag, a creature blameless, Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling; Yet something vain, like one that shall be name. Our bard into the general spirit enters,

Once on the margin of a fountain stood, (less, And fits his little frigate for adventures.

And cavill'd at his image in the flood. With Scythian stores and trinkets deeply laden,

“ The deuce confound,” he cries, “ these drumHe this way steers his course, in hopes of trad

stick shanks, ing

They neither have my gratitude nor thanks; Yet ere he lands has order'd me before,

They're perfectly disgraceful ! strike me dead ! To make an observation on the shore.

But for a head-yes, yes, I have a head. Where are we driven our reck’ning sure is lost! How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow! This seems a rocky and a dangʻrous coast.

My horns ! - I'm told horns are the fashion now." Lord! what a sultry climate am I under!

Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd ! to his view, Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder: Near, and more near, the hounds and buntsmen

(Upper gallery.
drew.

[nind. There mangroves spread, and larger than I've Hoicks ! hark forward! came thund'ring froin bea seen 'em[Pit. He bounds aloft, outstrips the flecting

wind : Here trees of stately size and billing turtles in He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways; 'em

[Balconies. He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze. Here ill-condition'd oranges abound- [Stage. At length his silly head, so priz'd before, And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground: Is taught his former folly to deplore;

[Tasting them. Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free, Th' inhabitants are cannibals I fear.

And at one bound he saves himself, like me. I heard a hissing—there are serpents here!

[Taking ajump through the stage door, O, there the people are—best keep my distance: Our captain (gentle natives) craves assistance; Our ship's well stor'd-in yonder creek we've

EPILOGUE laid her, His honour is no mercenary trader.

TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS. This is his first adventure ; lend him aid,

What! five long acts-and all to make us wiser ! And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought Had she consulted me, she should have made

Our authoress, sare, has wanted an adviser. from far,

Her moral play a speaking masquerade ; Equally fit for gallantry and war,

Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage What, no reply to promises so ample?

Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. -I'd best step back-and order up a sample.

My life on't, ibis bad kept her play from sinking;

[thinking. EPILOGUE,

Have pleas'd our eyes, and sav'd the pain of

Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill, SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES,

What if I give a masquerade ?-1 will. IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT. But how ? aye, there's the rub ! [pausing ]—I've Hold!

got my cue: prompter, hold! a word before your non

The world's a masquerade ! the masquers, you, sense ;

you, you. [To Eoxes, Pit, and Gallery. I'd speak a word or two to ease my conscience.

MISS CATLEY.

MRS. BULKLEY.

MISS CATLEY.

MRS. BILKLEY.

RECITATIVE.

1

AIR-COTILLON.

Da capo.

Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses ! | Besides, a singer in a comic set !
False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false Excuse me, ma'am; I know the etiquette.

spouses !
Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em, What if we leave it to the house?
Patriots, in party-colour'd suits, that ride 'em.
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more The house !-Agreed.
To raise a fame in Cupids of threescore.
These in their turn, with appetites as keen, Agreed.
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.
Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, And she, whose party's largest, shall proceed.
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the wo- And first, I hope, you'll readily agree
man ;

I've all the critics and the wits for ine. The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure, They, lam sure, will answer my commands; And tries to kill, ere she's got pow'r to cure. Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands : Thus 'tis with all their chief and constant care What, no return? I find too late, I fear, Is to seem ev'ry thing but what they are.

That modem judges seldom enter here, Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,

MISS CATLEY. Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion ; I'm for a diff'rent set-Old men, whose trade is Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round still to gallant and dangle with the ladies.

parade, Looking, as who should say, damme! who's Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smilafraid? (Mimicking:

ing, Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am

Still thus address the fair, with voice beguiling: You'll find his ! onship a very lamb. Yon politician, famous indebate,

Turn my fairest, turn, if ever Perhaps to vulgar eyes bestrides the state;

Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye: Yet when he deigns his real shape t'assume,

Pity take on your swain so clever, He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.

Who without your aid must die. Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,

Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu,
And seems to ev'ry gazer all in white,

Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho.
If with a bribe his candour you attack,
He bows, turns round, and whip—the man's in

MRS. BULKLEY
black !

Let all the old pay homage to your merit : Yon critic, too—but whither do I run?

Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit. If I proceed, our bard will be undone!

Ye travell’d tribe, ye macaroni train,
Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too: Of French friseurs, and nosegays, justly vaio;
Do you spare her, and I'll for ouce spare you. Who take a trip to Paris once a year,

To dress, and look like aukward Frenchmen bere;
Lend me your hands.--O fatal news to tell,

Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle !
EPILOGUE

MISS CATLEY.

Ay, take your travellers, travellers indeed! SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY.

Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Enter Mrs. Bull-ley, who curtsies very low as be

Tweed. ginning to speak. Then enter Miss Catley, Where are the cheels ? Ah, ah, I well discern who stands full before her, and curlsies to the The smiling looks of each bewitching bairne: audience.

A bonny young lad is my Jockey.

AIR.
MRS. BULK LEY.

I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day, Hord, ma'am, your pardon. What's your bu. And be unco merry when you are but gay; siness here >

When you with your bagpipes are ready to play,

My voice shall be ready to carol away, The epilogue.

With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey,

With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey. The epilogue ?

Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit, Yes, the epilogue, my dear.

Make but of all your fortune one va toute :

Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, Sure you mistake, ma'am. The epilogue I bring “I hold the odds— Done, done, with you, with it.

Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, [you."

“My lord-your lordship misconceives the case;"' Excuse me, ma'am. The author bid me sing it. Doctors, who answer every misfortuner,

I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner :" Ye beaux and belles, that form this spleudid ring, | Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, Suspend your conversation while I sing. Come end the contest here, and aid my paity.

AIR-BALEINAMONY. Why sure the girl's beside herself: an epilogue

MISS CATLEY. of singing,

Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack, A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning. Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack,

MISS CATLEY.

MRS. BULKLEY.

MRS. BULKLBY.

MISS CATLEY.

MRS. BULKLEY.

MISS CATLEY.

RECITATIVE.

MRS. BULKLEY.

For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack, | Yes, he's far gone :--and yet some pity fix,
When the ladies are calling, to blush, and hang The English laws forbid to punish lunatics '.

back:
For you're always polite and attentive,
Still to arouse us inventive,
And death is your only preventive:

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS.
Your hands and your voices for me.

MRS. BULKLEY.

SACRED TO TIE MEMORY OF HER LATE

ROYAL HIGHNESS THE

PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.

Well, madam, what if, after all this sparring,
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?

MISS CATLEY.
And that our friendship may remain unbroken,
What if we leave the epilogue unspoken?

SPOKEN AND SUNG IN THE GREAT ROOM IN SOHO

SQUARE,

MRS. BULKLEY.

Thursday the 20th of February 1772.

Agreed.

MISS CATLEY.

Agreed.

MRS. BULKLEY.
And now, with Jate repentance,
Un-epilogued the poet waits his sentence :
Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit
To thrive by fatt'ry, though he starves by wit.

[Exeunt.

ADVERTISEMENT. The following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius.

In justice to the composer it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music was adapted in a period of time equally short.

EPILOGUE,

INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY.

SPEAKERS.

SINGERS

OVERTURE-A SOLEMN DIRGE.

CHORUS.

There is a place, so Ariosto sings,

Mr. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy. A treasury for lost and missing things : Lost human wits have places there assign'd them, And they, who lose their senses, there may find | Mr. Champnes, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson.

them. But where's this place, this storehouse of the age ?

The music prepared and adapted by Signor

Vento.
The Moon, says he :--but I affirm, the Stage :
At least in many things, I think, I see
His lunar and our mimic world agree.

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS.
Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the Sun goes down,
Both prone to change, no settled limits tix,

AIR-TRIO.
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
But in this parallel my best pretence is,

Arise, ye sons of worth, arise,
That mortals visit both to find their senses. And waken every note of woe !
To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits, When truth and virtue reaeh the skies,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits. 'Tis ours to weep the want below.
The gay coquet, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,

