1.

[]

ANALECTS IN VERSE AND PROSE, CHIEFLY DRAMATICAL, SATIRICAL, AND PASTORAL.

VOL. II.

LONDON: PRINTED FOR P. SHATWELL, OPPOSITE DUR⯑HAM-YARD IN THE STRAND; J. DODSLEY, PALL-MALL; AND T. DAVIES, RUSSEL-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN. MDCCLXX.

CONTENTS TO VOL. II.

[]

THORNEY, Laben, and Dolein, a Paſto⯑ral, in two parts Page 3
The Cottagers, an Opera, in three Acts 13
A Poetical Dialogue between the Author of an Opera, and the Compoſer of the Muſic 65
The Happy Huſband 73
An Epiſtle to a Friend in the Country 74
A Song, ſet by Mr. Barthelemon. 75
An Epiſtle to a Friend 76
The Fatal Incident 78
An Epiſtle to a Friend 82
An Allegory on Friendſhip 86
Sunday, a Poem 87
An Elegy on the Death of a Friend 94
[iv] The Banks of Chelmer Page 99
The Firſt of May 106
A Paſtoral on the Death of Mr. Charles Churchill, and Mr. Robert Lloyd 110
An Epiſtle to a Friend 113
On the Death of Bonnell Tornton, Eſq. 115
The Fopling and the Ewe, a Fable 116
Queries, addreſſed to a Friend 119
Prologue to the Merry Midnight Miſtake 122
Epilogue to the Merry Midnight Miſtake 124
Prologue to Redowald, a Maſque 126
Epilogue to Redowald, a Maſque 128
Shakeſpeare's Jubilee, a Maſque 129
An Epigram on an Ugly Woman 150
The Old Women Weatherwiſe, an Interlude 152
An Epiſtle to a Friend, who ſeemed to have a pleaſure in conferring his Favours on the Author, but a greater in telling him of them 171
On receiving ſome Complimentary Verſes from a Lady 174
Epigram, or having received a Compliment, on account of the Performance of a new Burletta 176
[v] Epigram, on a Drunken Man and a Fiſh-Woman Page 177
Epigram, on a Modern Gentleman 178
On Pleaſure 179
Epigram, on a Tippler 180
On a Cobler and his Creditors 181
Epigram, on a Female Virago and Actreſs 187
Epigram on a Spendthrift and a Hypocrite 188
The Banks of Yarrow, in Imitation of a Scoth Ballad 189
Epigram on Le Fevre's curing the Gout 190
On a Lady, who had left the Picture of her favourite Child at the Frame maker's 191
Epigram, on a Poetaſter 192

THORNEY, LABEN, AND DOLEIN, A PASTORAL.

[]

Dolein, complaining of his melancholy ſtate, as he ſits beneath a bending willow, that ſhades a brook, is obſerved by Thorney and Laben, who hear him bewailing his misfortunes to the ſtream; they interrupt him, leſt his paſſion ſhould drive him to deſperation, and to death.
THORNEY.
STAY, Laben ſtay, ſee'ſt thou not yonder ſwain?
Methinks I hear him too, in grief complain,
Stranger he is to me, but yet I'll know
The cauſe, from whence thoſe ſtrains of anguiſh flow;
He oft has paſs'd my cot by break of day,
And as he mov'd, ſome doleful ſtrain he'd play.
LABEN.
[4]Well does he tune his pipe, for yeſter-morn
I ſaw him roam on yonder brow forlorn,
Anon he ſat him down beneath a tree,
And play'd ſuch ſweet and plaintive melody,
The groves were huſh'd, the linnets on the plains,
Forgot their own, and liſten'd to his ſtrains.
THORNEY.
Fair too he ſeems, and comely in his form,
What pity 'tis, that ſorrow ſhould beſtorm
A breaſt ſo mild, and rob his ſeemly face,
Of every ſmile, and every youthful grace.—
Alas, alas, what new afflictions riſe!
Faſt ſtream again his ſad uplifted eyes.
LABEN.
As the pale ſnow-drop, on its chilly bed
Bending to earth its melancholy head,
So freezing care inclines him to the earth,
Ere time has brought maturity to birth,
See how he heaves, and with deſponding look,
Turns his ſad eyes upon the heedleſs brook.
THORNEY.
[5]Alas, alas, his dread intent I fear,
Too plain, too plain the ſymptoms now appear;
O let us fly, and ere it be too late,
Heal his poor boſom, and prevent his fate,
Stop, if we can, the rapid floods of grief,
And if he'll take, we'll give his wants relief.
DOLEIN.
Ah me! methought, ſome friendly accents near,
With earneſt voice, came whiſp'ring to my ear:
'Twas fancy ſpoke, that gave my wiſh a tongue,
But hope too long has on my patience hung;
No man ſhall ſee my tears, none hear me groan,
No tongue ſhall tell my tale, I'll die alone.
THORNEY.
Live, ſhepherd live, and be thy woes forgot,
Fate has in ſtore for thee a better lot,
For lo, this ſwain and I are come to ſave,
And ſtep between thy ſorrows and the grave;
Tell us thy tale, that we may ſhare thy grief,
And give thy laden boſom ſome relief.
LABEN.
[6]Look not amazed, thou ſolitary ſwain,
Shew us the cauſe, the fountain of thy pain,
That we as ſwift as ſtock-doves on the wing,
May ſtop at once the fountain and the ſpring:
My cot's hard by, there go and ſeek repoſe,
Till thou ſhalt pleaſe thy ſtory to diſcloſe.
DOLEIN.
Ye gentle-hearted ſwains that ſympathize,
And view my wretched plight with flooded eyes,
Ah, would it aught to me or you avail,
I'd tell you o'er and o'er my woeful tale:
Too ſad, are now my ſorrows, to relate,
Too long the ſtory, and too ſure my fate,
For death alone muſt my phyſician prove,
I've loſt my herds, my lambkins, and my love.
THORNEY.
Ceaſe, ceaſe thou ſad, thou melancholy ſwain,
To figh, to weep, to wander and complain;
Nor yet deſpair, becauſe forlorn and poor,
We've got to ſpare, and thou ſhalt ſhare our ſtore,
If death hath robb'd thee of thy conſtant love,
Some other maid may yet as conſtant prove.
DOLEIN.
[7]It cannot be, my firm reſolve is made,
My heart is with her in the billows laid,
The cruel floods have waſh'd her from my ſide,
I ſaw her floating on the dreadful tide,
This frame no more ſhall keep my ſoul a ſlave,
Like her I'll die, within a watry grave.
LABEN.
Raſh ſwain, forbear, thy ſtars may yet be kind,
The waves may pity, and the ſighing wind
May waft her yet ſurviving on the ſhore;
Hope, and the fates, may yet thy love reſtore;
Then look more chearful, thou deſponding ſwain,
Thou yet may meet her on the uſual plain.
DOLEIN.
Thou beſt of friends, thou'ſt reaſon'd me to life,
Thou'ſt ſet my greateſt doubts with hope at ſtrife;
I will ſuſpend awhile my raſh deſign,
The winds and waves may yet my love reſign,
May yet in pity to my mad'ning pain,
Let me behold Phidele's eyes again.

PASTORAL II.

[8]

Dolein ſees Phidele laying on a ſunny bank, as yet but half recovered from the fright and fury of the flood, he is tranſported into inexpreſſible extacy, and joy; he is going too precipitately to throw himſelf before her, but is perſuaded by Thorney and Laben to deſiſt awhile, for fear the ſudden joy might over⯑come her; they firſt apprize her of her Dolein's being ſafe and well, then ſoon afterwards, intro⯑duce him.

DOLEIN.

DEceive me not, my ſad, my wiſhful eyes,

It is Phidele ſure, that yonder lies:

She breathes! ſhe breathes!—ye bleſſed Fates how kind!

Thanks to my ſtars, the waters and the wind!

O let me fly, the lovely maid to chear,

And whiſper joy and comfort in her ear.

THORNEY.

[9]

Yet hold fond ſwain, nor let exceſs of joy,

Nor greedy love, thy living hopes deſtroy.

Life faintly ſeems to glimmer in her eyes,

And ſoon may be extinguiſhed with ſurprize,

Let this kind ſwain and I, with tender care,

Firſt ſhew the coming pleaſure, to the fair.

DOLEIN.

O fly then, deareſt friends, ere't be too late,

Evade, evade, the threat'ning hand of fate,

From your ſweet counſel 'tis, that I ſurvive,

And ſee my dear Phidele yet alive;

On your ſweet counſel, Dolein ſtill depends,

Bleſt be the ſtars, that ſent him two ſuch friends.

LABEN.

Like mild phyſicians, we'll addreſs the maid,

Who ſooth the dying, when in anguiſh laid,

To calm the tides of ſorrow and deſpair,

We'll talk of thee, and chear the drooping fair;

Then when her breaſt is temper'd for the ſcene,

We'll ſay her ſhepherd comes acroſs the green.

DOLEIN.

[10]

Succeed; and heaven be your next reward,

May angels all your friendly deeds record,

May months of joy, and years of love repay

The faith and friendſhip, you have ſhewn to-day.

My grateful heart, my ebbing eyes o'erflows,

Say, how ſhall Dolein pay the debt he owes?

THORNEY.

