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A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
Unaw'd by pow'r, and unappall'd by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honour dear;
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honour is no more;
For, ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine;
Him I obey, whom Heav'n himself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin'd to please.
Here then at once I welcome ev'ry shame,
And cancel at threescore a life of fame;
No more my titles shall my children tell,
The old buffoon will fit my name as well;
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honour ends.

My pride forbids it ever should be said,
My heels eclips'd the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a pyeball vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest,
[Takes off his mask,
Whence and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth:
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood,
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu❜d!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities.
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.

In these bold times, when learning's sons ex-
plore

The distant climates, and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling;
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian stores and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trad-
ing-

Yet ere he lands has order'd me before,
To make an observation on the shore.
Where are we driven? our reck'ning sure is lost!
This seems a rocky and a dang'rous coast.
Lord! what a sultry climate am I under!
Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder:
[Upper gallery.
There mangroves spread, and larger than I've
seen 'em-
[Pit.
Here trees of stately size-and billing turtles in
'em-
[Balconies.
Here ill-condition'd oranges abound- [Stage.
And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground:
[Tasting them.

Th' inhabitants are cannibals I fear.
I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!
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
laid her,

His honour is no mercenary trader.
This is his first adventure; lend him aid,
And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.
His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought
from far,

Equally fit for gallantry and war.
What, no reply to promises so ample?
-I'd best step back-and order up a sample.

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Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns!
The mad'ning monarch revels in my veins.
Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme:
"Give me another horse! bind up my wounds!-
soft-'twas but a dreain." [treating;
Aye, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no re-
'Twas thus that sop's stag, a creature blameless,
If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.
Yet something vain, like one that shall be name-
Once on the margin of a fountain stood, [less,
And cavill'd at his image in the flood.
"The deuce confound," he cries, "these drum-
stick shanks,

drew.

They neither have my gratitude nor thanks;
They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead!
But for a head-yes, yes, I have a head.
How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow!
My horns! I'm told horns are the fashion now."
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen
Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd! to his view,
Hoicks! hark forward! came thund'ring from be-
[nind.
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind:
He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze.
At length his silly head, so priz'd before,
Is taught his former folly to deplore;
Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,
And at one bound he saves himself, like me.
[Taking ajump through the stage door.

EPILOGUE

TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS.

WHAT! five long acts—and all to make us wiser!

Had she consulted me, she should have made
Our authoress, sure, has wanted an adviser.
Her moral play a speaking masquerade;
Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
My life on't, this had kept her play from sink-
[thinking.

ing;
Have pleas'd our eyes, and sav'd the pain of
Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill,
What if I give a masquerade?-1 will.
But how? aye, there's the rub! [pausing]-I've
got my cue:

The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, you, you. [To Eozes, Pit, and Gallery.

Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses! | False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!

Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em,
Patriots, in party-colour'd suits, that ride 'em.
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore.
These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.

Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the wo-

man ;

The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,
And tries to kill, ere she's got pow'r to cure.
Thus 'tis with all-their chief and constant care
Is to seem ev'ry thing but what they are.
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion;
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round
parade,

Looking, as who should say, damme! who's
afraid?
[Mimicking.

1

Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am
You'll find his "onship a very lamb.
Yon politician, famous in debate,
Perhaps to vulgar eyes bestrides the state;
Yet when he deigns his real shape t' assume,
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,
And seems to ev'ry gazer all in white,
If with a bribe his candour you attack,
He bows, turns round, and whip-the man's in
black!

Yon critic, too-but whither do I run?
If I proceed, our bard will be undone !
Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too:
Do you spare her, and I'll for ouce spare you.

EPILOGUE

SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY.

Enter Mrs. Bulkley, who curtsies very low as beginning to speak. Then enter Miss Catley, who stands full before her, and curtsies to the audience.

MRS. BULKLEY.

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I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day,

HOLD, ma'am, your pardon. What's your bu- And be unco merry when you are but gay;

siness here?

MISS CATLEY.

The epilogue.

MRS. BULKLEY.

The epilogue?

MISS CATLEY.

Yes, the epilogue, my dear.