When truth and virtue, &c.
Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing,
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson. The praise attending pomp and power,
The gamester too, whose wit's all high or low, The incense given to kings,
Oft risques his fortune on one desperate throw, Are but the trappings of an hour,
Comes here to saunter, baving made bis bets, Mere transitory things.
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts. The base bestow them : but the good agree
The Mohawk too-with angry phrases stor’d, To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.--
As “Dam'me, sir," and, “ sir, I wear a sword;" But when to pomp and power are join'd
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating, An equal dignity of mind:
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. When titles are the smallest claim:
Here come the sons of scandal and of news, When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,
But find no sense—for they had none to lose. But aid the power of doing good,
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser, Then all their trophies last—and pattery turns
Our author's the least likely to grow wiser;

to fame.
Has he not seen how you your favour place
On sentimental queens and lords in lace?
Without a star, or coronet, or garter,

This epilogue was given in MS. by Dr. GoldHow can the piece expect or hope for quarter ? smith to Dr. Percy (now Bishop of Dromore); No high-lite scenes, no sentiment :-the creature but for what comedy it was intended is not reStill stoops among the low to copy nature. membered.

MAX SPEAKER.

SONG.

WOMAN SPEAKER

Blest spirit thou, whose faine, just born to

"MAN SPEAKER. bloom,

Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example, Shall spread and fourish from the tomb,

Teach us to estimate what all must suffer: How hast thou left mankind for Hearen!

Let us prize death as the best gift of nature, Even now reproach and faction mour, And, wondering how their rage was born,

As a safe inn where weary travellers,

When they have journey'd thro' a world of cares, Request to be forgiven!

May put off life and be at rest for ever,
Alas! they never had thy hate:
Unmov'd in conscious rectitude,

Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sa

bles, Thy towering mind self-centred stood,

May oft distract us with their sad solemnity. Nor wanted man's opinion to be great. In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,

The preparation is the executioner.

Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face, A thousand gifts wouid fortune send :

And is a terrour only at a distance:
In vain, to drive thee from the right,

For as the line of life conducts me on
A thousand sorrows urged thy end :
Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience

To death's great court, the prospect seems more stood,

fair, And purchased strength from its increasing load. To take

us in when we have drain'd the cup

'Tis nature's kind retreat, that's always open Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free, Amfiction still is virtue's opportunity!

Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.

In that secure, serene retreat, Virtue on herself relying,

Where all the humble, all the great, Every passion hush'd to rest,

Promiscuously recline : Loses every pain of dying

Where wildly huddled to the eye, In the hopes of being blest.

The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie, Every added pang she sntfers,

May every bliss be thine. Some increasing good bestows,

And ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,
And every shock that malice offers,
Only rocks her to repose.

Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest,

May saints with songs receire thee to their rest,
BY A MANAFFSTUOSO.
Virtue on herself relying, &c.

May peace that claim'd while here thy warmest

love, to

May blissful endless peace be thine above Only rocks her to repose.

SONG. Yet ah! what terrours frown'd upon her fate,

Lovely lasting Peace below, Death with its formidable band,

Comforter of every woe, Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,

Heavenly born and bred on high, Determined took their stand.

To crown the favourites of tbe sky; Nor did the cruel ravagers design

Lovely lasting Peace appear, To finish all their efforts at a blow :

This world itself, if thou art here, But, mischievously slow,

Is once again with Eden blest,
They rob'd the relic and defac'd the shrine.--

And man contains it in his breast.
With unavailing grief,
Despairing of relief,
Her weeping children round,
Beheld each hour

Our vows are heard ! Long, long to mortal eyes, Death's growing pow'r,

Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies : And trembled as he frown'd.

Celestial-like her bounty fell, As helpless friends who view from shore

Where modest want and patient sorrow drell, The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar, Want pass'd for merit at her door, While winds and waves their wishes cross : Unseen the modest were supplied, They stood while hope and comfort fail,

Her constant pity fed the poor, Not to assist, but to bewail

Then only poor, indeed, the day she died. The inevitable loss.

And oh! for this! while sculpture decks tby Relentless tyrant, at thy call

shrine, How do the good, the virtuous fall!

And art exbausts profusion round,
Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage, The tribute of a tear be mine,
But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage. A simple song, a sigh profound.

There Faith shall come, a pilgrim grey,
BY A MAN-BASSO, STACCATO, SFIRITUOSO.

To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay:
When vice my dart and scythe supply,

And calm Religion shall repair How great a king of terrours I !