Behold the fair one preſs her ſwelling breaſt,

As if by phrenzy or by love diſtreſs'd;

I'll on and wipe away each ſcalding tear,

And tell the maiden, that her lover's near:

Look chearful, ſhepherd, and thou ſoon ſhalt ſee,

We'll crown thy hours with felicity.

LABEN.

Sweet maid, give ear, I come with no pretence

To gain thy love, or give thy heart offence,

Thy ſorrows and thy ſtory well I know,

I come, my mite of friendſhip to beſtow;

To chear thy ſoul, to heal each doubt and pain,

To tell thee of thy living, weeping ſwain.

PHIDELE.

[11]

Bleſt be thy tongue, thou hoſpitable ſwain,

No bird e'er warbled in ſo ſweet a ſtrain.

Does Dolein live? my heart is heal'd with joy,

Shall I again behold my plaintive boy?

Alas, I thought him in the billows laid,

And wiſh'd to die beneath ſome gloomy ſhade.

THORNEY.

Behold he comes impatient o'er the plain,

To meet his fair Phidele once again.

Smile, lovely maid, and throw thy fears away,

Thou yet ſhalt hear him on the mountain play,

Again your flocks ſhall feed in yonder vale,

Again, by moon-light, hear the nightingale.

DOLEIN.

My lov'd Phidele has the waves controul'd!

Ye bleſſed Fates, and do I yet enfold

My dear Phidele in my welcome arms;

The floods were ſure aſſwaged by thy charms,

The winds were ſure ſubdu'd by thy ſweet eyes,

And yielded Dolein back his darling prize.

PHIDELE.

[12]

At Dolein's voice the threat'ning winds were huſh'd,

Thro' dark'ning clouds the conſcious Phoebus bluſh'd,

The waves that ſhook the willows with their roar,

In pity waſh'd me to the welcome ſhore;

In pity ſure, my ſhepherd, 'twas to you,

For ſure no ſhepherd yet was half ſo true.

THE COTTAGERS, AN OPERA: IN THREE ACTS.

[]

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

[]

BRAINLY, a Country 'Squire.
CELON, a young Shepherd.
HYLAS, Father to Celon.
SIMON, his Couſin.
TRUSTY, Steward to Brainly.
Firſt Reaper.
Second Reaper.
Third Reaper.
Hermit.
A little Boy, his Son.
Traveller.
Thieves.

WOMEN,

Mrs. BRAINLY, Wife to 'Squire Brainly.
EDDIE, her Daughter.

Houſebreakers. Attendants on the 'Squire.

THE COTTAGERS.

[]

ACT I.

SCENE I.

A Room in Brainly's Houſe.

Enter Brainly, Mrs. Brainly and Truſty.

Brainly.

ALONG with Celon, ſay you? I'm aſtoniſh'd! O ſhe's a forward young Huſſy! but I'll ſtop her gadding;—Are you ſure of this?

[To Truſt.

Truſty.

Yes, truly, Sir, for ſhe has been out for this month paſt, at four and five o'clock in the morning; I could not think where ſhe went to, till the other day, when going o'er the green paſtures; there I ſaw Celon and her, billing and cooing like too young pidgeons.

Brain.

Indeed? odds my life, I remember now;—ah, ſhe's a coaxing young pug; that's where ſhe gets her poſies from I ſuppoſe, which [16] ſhe comes holding up to my noſe in a morn⯑ing, with a how do you do? my dear papa,

[Mimicks her]

O the jade!

Tru.

I thought it were beſt to tell your wor⯑ſhip, leaſt ſome harm might come of it.

Mrs. Brain.

A mighty induſtrous ſoul in⯑deed! thou had'ſt better have been minding thy own buſineſs, I think, than to ſtrive like an ill-natur'd fool, to ſet my child and her father at variance.

Brain.

Hold your tongue, pray madam, and let him ſpeak; he ſees her follies, tho' you can't, and 'tis honeſt in him to tell me of them.

Mrs. Brain.

Why ſure Mr. Brainly, I may ſpeak in my turn.

Brain.

'Tis not your turn yet Madam.

Mrs. Brain.

I am ſorry my dear, to ſee you ſo angry,—don't think that I approve of her pro⯑ceedings; no, far be it from me; but I can't help taking notice how ready the fellow is to tell you of her faults; for he ſees they work upon you to exceſs, and you are as eager to hear what gives you ſo much pain; if he had gene⯑rouſly told me of it before, I wou'd have put a ſtop to it ere now, and you might have eſcap'd all this uneaſineſs; for if our children are to [17] bear the cenſure of our ſervants, what child will eſcape ſlander? I don't doubt what he has ſaid to be true, but while he ſees it feeds your anger, and he finds himſelf liſten'd to, he may turn ſurmiſes into facts, and ſhe may be ſtig⯑matiz'd where e'er ſhe goes, as being guilty of what ſhe never dreamt of.

Brain.

Well, well, it does not ſignify hold⯑ing this harrangue about her,—I'm determin'd to have her kept at home, and then I'm ſure ſhe'll be ſafe, let the world then ſay what it pleaſes;—go fetch her hither Truſty.

[Exit. Truſty.

Mrs. Brain.

Marry I doubt it much, e'en then; and whether the creature (that has taken ſo much pains to tell you her faults) would not be the firſt in the world that would ſtrive to make her guilty of another; for I know he's very ſweet upon her when our backs are turn'd.

Brain.

Poh, poh, what do you think the fel⯑low's a fool?

Mrs. Brain.

No, but I think he would make a fool of you, and I, and the whole family, if he could.

Brain.

Pſhaw, pſhaw, I ſee you have ſome antipathy to the poor young fellow, becauſe [18] he's honeſt, and ſo want me to turn him about his buſineſs; but here he comes,

[Enter Truſty]

Well ſirrah, what's the reaſon you did not bring Eddie with you?

Tru.

Why in good truth I cannot find her.

Brain.

Not find her! why what the plague is the wench ſet out already?

Tru.

O yes Sir, ſhe's been up and gone theſe three hours.

Brain.

Has ſhe indeed? I fancy I ſhall fetch her home again in half that time, if Cupid has not furniſh'd her wings.—Come along with me Truſty.—My dear you may expect us here again preſently.

[Exeunt Brainly and Truſty,.

Mrs. Brain.

I wiſh you ſucceſs with all my heart,—poor fooliſh girl! I pity her; 'tis natu⯑ral—for the heart will follow where the eye is pleas'd.

[Exit. Mrs. Brainly.

SCENE II.

Celon and Eddie ſeated in a paſture.

Edd.

'Tis the faireſt morn I ever ſaw; I war⯑rant they are all aſleep at home, but hardly dream that I am here with you.

Celon.

[19]

O let 'em ſleep until the ſun ſets again, then I ſhall have my Eddie with me all the day.

AIR I.

Cel.

Thy father and thy mother ſleeps—
There Love has had his fill;
And Eddie to her Celon creeps,
When all the plains are ſtill;

The ſun and Eddie riſe at once,
And gild the hills around;
The lark awakens at her ſteps,
And leaves the dewy ground.

My lambkins ſkip at her approach,
And all their dams look gay;
While Zephyr, in his airy coach,
Upon the tree-tops play.

Edd.

If my father ſhou'd e'er ſuſpect my com⯑ing hither, I'm afraid he'd never let me come again; wou'd you not pity me?

Cel.

I ſhou'd pine myſelf to death, and be like a wandering lunatic in deſpair: for when you are from me but an hour, I think that every flower looks drooping, and every bird fits mourning for your return.

Edd.

[20]

Be witneſs for me all ye hills and groves, how dear I prize my Celon's love, not all the wealth my father boaſts, ſhould rob me of that joy.

AIR II.

Edd.

O grant us thus to meet each morn,
Upon ſo fair a plain,
Where linnets whiſtle on each thorn,
In love's melodious ſtrain.

While Celon whiſpers notes more ſweet
Than ever linnet ſung,
And thus each morn ſuch bleſſings meet,
As fall from Celon's tongue.

Cel.

Wou'd to-morrow were our wedding day, I long to call thee mine, I've had ſad dreams of late; but I hope they tend to no⯑thing ill towards us.

Edd.

Pray tell me what they were, and I'll be your interpreter,

Cel.

Not now my love, they'll prey upon thy gentle ſpirits, and daſh our promis'd joys. Let us go to yonder valley now, and pick the ſweeteſt flowers there, blue-bells and violets, that I may weave a crownet for my queen.

Edd.

[21]

E'en where you pleaſe, nor will I e'er complain, ſo I go with you;—here

[pulls out a book]

I've brought thee another book this morning, 'tis the prettieſt I could find; and thou ſhalt read it to me.

Cel.

You're ever kind—But I fear my love you'll get ſome anger from your father, if he ſhould chance to miſs it—What is it you have brought me now?

Edd.

The Nut-brown Maid.

[gives him the book]

my father ne'er will miſs it, he minds nothing but his horſes and his dogs; ſo pray thee ſit down and read it to me.

Cel.

Nay, but you muſt excuſe me now; I can read it when you are gone; now it will be killing too much precious time.

AIR III.

Cel.

Whilſt thou art here I ceaſe to read,
Throw by my pipe, forget my reed,
Nothing on earth ſuch pleaſures bring,
As when I hear my Eddie ſing.

For when thou'rt gone, I'll learn from this,
When I no more can toy and kiſs,
How other ſhepherds bore their pain,
Until they meet their loves again.