MRS. BULKLEY.

When you with your bagpipes are ready to play,
My voice shall be ready to carol away,

With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey,
With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey.

MRS. BULKLEY.

Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,
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.

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Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, [you." "My lord-your lordship misconceives the case:" Doctors, who answer every misfortuner, "I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner :" Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, Come end the contest here, and aid my party.

AIR-BALEINAMONY.

MISS CATLEY.

Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack, Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack,

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'.

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But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?
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.
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 fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
But in this parallel my best pretence is,
That mortals visit both to find their senses.
To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.
The gay coquet, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
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 gamester too, whose wit's all high or low,
Oft risques his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk too-with angry phrases stor'd,
As "Dam'me, sir," and, "sir, I wear a sword;"
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here come the sons of scandal and of news,
But find no sense-for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,
Our author's the least likely to grow wiser;
Has he not seen how you your favour place
On sentimental queens and lords in lace?
Without a star, or coronet, or garter,
How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
No high-life scenes, no sentiment :-the creature
Still stoops among the low to copy nature.

SPEAKERS.

Mr. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy.

SINGERS.

Mr. Champnes, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson. The music prepared and adapted by Signor

Vento.

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS.

OVERTURE-A SOLEMN DIRGE.
AIR TRIO.

Arise, ye sons of worth, arise,
And waken every note of woe!
When truth and virtue reach the skies,
'Tis ours to weep the want below.

CHORUS.

When truth and virtue, &c.

MAN SPEAKER.

The praise attending pomp and power,
The incense given to kings,
Are but the trappings of an hour,
Mere transitory things.

The base bestow them: but the good agree
To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.-
But when to pomp and power are join'd
An equal dignity of mind:

When titles are the smallest claim:
When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,
But aid the power of doing good,
Then all their trophies last-and flattery turns
to fame.

'This epilogue was given in MS. by Dr. Goldsmith to Dr. Percy (now Bishop of Dromore); but for what comedy it was intended is not remembered.

Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to |
bloom,

Shall spread and flourish from the tomb,
How hast thou left mankind for Heaven!
Even now reproach and faction mourn,
And, wondering how their rage was born,
Request to be forgiven!

Alas! they never had thy hate:
Unmov'd in conscious rectitude,
Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send :
In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urged thy end:
Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience
stood,

And purchased strength from its increasing load.
Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free,
Affliction still is virtue's opportunity!
Virtue on herself relying,

Every passion hush'd to rest,

Loses every pain of dying
In the hopes of being blest.
Every added pang she suffers,
Some increasing good bestows,

And every shock that malice offers,
Only rocks her to repose.

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The inevitable loss.-

Relentless tyrant, at thy call

How do the good, the virtuous fall!

Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,
But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.
SONG. BY A MAN-BASSO, STACCATO, spirituoso.
When vice my dart and scythe supply,
How great a king of terrours I !
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble ye mortals at my rage!

Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings!
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

"MAN SPEAKER.

Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer:
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature,
As a safe inn where weary travellers,
When they have journey'd thro' a world of cares,
May put off life and be at rest for ever.

Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sa-
bles,

May oft distract us with their sad solemnity.
The preparation is the executioner.

Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face,
And is a terrour only at a distance:
For as the line of life conducts me on

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

'Tis nature's kind retreat, that's always open
To take us in when we have drain'd the cup
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.-
In that secure, serene retreat,

Where all the humble, all the great,
Promiscuously recline:

Where wildly huddled to the eye,

The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie,
May every bliss be thine.

And ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest,
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest,
May peace that claim'd while here thy warmest
love,

May blissful endless peace be thine above.

SONG. BY A WOMAN-AMOROSO.

Lovely lasting Peace below,
Comforter of every woe,
Heavenly porn and bred on high,
To crown the favourites of the sky;
Lovely lasting Peace appear,
This world itself, if thou art here,
Is once again with Eden blest,

And man contains it in his breast.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

Our vows are heard! Long, long to mortal eyes,
Her soul was fitting to its kindred skies:
Celestial-like her bounty fell,

Where modest want and patient sorrow dwell,
Want pass'd for merit at her door,
Unseen the modest were supplied,
Her constant pity fed the poor,

Then only poor, indeed, the day she died.