To dwell a weeping hermit there. If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,

Trutli, Fortitude, and Friendship, shall agree' Treinble ye mortals at my rage !

To blend their virtues while they think of thee. Fall, round me fall, ye little things, Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings?

CHORUS- POMPOSO. If virtue fail her counsel sage,

Let us, let all the world agree, Tremble, ye murtals, at my rage !

To profit by resembling thee.

BY A WOMAN-AMOROSO.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

SONG.

AIR.

MAN SPEAKER.

SONG. BY A WOMAN.

MAN SPEAKER.

But all my wants, before I spoke,
PART II.

Were to my mistress known;
OVERTURE. PASTORALE.

She still reliev'd, nor sought my praise,
Contented with her own.

But every day her name I'll bless, Fast by that shore where Thames' translucent My morning prayer, my evening song, stream

I'll praise her while my life shall last,
Reflects new glories on his breast,

A life that cannot last me long.
Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream,
He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest:
Where sculptur'd elegance and native grace

Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless,
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place: My morning and my evening song,
While, sweetly blending, still are seen

And when in death my vows shall cease,
The wavy lawn, the sloping green:

My children shall the note prolong.
While novelty, with cautious cunning,
Through every maze of fancy running,
From China borrows aid to deck the scene : The hardy veteran after struck the sight,
There sorrowing by the river's glassy bed, Scarr'd, mangl'd, maim'd in every part,
Forlorn, a rural bard complain’d,

Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight, All whom AUGUSTA's bounty fed,

In nought entire except his heart: All whom her clemency sustain'd;

Mute for a while, and sullenly distress'd, The good old sire, unconscious of decay,

At last the impetuous sorrow fir'd his breast.
The modest matron, clad in home-spun grey, Wild is the whirlwind rolling
The military boy, the orphan'd maid,

O'er Afric's sandy plain,
The shatter'd veteran, now first dismay'd; And wild the tempest howling
These sadly join beside the murmuring deep, Along the billow'd main :
And as they view the towers of Kew,

But every danger felt before,
Call on their mistress, now no more, and weep. The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar,

Less dreadful struck me with dismay,
CHORUS.-AFFETTUOSO, LARGO.

Than what I feel this fatal day.
Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,

Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave, Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes,

Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave;

I'll seek that less inhospitable coast,
Let all your echoes now deplore,
That she who form'd your beauties is no more.

And lay my body where my limbs were lost.

SONG.

BY A MAN, BASSO SPIRITUOSO.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

MAN SPEAKER.
First of the train the patient rustic came,

Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Whose callous hand had form’d the scene,

Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field,
Bending at once with sorrow and with age, To do thy memory right:
With many a tear, and many a sigh between,

For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel, “ And where," he cried, “shall now my babes Again they snatch the gleamy steel, have bread,

And wish the avenging fight.
Or how shall age support its feeble fire ?
No lord will take me now, my vigour fled,
Nor can my strength perform what they require: In innocence and youth complaining,
Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare,
A sleek and idle race is all their care:

Next appear'd a lovely maid,

Affliction o'er each feature reigning,
My noble mistress thought not so !
Her bounty, like the morning dew,

Kindly came in beauty's aid ;
Unseen, tho' constant, used to flow,

Rvery grace that grief dispenses,
And as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew." | Every glance that warms the soul,

In sweet succession charms the senses,
While pity harmoniz'd the whole,

(say,)

" The garland of beauty" ('tis thus she would In decent dress, and coarsely clean,

“ No more shall my crook or my temples adorn, The pious matron next was seen,

I'll not wear a garland, AUGUSTA's away, Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne, I'll not wear a garland until she return: By use and daily meditation worn;

But alas ! that return I never shall see: That decent dress, this holy guide,

The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim, Augusta's care had well supply'd.

There promis'd a lover to come, but, oh me! And ah! she cries, all woe begone,

'Twas death,'twas the death of my mistress that What now remains for me? Oh! where shall weeping want repair

But ever,

for ever, her image shall last, To ask for charity?

I'll strip all the Spring of its earliest bloom; Too late in life for me to ask,

On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be And shame prevents the deed,

cast, and tardy, tardy are the times

And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her To succour, should I need.

tomb.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

came.