Edd.

[22]

Very well, Celon.

Cel.

Nay be not angry, I own I'm much oblig'd to you for theſe indulgencies; and but from the inſtruction of thoſe volumes you have brought me, I ſhould have been a poor compa⯑nion for my Eddie; they have, in ſome meaſure, taught me how to pleaſe; to know my humble ſituation bleſt when you are with me, and more ſerenely to bear the pain when you are gone.

Eddie.

Liſten! liſten! methought I heard the voice of ſome one near; and now I ſee 'em too. O! 'tis Truſty and my father.

Cel.

They have beheld us, and 'twill be in vain to fly. Alas! what ſhall we do!—how could this happen?

Brainly within.)

I ſee you, you jade, I'll ſtop your ſtrolling, I will huſſy;

[Enters]

and as for thee, thou ſheep-biting dog, I'll have thee ſent into another country,

[takes Eddie from him.

Cel.

It matters not where you ſend me, or where I go, ſince you have taken her away.

[looking tenderly on Eddie.

Brain.

The boy's certainly in love? I'gad it grieves me to ſee them look ſo pitifully at each other; I could find in heart to leave 'em to⯑gether again.

Tru.

[23]

Aye truly 'tis a pity, Sir, but conſi⯑der the conſequence, it will be the talk of the whole country, that 'Squire Brainly's daughter is courted by a ſhepherd.

Brain.

Ods-bud and ſo it will; come, huſſy, come;—thou may'ſt ſtay behind and whine a little,

[to Celon.

Edd.

Dear father permit me to take a part⯑ing kiſs!

Brain.

A parting kiſs! what before my face! why they've bewitch'd one another, I believe! No, no, no, no more kiſſing here? come along; and if you can't live without kiſſing, there's your great doll at home, you may kiſs and hug that all day if you pleaſe, come away I ſay.

Edd.

O can you forget yourſelf, or did you never love; ſurely if you did, you would not practice ſo hard a trial for ſo ſmall a crime.

AIR IV.

Edd.

Adieu my love, ye flocks adieu,
Farewell ye happy plains,
More bleſt than I, by far are you,
While Celon here remains.

[24]

Farewell ye little warblers all,

Ye larks that upward riſe,

No more ſhall I attend your call,

Or meet my Celon's eyes.

Brain.

Come along I ſay, or I'll break thy neck.

Cel.

O do not hurt her, for indeed ſhe's done no harm.

Brain.

If thou haſt done her none, I ſhall be ſatisfied, and I'll take care thou ſhalt do her none hereafter.

[Exeunt all but Celon.

Cel.

This is the ſoreſt wound I ever felt; would ſhe had been as poor as myſelf, or that I had been a 'ſquire's ſon.

AIR V.

Cel.

Unequal fortune, equal fate,
Was ever lot like mine?
Thus high and low in ev'ry ſtate,
Beneath ſome grief repine.

The rich are curſt with fears and pride,
The poor man with deſpair;
The lover's patience oft is try'd
By ſome unfeeling fair.

[25]

[...]ut mine's the worſt of woes indeed;

The maid that I adore,

Is by a father's hand decreed,

Never to ſee me more,

SCENE III.

Brainly's Houſe. Enter Brainly, Truſty, and Eddie.

Brain.

Here Mrs. Brainly, we've brought your daughter home, and I deſire you'll make it your buſineſs to keep her there ſo long as ſhe lives,—what piping again, what the devil ails thee now?

Edd.

Have I not cauſe to weep, to hear my⯑ſelf doom'd a priſoner for life, and by my father too?

Brain.

You'd better be a pris'ner here huſſy, with a good houſe over your head, and victuals in your belly, than ſtrolling the mountains, and ſtarving under a hedge, along with that booby you'd got along with this morning.

Mrs. Brain.

What cou'd induce thee, child, to make ſo ſtrange a choice?

Edd.

His gentle nature, beſides he loves me dearly as himſelf.

Brain.

[26]

No doubt but he loves himſelf well enough; but what do'ſt think he loves thee for, hey, fool?

Edd.

For loving him, which I will do for ever.

Brain.

So, ſo, ſo, ſo, there's for you now! take her out of my ſight, or I ſhall certainly do her a miſchief;—O you wanton young jade; go take her up ſtairs, and lock her in her bed⯑chamber directly.

[Exit. Mrs. Brainly and Eddie.

Brainly ſings.

AIR VI.Was ever father living,
So diſtreſs'd as I;
Theſe women are deceiving
As the very ſky;
They firſt look clear,
And promiſe fair,
Then riſes up a cloud,
That covers all the atmoſphere,
And thunders burſt aloud.

[Exeunt Brainly and Truſty.

SCENE IV.

[27]

Celon by the ſide of a wood.

Cel.

I'll reſt me here a little, nothing that I ſee or hear will give me comfort now.

[comes forward.

AIR VII.

Cel.

Full eighteen years I lived in bliſs,
Upon yon verdant plain,
From many a maid I ſtole a kiſs,
But never felt a pain.

'Till Eddie's face I firſt beheld,
I knew nor grief nor care;
My eyes againſt my heart rebell'd,
If e'er I ſhed a tear.

Enter Hylas and Simon in Converſation.

Hylas.

I tell thee the girl has made her eſcape, by the help of a tree, that hung againſt her window, for ſomebody has told her that Celon was fled into another country, and I am ſorely afraid I ſhall find it too true.

Cel.

[28]

True thou'lt find it indeed, if Eddie is gone, I'll ſearch every country round but I will find her.

[Aſide & Exit.

Sin.

Marry luck forbid, couſin, for I lov'd him as if he had been a child of my own, and did in⯑tend to have left him all that I had when I died.

Hyl.

Ha, thou art very kind; for though I ſay it, he had as much to ſay for himſelf as the parſon o' the pariſh; if I could but ſet eyes on him again, I ſhould be eaſy; I han't ſeen him ſince four o'clock in the morning, and if I don't find him before night, I ſhall break my heart.

Sim.

I'fecks I think I ſee him yonder, running acroſs the meadow.

Hyl.

Where, where?

Sim.

Yonder loo'thee t'other ſide that large tree.

Hyl.

Odds heart and ſo it is; pray thee couſin, for thou canſt run faſter than me, go thou before, and I'll after and halloo luſtily behind.

[Exeunt.

Enter three Reapers.

1ſt. Reap.

Come along, come along, and be hang'd to you, what a yawning you make, in⯑deed, why now becauſe you've got your bellies full, I ſuppoſe you have not a heart to go to work again.

2d. Reap.

[29]

'Swounds what a din thou mak'ſt indeed, thy bawling beats my yawning I'm ſure; one would think thou hadſt not had thy belly full this month paſt; I'fecks I'm afraid thou art one of thoſe I heard our old dame talking of t'other day, more noiſe than work.

3d. Reap.

No, no I ſuppoſe he only wants to get his work done before he begins, that he may go a ſweat-hearting; for as ſoon as he gets home, he begins to make ſuch a waſhing and combing of himſelf, with his ribbands at his knees, and his buckles at his ſho'en, that he ne'er gives himſelf time to eat or drink, but out he goes to roſey fac'd Sue, down by the mill.

2d. Reap.

Aye, aye, I ſuppoſe he gets his belly-full there. I believe in my heart folks are bewitch'd, now-a-days, there's the dickens to pay, about Celon and the 'ſquire's daughter; this love's as bad as a plague, I think, its catching.

1ſt. Reap.

Take care it does not catch thee then; it has many a time caught a wiſer man.

2d. Reap.

I'fecks if it does, I know how to cure myſelf.

1ſt. Reap.

I don't doubt but thou haſt a good opinion of thyſelf.

2d. Reap.

[30]

Marry if one don't like me, I'll ſeek out for another.

1ſt. Reap.

And love ne'er a one above an hour.

AIR VIII.

A fooliſh lover like a child,
That with a toy doth play,
Who's gaudy ſides his heart beguil'd.
And pleas'd him for a day.

But if by chance his wand'ring eyes,
Another ſhou'd ſurvey,
The laſt is thought a golden prize,
The firſt is thrown away.

3d. Reap.

Heigh, ho; this love is a ſtrange thing, I think.

2d. Reap.

No, no, there's nothing ſo common. I heard our parſon ſay the world was grown fooliſh, and this is a ſure ſign he ſometimes ſpeaks the truth.

3d. Reap.

Why ſo I think indeed, Celon muſt be a fool now to think of marrying the 'Squire's daughter, I warrant the 'Squire would ſee him hang'd firſt.

2d. Reap.

And muſt not ſhe be a fool to think [31] of marrying Celon; why this makes good the text; the world's grown fooliſh, and they're two of the greateſt; I think in my heart they're even worſe than this fool here.

1ſt. Reap.

Fool! who doſt thou call fool; if it were not now for loſing ſo much time, I'd ſhew thee who was the greateſt fool.

3d Reap.

'Swounds what a paſſion he's in, I've heard ſay theſe lovers grow mad ſometimes, if you ſhou'd teaze him too much, perhaps he'll grow mad too, and then I ſuppoſe he'll be for biting.

2d. Reap.

Aye, aye, let him alone, let him alone, he may kiſs and court all the guts out of his belly, for what I care.

3d. Reap.