And oh! for this! while sculpture decks thy
shrine,

And art exhausts profusion round,
The tribute of a tear be mine,

A simple song, a sigh profound.
There Faith shall come, a pilgrim grey,
To bless the tomb that wraps thy clay:
And calm Religion shall repair

To dwell a weeping hermit there.
Truth, Fortitude, and Friendship, shall agree'
To blend their virtues while they think of thee,

AIR. CHORUS-POMPOSO.
Let us, let all the world agree,
To profit by resembling thee.

PART II.

OVERTURE.-PASTORALE.

MAN SPEAKER.

But all my wants, before I spoke,

Were to my mistress known;

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

Reflects new glories on his breast,

Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream,
He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest:
Where sculptur'd elegance and native grace
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place:
While, sweetly blending, still are seen
The wavy lawn, the sloping green:
While novelty, with cautious cunning,
Through every maze of fancy running,
From China borrows aid to deck the scene:
There sorrowing by the river's glassy bed,
Forlorn, a rural bard complain'd,
All whom AUGUSTA's bounty fed,
All whom her clemency sustain'd;
The good old sire, unconscious of decay,
The modest matron, clad in home-spun grey,
The military boy, the orphan'd maid,
The shatter'd veteran, now first dismay'd;
These sadly join beside the murmuring deep,
And as they view the towers of Kew,

Call on their mistress, now no more, and weep.

CHORUS. AFFETTUOSO, LARGO.

Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,
Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes,
Let all your echoes now deplore,

That she who form'd your beauties is no more.

MAN SPEAaker.

First of the train the patient rustic came,
Whose callous hand had form'd the scene,
Bending at once with sorrow and with age,
With many a tear, and many a sigh between,
"And where," he cried, "shall now my babes
have bread,

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:
Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare,
A sleek and idle race is all their care:
My noble mistress thought not so!
Her bounty, like the morning dew,
Unseen, tho' constant, used to flow,

I'll praise her while my life shall last, A life that cannot last me long.

SONG. BY A WOMAN.

Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless,
My morning and my evening song,
And when in death my vows shall cease,
My children shall the note prolong.

MAN SPEAKER.

The hardy veteran after struck the sight,
Scarr'd, mangl'd, maim'd in every part,
Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight,
In nought entire-except his heart:
Mute for a while, and sullenly distress'd,
At last the impetuous sorrow fir'd his breast.
Wild is the whirlwind rolling

O'er Afric's sandy plain,
And wild the tempest howling
Along the billow'd main :
But every danger felt before,

The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar,
Less dreadful struck me with dismay,
Than what I feel this fatal day.

Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave,
Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave;
I'll seek that less inhospitable coast,
And lay my body where my limbs were lost.

SONG. BY A MAN.-BASSO SPIRITUOSO.
Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field,
To do thy memory right:
For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish the avenging fight.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

In innocence and youth complaining,
Next appear'd a lovely maid,
Affliction o'er each feature reigning,
Kindly came in beauty's aid;
Every grace that grief dispenses,

And as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew." Every glance that warms the soul,

WOMAN SPEAKER.

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In decent dress, and coarsely clean,
The pious matron next was seen,
Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne,
By use and daily meditation worn;
That decent dress, this holy guide,
AUGUSTA'S care had well supply'd.
And ah! she cries, all woe begone,
What now remains for me?

Oh! where shall weeping want repair
To ask for charity?

Too late in life for me to ask,
And shame prevents the deed,.
And tardy, tardy are the times
To succour, should I need.

In sweet succession charms the senses, While pity harmoniz'd the whole. [say,) "The garland of beauty" ('tis thus she would "No more shall my crook or my temples adorn, I'll not wear a garland, AUGUSTA's away, I'll not wear a garland until she return: But alas! that return I never shall see: The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim, There promis'd a lover to come, but, oh me! 'Twas death,'twas the death of my mistress that

came.

But ever, for ever, her image shall last,
I'll strip all the Spring of its earliest bloom;
On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be
cast,

And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her

tomb."

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