Come let's to work again, or we ſhall have the ſun down ere we begin.

2d. Reap.

Troth and ſo it will, and it won't get up at thy bidding again, but that ſhan't give me any uneaſineſs:

AIR IX.

My heart is my own,
And a ſtranger to care,
Content is my throne,
I ſit without fear.

[32]

At night I retire,

With health and with eaſe;

The laſſes admire,

And ſtudy to pleaſe.

But if I don't find
They'll pleaſe in their part,
'T may fire the mind,
But ſhan't touch the heart.

1ſt. Reap.

That was my mind once, but I cou'd not help changing it.

3d. Reap.

That's a ſure ſign you kind of crea⯑tures never know your own minds.

2d. Reap.

Why that's true enough; Celon us'd to ſwear and proteſt he'd never marry, and now you ſee how well he keeps his word.

3a. Reap.

And he may'nt be the happier for all he's ſo great with the 'Squire's daughter; for they ſay there's nothing but ſnarling and bit⯑ [...] among the gentryfolkes.

AIR X.

The poor with content,
Are richer by far,
Than a king in his tent,
Or a lord at the bar.

[33]

No fear of being worſe,

E'er troubles his breaſt;

Tho' empty his purſe,

At night he can reſt.

No armies o'erthrown,
No cauſes ill try'd,
Shall e'er make me groan,
Or turn for a bribe.

2d. Reap.

Hold, hold, who are theſe coming acroſs the barley field.

1ſt. Reap.

Odds life I'll be hang'd, if it ben't, our maſter and his couſin.

2d. Reap.

Let us ſneak off then, as faſt as we can.

1ſt. Reap.

No, no, they ſee us now, and we'd better ſtay and know the worſt on't.

3d. Reap.

The dickens take your ſweet⯑hearting I ſay, I ſuppoſe there'll be the duce to pay.

2d. Reap.

What a pack of fools we look like now.

[34] Enter Hylas and Simon.

Hyl.

What in the name of old nick do ye all here, has any of you ſeen Celon lately?

3d. Reap.

No not we maſter, we han'not ſeen him theſe two days.

Hyl.

Why go ſeek him then, and he that finds him firſt ſhall have a holliday for a week.

2d. Reap.

Shall he maſter, I'fecks then I'll give a good look out, and bring him home an I can.

Hyl.

Away with you then.

[Exeunt Reapers.]

Come couſin, thee and I'll go and get us a horſe a piece, and we'll ſet out too; wayſt-heart I've run myſelf almoſt out of breath already, and I don't know how ſoon I may want a little.

[Exeunt Hylas and Simon.

The End of the Firſt Act.

ACT II.

[]

SCENE I.

A Hermit's Cave.

A Hermit, and Crito a little boy his ſon appears.

Crito.

YOu've often told me, I ſhou'd ſee the place where I was born, and where my mother died: believe me Sir, I ſhould like it much; I think I've ſeen it an hundred times in dreams already, and if indeed it be ſo pleaſing in reality as in dreams, I'm ſure it muſt by far excel this ſad dwelling.

Herm.

I'm afraid indeed thou'll think it ſo, therefore it is, I fear to let thee go.

Crit.

Why fear? do you think I wou'd not come again.

Herm.

I hope ſo, but there's a thouſand little play-fellows wou'd rival me, and thou wou'dſt want to ſtay thee there.

Crit.

Indeed they ſhou'd not, I'd rather ſtay here all my days than you ſhou'd be in fear,

Herm.

[36]

Thou art my cherub again for that; and e'er a month I'll let thee go.

[Eddie croſſes the cave.

Crit.

O well-a-day, do but turn about, and ſee what's paſſing croſs the cave.

Herm.

A woman, or a fairy, I'll ſpeak to her, however.

Crit.

Believe me Sir, ſhe ſeems in ſorrow.

Herm.

Peace with thee fair one, if thou wilt deign to tell, whither doſt thou ſojourn?

Edd.

Alas! I cannot; firſt tell me ſtranger, who e'er thou art, (for thou bear'ſt the face of friendſhip) did'ſt thou not ſee a lovely ſhepherd, ſad as myſelf, paſs this way.

Herm.

In truth fair maid no human form, ſave this of thine, has paſs'd this cave theſe many years.

Edd.

Alas! I'm ſore diſtreſs'd.

Her.

If thou dar'ſt truſt me with thy ſtory, I'll promiſe thee all the aid that I can give.

Edd.

I thank thee; nor do I think that I ſhould fear to truſt thee, for thou bear'ſt as kind a face as e'er I ſaw, ſave his I took for; for O he is the gentleſt ſwain that ever ſmil'd on maid, I firſt beheld him tending on his father's ſheep upon a mountain's brow; he humbly bow'd [37] and with a gentle look he ſtole my willing heart, and I as willing gave my hand; he knelt and kiſs'd it; and, with more than ſhepherd's grace, told me how much he lov'd; I be⯑liev'd him becauſe he wept, then ſigh'd and took my leave; but ev'ry morning e'er the ſun beams kiſs'd the dimpl'd brook, I ſtole to him again. So happy we, like two fair veſſels on a calm ſea borne, long ſail'd together; till my father's angry hand, like a rude tempeſtuous wave, daſh'd us both aſunder.

Herm.

Alas I pity you; what was your lover's name?

Edd.

Celon.

[Crito weeps.

Herm.

What is it child that makes thee weep?

Crit.

The ſtory that ſhe told you.

Herm.

I love thee for thy mother's ſpirit, juſt ſo would ſhe o'erflow, when e'er ſhe heard of ſuff'ring virtue.

Edd,

I love him too for his friendly tears, come and let me kiſs thee; my heart is full of gratitude, but I've no means of recompence, ſave tear for tear. Alas! I muſt yet go on, for while I live, I will purſue my love, if ever I return, I'll make you ſome amends.

Crit.

[38]

Pray don't go, my father will be very kind.

Herm.

Let me intreat you to ſtay a little, this boy is my only child, the only comfort I have on earth, he ſhall attend you; there is a mountain, whoſe lofty head o'erlooks the country round for many a mile, thither ſhall he go, and with his young diſcerning eyes, try if he can ſee which way your Celon wanders.—I prithee Crito go this inſtant, and if thou ſhou'dſt any one chance to ſee, wind thou thy horn, and beckon them to ſtay.

[Exit Crito]

Mean while I wou'd adviſe that you retire into yon harbour, and reſt yourſelf, till I go and ſeek for ſomething that may comfort you.

Edd.

Indeed you are too kind, I have not deſerv'd theſe indulgencies from you, but ſince you have promis'd to be my friend, I do not know a time that I ever ſtood ſo much in need of one.

Herm.

Be chearful, and doubt not, but ere long we ſhall hear ſome tidings of your Celon.

[Exit Hermit.

Edd.

Then you will be a friend indeed.

[39]AIR XI.

Ye nodding foreſts, verdant plains,

Ye limpid brooks that murmur by,

In your retreats there yet remains

A friend to ſad calamity.

[Exit Eddie.

SCENE II.

A Heath. Enter Brainly, Truſty, &c.

Brain.

We're certainly on the right road my lads; but hold, who have we here, a fellow traveller? perhaps he may give us ſome intel⯑ligence; I'll enquire however.

Enter Paſſenger.

Save thee friend, whither be'ſt going?

Paſſen.

To the firſt cottage I can find; for I have had a long day's journey of it, and have not ſeen a dwelling, where I cou'd get me any refreſhment.

Brain.

Nor did'ſt not meet with any body on the road?

Paſſen.

[40]

Yes, wayſtheart, a lovely youth, almoſt in deſpair.

Brain.

And didſt thou not ſpeak with him then?

Paſſen.

Yes, that I did, and wiſh I cou'd have been his friend.

Brain.

Why; what was his complaint then?

Paſſen.

Alas-a-day, he told me he had loſt the ſweeteſt maid on earth, and came this way in ſearch of her.

Brain.

Did he ſo? 'Slife that muſt be Celon, here I'll give thee this purſe, if thou'lt tell me where he's gone.

Paſſen.

Alas, I cannot tell thee, for when I could give him no intelligence of his love, he left me; I ſtood awhile and watch'd him, and when he got to yonder oak, that dips its brim into the brook, he ſat down and drank of the cold ſtream, then roſe again, and made his way to the top of yonder hill; and turning round ſeem'd to ſearch with his eyes all the vales below. Anon (as if he had ſome one ſeen) he hurry'd off again; but deſcending on the other ſide, I loſt ſight of him.

Brain.

We'll after him directly; as for thee [41] my friend, thou wilt find a cottage hard by, take this and get thee ſome refreſhment.

Paſſen.

Good luck attend thee for thy kind⯑neſs.

[Exit Paſſenger.

Brain.

Come along lads, we're upon the right ſcent, and if we ſhould ſtart the puſs, we'll run her down and take her home alive.

[Exeunt Omnes.

SCENE III.

The Hermit's Cave.

Enter Hermit and Eddie. [Crito is ſeen by 'em.]

Herm.

Lo! here comes Crito, I hope he brings ſome news.

Edd.

I doubt there's none of Celon.

Herm.

Doubt not,

[Enter Crito]

welcome my darling; well what haſt ſeen.

Crit.

A man, who is making towards the cave; I ſaw him ſtraying near the mighty cliff; and then, as you deſir'd, did wind my horn; I wav'd my hand, he anſwer'd thus, and then ſet off with ſpeed this way.

Herm.

Now what think you fair-one?

Edd.

[42]

It certainly is my Celon, and yet I think it almoſt impoſſible; but if it ſhould ſome other prove, I fain would not be ſeen.

Herm.

Therefore leaſt it ſhould, I would ad⯑viſe, that you retire again into the cave, 'till I have made ſome ſure proof.

Edd.

I will,—but pray if it ſhould prove my love indeed, let it not be a moment ere you call me forth again.

Herm.

You may be aſſur'd of that; haſte, haſte, methinks I hear his footſteps near al⯑ready.

Edd.

I'm gone—Alas I tremble ſo my legs will ſcarcely bear me.

[Ex. Eddie.

Crit.

See father, he's entering the cave.

Herm.

He bears the form that ſhe deſcribes.

[Enter Celon]

Welcome youth, moſt welcome, I invite thee for my gueſt; thou ſeem'ſt aweary; I ſhall be glad to be thy comforter.

Cel.

I thank you—weary I am indeed, in ſearch of what I fear I ne'er ſhall ſee again.

Herm.

Never deſpair, nothing is ever loſt beyond our hopes but reputation. Is it for the living that you ſeek?

Cel.

Living ſhe was laſt night, and well.

Herm.

[43]

It is a woman then; what is the fair one's name?

Cel.

Eddie. Fair as the criſtal ſtream.

[Hermit whiſpers Crito.

Herm.

You'd know her then, no doubt, were you to ſee her?

Cel.

Why do you aſk me that? Is it poſſible I could not know the thing I ſaw but yeſterday?

Herm.

Say, do you know that fair-one?

[Crito and Eddie appear.

Cel.

Know her! O ye miraculous powers, 'tis my Eddie!

[He runs and embraces her.

Edd.

Celon! O I ſcarcely can believe that I'm awake.

Herm.

I bear witneſs you are not in a dream, and am glad that I have partly been the means of all this happineſs.

Cel.

O may you be bleſt with every thing that's good, what ſhall we do to make you ſome amends?

Herm.

I am already ſatisfied in ſeeing you ſo happy.

Edd.

He ſhall be our father, and we will ſtay here all our days, and Crito too ſhall be my brother.

Herm.

[44]

Say, Crito, wouldſt thou not like to have a ſiſter?

Crito.

Yes, and I ſhould like to have a bro⯑ther too.

Herm.

'Tis well replied; but now it grieves me that I have none but homely fare, that you might eat with me.

Cel.

We are in no need; this is feaſt enough for me, I have no room for any thing but love.

AIR XII.The heart when thirſty with deſire,
No draught can quench the burning fire,
Until the ſpark that caus'd the flame,
'Preſented to the eye again;
But when it comes again to view,
The ſoul with tranſport will renew
It's native eaſe, and fill the breaſt,
As mine is now, with Eddie bleſt.

Edd.

I feel no pain, nor hunger, but my ſighs have made me thirſty.

Herm.

Go, Crito, to the ſpring, and haſte hack again.

[Ex. Crito]

Pardon my offering you ſo cool a cordial, it is the beſt this world affords me.

Edd.

[45]

It will be receiv'd as kindly as the moſt coſtly one; and on condition I might ſtay me here with Celon, I could content me with it all my days.

AIR XIII.

Eddie.
I will ſtay here all my life,
When I am my Celon's wife;
We'll taſte each ſpring,
And dance and ſing,
Acroſs the hills ſo green;
Thou ſhall be my lord and king.
And I will be thy queen.

Celon.
At night when all the world's aſleep,
I'll go fetch thee all my ſheep;
I'll watch the dams,
Thou feed the lambs,
And ſo we'll ſpend each day;
Our father here ſhall join our hands,
And thou ſhalt cry obey.

Edd.

I'm glad they've drove us hither now, for here we can love in their deſpite, nor fear their parting us again.

Herm.

[46]

I fear the trial will prove worſe than the idea; the hard means of life you will be oblig'd to ſubmit to here, will I fear daſh your future hopes; but believe me you are welcome as the morning.

Cel.

We are aſſur'd of that, and free from danger, they'll hardly find us here—therefore we'll riſque whatever elſe may happen.

AIR XIV.Since luck has brought us here together,
I fear nor cold nor ſtormy weather.
With this lov'd mate, I fear no fate,
That may hereafter threat my ſtate,
The hand to-day that brought us here,
May ſend us comfort all the year.

Enter Crito.

Crit.

Returning home from the well, I ſaw four travellers coming on this way; and, ſee⯑ing me, they ey'd me to the cave.

Herm.

More miracles? 'tis very ſtrange, I now begin to fear ſome ſad event.

Cel.

[47]

Some travellers, I ſuppoſe, that have loſt their way, and followed Crito for intelligence.

Herm.

Some ignis fatuus ſure has drawn the world this way.

Edd.

Let us retire.

Cel.

Be not afraid my love, we've no ene⯑mies here.

Brain.

[within.]

Here they are my lads, here they are; make haſte or they'll give us the ſlip again.

[Eddie faints]

Hey day, who have we here!

Enter Brainly, the reſt following him.

Tru.

The devil and one of his imps, I be⯑lieve, only they've hid their cloven feet.

Brain.

Odds heart, my child is dying, help ſome of you help, to hold her up.—O thou damn'd dog, I wiſh thou hadſt been hang'd a twelvemonth ago, thou'ſt kill'd my child, thou haſt thou dog,

[puſhes Celon away.]

my dear, my Eddie,

[Eddie coming to life]

poor creature! how ſhe pants! ſoftly, ſoftly, ſhe's coming to herſelf again.

[fanning her with his hat]

How is it with thee? thy father is not angry with thee child, come, come, don't be frightn'd, thou ſhan't be hurt.

Edd.

[48]

(weeping)

My father! O well-a-day—where is my Celon, you wont kill him I hope.

Brain.

Kill him! no not I! tho' I don't care how ſoon he was hang'd.

Edd.

Alas, alas, you ſaid you was not angry, and now you've forgot your ſaying.

Brain.

No, not with you child, I came to fetch you home; but we'll leave him to find his way himſelf.

Edd.

Nay pray let him go with me too.

Brain.

No, no, not I indeed, I'm not ſo fond of his company.

Edd.

Nor wont you let me ſee him when at home?

Brain.

Not if I can help it, we'll have no more viſiting of witches and wizards here; nay he may be the devil for ought I know.

Edd.

Did not you ſay juſt now you wou'd be kind?

Brain.

So I think I am, for taking you away and carrying you to a good home again.

Edd.

If that is kindneſs, I'd rather you wou'd be unkind, and let me ſtay here all my life.

Brain.

So I ſuppoſe; no, no, I did not come all this way for nothing, ſo come along, ſince [49] you don't know when you are doing wrong, I ſhall make bold to tell you when you don't do right.

Edd.

Farewell my deareſt Celon, farewell, I ſhall—

Brain.

Come, come, no whining; a ſhort parting's always beſt, ſo help me ſome of you to force her away.

[Exeunt Brainly, &c. with Eddie.

Cel.

Farewell, moſt lovely maid, my heart ſhall follow thee where'er thou goeſt,—O moſt unnatural father!

AIR XV.

O Cupid God of love,
Take now a wretched pair,
Beneath thy friendly care;
Uſe all thy art, while now apart,
To keep us from deſpair.

Protect that lovely maid,
So injur'd and oppreſs'd,
In love ſo much diſtreſs'd,
She is ſo meek, her heart will break,
Unleſs by thee redreſs'd.

Herm.

Alas! I pity you from my heart, and wiſh I could adminiſter ſome comfort to your [50] ſorrow, let us retire into the cave and compoſe yourſelf awhile.

Cel.

No I will follow her, whatever fate be⯑fall me.

Herm.

Whither wilt thou go? night will o'ertake thee, e'er thou canſt reach thy father's dwelling.

Cel.

Aye and ſo it will if I ſtay here; I thank thee for thy care, but I can no where reſt if Eddie be not near, I thank thee for all thy friendſhip; think me not ungrateful, thus to leave thee, but when the heart is from the body torn, the ſpirit ſoon muſt die; therefore I muſt go. A kind farewell to both, my heart is now ſo full of grief, that I can nothing ſay; but once more farewell.

Exit Celon.

Herm.

Farewell kind youth, and may'ſt thou never meet ſo hard a trial more; O wretched world, I have felt thee ſharp as the keen air, and now methinks, I ſee myſelf in this ſad youth, a goodly heart overwhelm'd in grief; come, Crito, we'll in and reſt, thou ſee'ſt what it is to mix with man; how hard they deal with one another.

[Exeunt Crito and Hermit.

The End of the Second Act.

ACT III.

[]

SCENE I.

A Moon-light Scene. Celon under Eddie's Window.

Celon.

HERE reſts my Eddie, and if ſhe knew that I was here, it wou'd not be long ere I beheld her.

AIR XVI.

Thou ſilver Moon, O lend thy aid,
And light me to the charming maid,
Send forth ſome power from above,
And help me once more to my love.

O turn her cruel father's heart,
Let mercy touch the hardeſt part;
Let pity ſtop his threat'ning rage,
And think on Eddie's tender age.

[52]Enter three Robbers, at the 'Squire's door, trying to break into the houſe.

Cel.

Alas, I am betray'd, and yet they're ſtrangers all to me; I fear ſome ill intent, they're breaking open the door; I muſt inter⯑poſe, leſt my Eddie ſhou'd be in danger.

[They enter the houſe.]

Hold you there, what mean you, by entering the houſe in that manner, and at this time o' the night?

1ſt. Houſe-br.

Knock him down! Knock him down! ſilence him, or we ſhall miſcarry.

2d. Houſe-br.

You proceed,—I'll manage him, I warrant me.

[Two of them enter the houſe, the other ſtays behind, and attacks Celon; Celon diſ⯑arms him, and afterwards knocks him down with his own weapon, then purſues the other two into the houſe: mean while the maim'd one crawls off the ſtage, and makes his eſcape,—there's a great buſtle within.]

Brain.

[within]

Bring 'em along lads, bring 'em along.

[53] Enter Brainly in his ſhirt, Mrs. Brainly, and a number of ſervants, in great confuſion, with the Rogues, and Celon as a confederate.

Brain.

We've ſecur'd the villains! hold up the lanthorn, and let us ſee who we have got; 'ſdeath and heart, why this is Celon! Run, wife, directly, and ſee to the girl, ſhe may have been in the plot, and made her eſcape, for what I know.

[Exit Mrs. Brainly.]

Ho, ho, young gentleman, have we caught you; what, becauſe I wou'd not let you ruin my daughter, you and your comrades came to cut my throat; but I'll ſtop your courſe, I aſſure you, now;—what break into my houſe at midnight! O you villain, you damn'd dog; this is your love too, the devil take all love-affairs, I ſay.

Cel.

You ſay ſo now, Sir, becauſe you're paſt 'em.

Brain.

And ſo ſhalt thou be ſoon; if I don't have thee hang'd, I'll give any body leave to hang me;—go, one of you, and get a halter, and tie 'em all three together; lock 'em in the barn or the ſtable till bye-and-bye, and I'll ſet⯑tle accounts with 'em all.

[Exit ſervant.

Cel.

As I hope for mercy—

Brain.

[54]

Mercy! O yes, a deal of mercy, thou ſhalt be hang'd, and that will prevent thy doing any more miſchief. Come bring 'em away.

[Exeunt Brainly and the reſt.

SCENE II.

Enter Mrs. Brainly and Eddie.

Edd.

To priſon, did you ſay, Mamma?

Mrs. Brain.

They're all confin'd in the barn or ſtable together, and that's much the ſame, your father's determin'd to have 'em all hang'd.

Edd.

And Celon too?

[ſhe weeps.

Mrs. Brain.

Why, does not he deſerve it, Child?

Edd.

I hope not, I am ſure he ne'er meant harm.

AIR XVII.

Why thus, ye powers, do ye ſtrive,
To heap diſtreſs on me alone,
Say, have you doom'd a maid to live,
Beneath the willow ſhade to moan.

[55]

Let not your vengeance fall ſevere,

Upon a maiden ſo diſtreſs'd,

Releaſe, releaſe my Celon dear,

And pluck the ſting from Eddie's breaſt.

Mrs. Brain.

Here comes thy father and Hy⯑las, there'll be a ſtrange to-do, I ſuppoſe.

Edd.

I fear ſo too.

Enter Brainly, Hylas, and Truſty.

Brain.

So Miſs Thrifty, thou'rt up, I ſee;—'tis a wonder thou'ſt not been a wooing e'er now; But I ſuppoſe thou waits for thy deary's coming to thee this morning, and therefore I'll ſend the gentleman an invitation myſelf.—Truſty, go, take ſomebody along with thee, and fetch thoſe hang-dogs to me.

[Exit Truſty.

Hyl.

I hope your worſhip will have mercy on my poor boy!

Brain.

Yes, if he deſerves it, not elſe, I aſ⯑ſure you.

Hyl.

Ah, but conſider.

Brain.

I do conſider, and pity you with all my heart; I wou'd not have ſuch a ſon for the world; and I think, the ſooner you get rid of [56] him, the better.—He muſt be dealt with ac⯑cording to law; and that, I fancy, will hang him.

Hyl.

Oh law! that ever I ſhou'd have any thing to do with thee? O my poor boy, who ever thought thou wert born to be hang'd!

Edd.

Hang'd! my Celon hang'd!

Brain.

Hang'd! aye, and thee too, for aught I know, for being his confederate.

Edd.

O ſpare his precious life!

AIR XVIII.

If not my Celon, pity me;
Behold me at your feet,
While thus, upon my bended knee.
Make not my woes complete.

Will you throw that roſe away,
That once you thought ſo ſweet,
And let it wither and decay,
Like daiſies under feet.

Brain.

Get out of my ſight.

Mrs. Brain.

How can you plead ſo, child, for one that came to take away your father's life?

Hyl.

[57]

Her father's life!—no, not he poor ſoul.

Brain.

Oh, here he comes,—now let him plead for himſelf.

[Enter Truſty, Celon, and Houſe-breakers.]

A pretty ſet of fellows, truly.

Hyl.

Wayſtheart, how he looks! O my poor boy,

[runs to Celon]

what has bewitch'd thee, to bring theſe troubles on thy poor father's head?

Edd.

Celon!

Brain.

Get away, Miſs Fitchet; keep ſilence till I examine 'em, one by one.—You fellow in the black coat, do you hear; hem, hem.—I admit thee king's evidence,—ſtand forth, and ſpeak like a man, ſay, what were your inten⯑tions for breaking into my houſe ſo abruptly; but mind you ſpeak the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth.

1ſt. Thief.

I will, and pleaſe your worſhip.

Brain.

Well, mind you do.—Proceed.

1ſt. Thief.

Our intentions were, and pleaſe your worſhip, to have plunder'd the houſe, forc'd away your daughter, and to have mur⯑der'd all thoſe that interpos'd.

Brain.

There's pretty fellows for you, there's pretty fellows.—Now neighbour Hylas, what [58] do you think of your innocent ſon? theſe are all his contrivances.

Hyl.

Good lack, good lack-a-day, I know not what to think, I'm almoſt beſide myſelf.

Cel.

If your worſhip will pleaſe—

Brain.

Hold your tongue, ſirrah, till it comes to your turn, if you interrupt me again, I'll ſend you back, without any further examina⯑tion. Well, but again;—ſay who was the con⯑triver of this dreadful plot.

1ſt. Thief.

No one here, and pleaſe your worſhip.

Brain.

No one here?—take care, if I find thee deviate from the truth, I'll have thee hang'd up directly—who was it then, and where is he?

1ſt. Thief.

He can tell you beſt,

[pointing to Celon.]

we left him and the other ſcuffling at the door together, when we two enter'd the houſe.

Brain.

Who do you mean, Celon?

1ſt. Thief.

I don't know his name; I know, I felt the weight of his fury;—'twas he that gave me this cut o'th' head.

Brain.

Odds heart, how is this! was not he in the plot?

1ſt. Thief.

[59]

No, and pleaſe your worſhip, (if I muſt ſpeak the truth) had it not been for him, we ſhould have carried our point.

Hyl.

Huzza! huzza! what think you of my ſon now? what think you of my ſon now?

Brain.

I don't know what to think, this is a point would puzzle a Lord Chief Juſtice;—ſtay, ſtay, I've ſomething yet to ſtart, what bu⯑ſineſs, in the name of Old Nick, could he have there, at that time o'th' night?

Cel.

Waiting in hopes to ſee Eddie again.

Brain.

Was that all?

Cel.

Yes, as I hope for mercy;—I had ſcarce been there a moment, ere theſe ruffians came, accompany'd with another; who (while theſe two enter'd the houſe) they left to encounter me; but I proving conqueror, left him on the ground; and in purſuing theſe, was taken pri⯑ſoner as an accomplice.

Brain.

Is all this really true, you Sir?

[to the 1ſt. Thief.

1ſt. Thief.

Yes, in good faith, every word.

Brain.

Why then he deſerves her, were ſhe a princeſs; here, take her, boy, and a thouſand bleſſings go with you both.

Cel.

[60]

Ten thouſand bleſſings, and thanks in return.

Hyl.

Let me give my bleſſing too;—may you be as happy, as the King and the Queen;—odds heart, I ſhall jump out of my old ſkin again.

[gives a caper.

Brain.

Take this fellow to priſon, the other I'll ſet at liberty.

2d. Thief.

I have a demand on your worſhip, before I go;—will your worſhip ſtand to your own words.

Brain.

Thou ſaucy raſcal, doſt thou think a man of character, a Juſtice of the Corum, dare break his word? If thou ever find me breaking my word, I'll give thee leave to ſend me to pri⯑ſon in thy ſtead.

2d. Thief.

Then you muſt either hang Celon, or give me leave to hang your worſhip.

Brain.

'Sheart, I believe he has me, and for thy remembrance, I'll forgive thee, ſo get thee gone about thy buſineſs.

[Ex. Thieves.]

I plain⯑ly ſee, if a man was to be accountable for all he ſays in a paſſion, he might be hang'd preſently. Come, this has been a ſtrange day; but now we'll have nothing but dancing and feaſting for a week.

Hyl.

[61]

Odds bud lad, thou'rt made for ever.—Madam Brainly, I muſt have a buſs, and wiſh you joy of a ſon.

[kiſſes her.

Mrs. Brain.

I'm overjoy'd too, to find that we are all deceiv'd.

Cel.

And I'm overjoy'd, after all my fears, to find that I am not deceived, for I've got, in reality, all I ever wiſh'd for.

AIR XIX.

Like ſailors ſurrounded at ſea,
For ever 'tween hope and deſpair;
But when they the harbour once ſee,
Away flies their trouble and care.

And ſoon as they ſtep on the ſhore,
The comforts ſtill greater appear;
They reliſh the bleſſing the more,
By thinking they once were in fear.

Brain.

Ah, you young rogue, you've chang'd your tune.—Friend Hylas, give me thy hand, I'll make thy ſon a 'ſquire.

Hyl.

[62]

A 'ſquire! hear'ſt thou that, lad? wounds and wherrykins, thoul't be as great as a lord, by-and-by.

Col.

I'm as great already, in my opinion, at leaſt, I'm as happy, I'm ſure.

Edd.

And I'm much happier.

Brain.

Heaven bleſs you both, you've fought hard for one another; we'll have a merry wed⯑ding on't.

AIR XX.I ne'er was ſo pleas'd in my life,
At making of huſband and wife,
Tho' I've been at full threeſcore,
I ne'er ſaw a pair,
That promis'd ſo fair,
In all my good days before.

Hyl.

Here comes couſin Cymon; here cou⯑ſin, here couſin, here's Celon as great as the Lord Mayor of London.

Cy.

I heard of it all on the road, and ſo came hobbling hither to ſee the young couple, and give 'em my bleſſing too;—may you live to be as old as Mathuſalem, I ſay.

Cel.

[63]

Thank you, uncle, tho' e'er that time, I fancy, we ſhall be as weary of the world, as you ſometimes appear to be.

Hyl.

We're to have ſuch doings! ah, the young dog, how he ſniggers;—'ſdeath, I mun⯑not call him dog, neither, that's a little too free, now he's a 'ſquire; didſt hear that, couſin? didſt hear that, couſin?

AIR XXI.We'll ring the bell,
And make a fire;
While the tune tells,
My boy's a 'ſquire.

Cel.

This is more than you dream'd, I be⯑lieve, couſin.

Cy.

I'm glad, that I'm awake to ſee it.

Cel.

So am I, for I feel it in reality.

AIR XXII.

Cel.

Since fate has ended all our woe,

And brought my Eddie to my arms;

All the ills that teaz'd us ſo,

Vaniſh now before her charms.

[64]

Edd.

Our former ſuff'rings are repaid,

By this mutual joy at at laſt,

Nor ſhall our future joys e'er fade,

By thinking on the ills that's paſt.

Both.

But thus in tranſport ſpend each day,

'Till our griefs are driv'n away.

A POETICAL DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE AUTHOR OF AN OPERA, AND A COMPOSER OF THE MUSIC.

[65]

MUSICIAN.

WELL, good Sir, I've read your Play,

Your Opera, I meant to ſay;

The ſtile is ſimple, plot quite new,

My head upon it, it will do.

POET.

Your head upon it, very right,

Were that the caſe, perhaps it might;

Your head, I mean, what it contains,

The harmony that's in your brains;

[66] We muſt, you know as well as I,

Pleaſe both alike, the ear and eye.

Your head muſt give the pleaſing ſound,

The audience hearing to confound,

Whene'er the verſe is not ſo good

As I would have it, if I cou'd.

MUSICIAN.

Between us, Sir, we'll make it bear.

POET.

O truſt me, Sir, I don't deſpair,

Should I ſucceed in play-wright trade,

For 'tis the firſt I ever made,

I ſhall have reaſon then to crack.

MUSICIAN.

The firſt? indeed! faith you've a knack;

But give me leave to ſtart a hint,

Tho' you may think there's nothing in't.

In muſic, Sir, there is a mode,

Wou'd you evade the common road.

[67] In O, let all your couplets end,

(I tell you this now as a friend)

As ſome might ſay, this line is fine-O,

Another cry, that note's divine-O:

Good muſic, Sir, is all the thing,

'Twill give your halting verſe a wing;

My notes ſhall make your verſes fly,

Thro' pit, thro' box, and gallery,

And make the houſe with raptures roar,

Encore! Encore! Encore! Encore!—

POET.

Upon my word, I do not fear it.

MUSICIAN.

No, that you won't, when once you hear it.

POET.

Faith, you delight me;—i'gad, I vow,

I almoſt think I hear it now:

But who ſhall play the lover's part,

Vernon, you know, is very ſmart.

MUSICIAN.

[68]

For Vernon, I'd not give a ſouſe,

'T had better be at t'other houſe;

Mattocks, you know, is ſweet and fine,

And little Pinto moſt divine.

POET.

'Tis true, ſhe gives a ſong its graces,

But then, ſhe makes ſuch horrid faces:

Arne was the only girl for me,

Such life ſhe had, ſuch harmony,

My ears devour'd every note,

Ere well they left her little throat,

Her unaffected, eaſy ſtile,

Did ſo bewitch and ſo beguile,

I was a ſtatue all the while,

Save that my heart made ſuch a thumping,

As from my boſom it was jumping.

And Vernon, you muſt own has taſte,

His action good, his method chaſte.

MUSICIAN.

Well, well, we will not diſagree,

Whoſe part, or this or that ſhall be,

[69] 'Twill prove our intereſt and our ends,

To join opinions and be friends,

And that we never may be foes,

Another hint I will propoſe,

For it has always been my plan,

Never to quarrel with a man,

Whene'er his intereſt ſhall combine,

And terminate alike with mine.

POET.

I like your notion, I confeſs,

For concord often brings ſucceſs.

MUSICIAN.

Indeed, my worthy Sir, 'tis true,
It reſts in me as well as you;
And by the ſelf ſame rule agree,
It reſts in you as well as me.
A method next, I'll lay you down,
Whereby you'll ſo bewitch the town;
The method's good, nay it is true,
There is no method elſe will do.
Be frequent in your repetitions,
It is the taſte of all muſicians,
[70] And as your ſongs are yet unſet,
I'll tell you how; videlicet.
Suppoſe your verſe ſhould end in rapping,
Or it might as well be tapping,
Obſerve how quick the notes will move it,
I'm ſure you will not diſapprove it;
Here's the way it muſt begin,
But, if I'm out, you'll put me in.

What means this palpitation?
What means this palpitation?
What means this rapping and tapping,
Rapping and tapping and rapping,
Tapping and rapping and tapping,
Rapping and tapping and rapping?
Or ſhould the word, perchance be jumping,
The next word that occurs, is thumping;
Suppoſe me acting now, and dreſt,
And thumping this way, on my breaſt,
And while I am the audience treating,
Alternately, the words repeating,
Thumping and jumping and thumping,
Jumping and thumping and jumping,
Thumping and jumping and thumping,
Jumping and thumping and jumping.
[71] There Sir, don't you think it pretty?

POET.

I do not think it very witty.

MUSICIAN.

What have we to do with wit?

Let but the words the muſic fit,

The audience never care a jot,

Whether the verſe is good, or not;

Then pray you, Sir, don't talk of wit,

The people will but laugh at it.

POET.

So I wou'd have 'em, by the by.

MUSICIAN.

Oh! I had rather ſee 'em cry;

To have ſome ſoft and melting ſtrain,

Firſt raiſe the heart, then down again,

To keep the the ſoul in conſtant flutter,

[72] Then flounce it—

POET.

in ſome ditch or gutter.

MUSICIAN.

Methinks you're fond of jokeing grown.

POET.

Nay, Sir, I think the joke's your own;

Talking of hearts, and ſouls, and muſic,

Enough to make a Turk or Jew ſick,

And therefore, Sir, I plainly ſee,

Your muſe and mine will ne'er agree;

I ne'er can yield to your pretence,

That Sounds can fill the place of Senſe.

THE HAPPY HUSBAND. A SONG.

[73]

WHERE the gentle ſpring was flowing,
Whilſt the primroſe pale was growing,
Every morn I told my tale
To fair Padella of the vale.

And whilſt with artleſs notes I play'd,
Beneath the friendly noontide ſhade,
Padella oft wou'd join with me,
In ſweeteſt notes of melody.

Too ſhort the longeſt day appear'd,
Whilſt fair Padella's voice I heard,
Too long appear'd the ſhorteſt night,
When e'er the nymph was from my ſight.

But now Padella is my bride,
Nor night nor day ſhall now divide,
Nothing but death's reſiſtleſs dart,
Shall force us ever more to part.

TO A FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY.

[74]

SINCE to the town you've bid a long adieu,
To ſeek retirement, and your health renew,
Which nightly revels had too much impair'd,
Or when too much of Venus you had ſhar'd,
Till grave reflection bid you judge between
The charms of M--lb--y and the rural green;
Then ſince to ſofter ſcenes your heart's inclin'd,
My muſe may now a friendly welcome find,
And you diſpos'd to liſten to her ſtrains,
Whilſt ſhe in rural notes ſings o'er the plains,
While fancy leads her o'er the ſhepherds lawn,
At cloſe of evening, or at early dawn:
Tho' Edgware feels not Auburn's dreary fate,
Tho' Chandau lives not near with princely ſtate,
Yet has thy Villa left, a thouſand charms,
Thy wine gives ardor, and thy converſe warms;
The fields adjacent yield the endleſs game *,
Tho' ſmall thy gardens, yet they're known to Fame †;
Each grave old Cit, as he goes jogging by,
Longs for her matchleſs leg and lilly thigh,
[75] And from his heart, wou'd fain with fate agree,
To have old Joan, his wife, as cold as ſhe:
While here you talk a rainy hour away,
Or in the ſunſhine, join in ruſtic play,
Or when diſpos'd for ſolitude and talk,
To have ſome H—d join your ev'ning's walk,
No artful gambler e'er ſhould ope my door,
In hopes to win another hundred more;
No, by the Gods! ſuch ſharpers would I ſcorn,
And let the beggars die, as they were born.

SONG.

Set to muſic by Mr. Barthelemon.

TALK not of books, of dreſs, of riches,
Talk not of Bacchanalian joy,
For beauty 'tis that moſt bewitches,
All nature's govern'd by a boy.

At Cupid's touch e'en heroes tremble,
To beauty, ſtoics oft ſubmit,
And nothing, Clara can reſemble,
That has not beauty, love and wit.

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

[76]

I Cannot yet, ſay what you will,
Lay by the d—n'd miſchievous quill;
I cannot for my ſoul refuſe,
The invitation of my muſe,
The reſtleſs jade will every day,
Throw ſome ſtrange ſubject in my way.
And I, as reſtleſs as herſelf,
Can't throw it wiſely on the ſhelf,;
I cannot paſs a villain o'er,
Or ſee the ſuff'rings of the poor;
Nor can I at a blockhead wink,
But out I blunder what I think.
In hopes to make ſome reformation,
Amongſt the jockies of the nation,
Who trick us ſome how every day,
Or ſteal ſome privilege away.—
When half-bred critics come to mind,
The peſt of genius and mankind,
Whoſe pockets ſeldom hold a groat,
Whoſe merit lies, in finding fault.
A needy proſtituted tribe,
Who damns, or praiſes, for a bribe;
[77] Forſa'en of Genius and the Muſe,
Fell Envy teaches 'm abuſe;
From foul malignancy of ſpirit,
They turn a jealous eye to merit,
In ſecret ſtab her ev'ry hour,
Whene'er they have it in their power.
Like coward thieves in ambuſh fight,
Or ruſh upon you in the night:
For while they wound unknown, unſeen,
They're ſure you cannot fight again.
With theſe, and what I daily meet,
In the newſpapers and the ſtreet,
My Muſe, as mutt'ring in my breaſt,
Won't let me have a moment's reſt,
But flutters, ſtruggles, pants, and pines,
Until the peeviſh huſſy finds,
I'm fir'd with an inclination,
To give a vent to ev'ry paſſion.
I oft would peſter you with rhime,
But greedy care won't give me time,
For when a thought has come to mind,
Or when I've found the muſe as kind
As I cou'd wiſh, I've ſat me down,
And rhimes have on the paper grown,
Uninterrupted for a while,
In a pure unlabour'd ſtile;
[78] But oft the buſineſs of the day,
Drives my willing Muſe away.
Each infant thought diſtracted dies,
And fancy thro' the window flies.

THE FATAL INCIDENT.

'TIS full ſix months, cry'd Aladin,
Since Emina I've ſeen,
Say, was it not a ſorry ſin,
To leave my fairy queen?

Say, was it not a ſorry ſin,
To force me ſo away,
And make me plod thro' thick and thin,
"O'er hills and far away?"

To make me ſoldier 'gainſt my will,
And go the lud knows where,
And what's alas, more cruel ſtill,
To force me from my dear.

[79]

'Tis fourteen days ſince laſt I heard,

Or had one ſingle line,

And ſhe's forſa'en me, I'm afraid,

But ſure the fault's not mine.

We parted at this very ſtile,
I thought I ſhou'd have dy'd;
I took my leave, and all the while,
The lovely creature cry'd.

Plague on the man, be who he will,
That firſt the wars began,
But may he be more plagued ſtill,
That ſchem'd the Militia plan.

Why ſhou'd they fix on me forſooth,
Who ne'er got drunk and ſwore,
There's Ralph and Hal, aye, and in truth,
I cou'd name twenty more.

There's Thomas now, as great a rake
As ever trod the lea,
He got with barn, at our wake,
Poor Sally Mapletree.

[80]

Our Joe got drunk and beat his wife,

Until ſhe ſcarce cou'd ſee,

And yet for all, upon my life,

They needs muſt fix on me.

But I'll no longer time delay,
With thinking what is paſt,
I'm glad I've got ſo ſafe away,
To ſee my love at laſt.

O how my heart with fancy throbs,
To think we ſoon ſhall meet;
From her the Rofe its colour robs,
The Hyacinth its ſweet.

I ſhall be 'ſham'd to ſee her too,
In this ſtrange ſoldier's dreſs,
But if her heart like mine be true,
She'll not love me the leſs.

I'll e'en acroſs the church-yard now,
And ſee my Emina,
She lives at foot of yonder brow,
Where yon white lambkins play.

[81]

Here ſtands the church, where ſhe and I,

Together oft have been,

And hope once more, yet ere I die,

To go with her again.

When ſhe ſome morning by my ſide,
O! would it were to-day!
Shall go a maid, but turn a bride,
Dreſs'd like the queen of May.

Then luck attend! I'll e'en away,
In this ſame ſoldier's trim,
Deſire will not let me ſtay,
To make myſelf more prim.

Ah me! what name's on yonder ſtone,
That meets my tortur'd ſight!
'Tis Emina's! 'tis her's alone!—
Then to the world, good night.

For, like the barbed-ſhafted dart,
It plunges thro' my breaſt,
Faſt bleeds within, my wounded heart,
But here I'll give 'em reſt.

[82]

O cruel fate! I cannot bear

To look upon her grave;

Strike me to earth, nor longer ſpare

A love-diſtracted ſlave.

Alas! I feel my blood retire,
My eyes grow dim apace,
The fates have heard my laſt deſire,
We'll in the grave embrace.

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

MAY I not hope your patience will endure
The plain wrought offering of a Muſe obſcure.
Say, ſhall it be leſs welcome 'cauſe it came
Signatur'd by one beneath th' heed of Fame?
Reduc'd by fortune to an humble ſtate,
Deny'd by genius ever to be great.

Alas! I'm loſt in thinking what to ſay,
Till thought kills thought, and drives my muſe away:
At length I doze, and wander in my dreams,
Hunting new epithets, ſentiments and themes;
Then pleas'd I wake, but find my treaſures flown,
Before my eager hand can ſet 'em down.

[83]How hard to pleaſe myſelf—what ſhall I do,
In ſuch a caſe, how pleaſe the world and you?
My fancy breeds apace, no mortal's more,
But then the produce proves ſo very poor,
'Twill ſcarce deſerve admittance at your door,
My days, thank fate, are well employ'd; at night
I ſpin a rhime or two by candle-light.

To aim at fame is dangerous indeed;
Scores make attempt but very few ſucceed.
Far be the thought, the fatal thought from me;
For ever let me boaſt humility;
To pleaſe a few, and that ſame few my friends,
Will be the ſummit of my hopes,—my ends
Wou'd be fulfill'd, cou'd I with humble-ſtride
Tread the ſmooth plain with H—d by my ſide.

Let others try the lofty hill to climb,
Soaring ſcholaſtic 'bove the reach of rhime;
Clad in the veſt of Sophs, regardleſs ſtand,
The praiſe or cenſure of the Critic's hand;
Thirſting for pathos to confound the ſenſe,
Like uſeleſs gewgaws ſhaming the expence:
O be it mine to ſpeak in nature's ſtrain!
At once to picture, and at once explain;—
[84] No pomp of words cou'd e'er enrapture me,
Like pure-wrote ſounds, in plain ſimplicity,
To trace out nature's wild and endleſs ſcene,
Her painted vallies, and her wood-lands green:
There can I ſeek for themes when fancy dies,
Walk thro' the foreſt, and obſerve the ſkies;
Nor ſeek in vain—each day ſends ſomething new,
Some new-born beauty riſes to my view.
Cou'd I but ſteal the art of painting here
Theſe ſcenes in verſe, as they to me appear;
Had I the power with that art to pleaſe,
To paint 'em well, and paint 'em too with eaſe:
Cou'd I like you, at once enſnare the mind,
Engage the eye, and keep the heart confin'd,
And do it too with ſuch engaging grace,
With manly ſtrides the paths of nature trace,
The Muſes then ſhould claim each mite of time,
And ev'ry thought I'd jingle into rhime.
Vain hopes, alas!—but hopes are apt to pleaſe,
And fancy'd pleaſures ſometimes give us eaſe.
Credulity, a mild and ſimple maid,
Too oft, alas! by promiſes betray'd,
Follows the phantom Hope, with ſteps ſo faſt,
Till Diſappointment kills her at the laſt.

[85]Ne'er let me be ſo curs'd, as to depend
Upon a Promiſe, or to loſe a friend,
Nor pin my hopes too cloſely on the ſleeve
Of old or young; I've found 'em both deceive;
The ſilver'd poll is apter e'er to ſin,
Than he who ne'er felt razor on his chin;
Old age breeds craft, and near his elbow chair
Sits Folly plac'd, his favourite and heir;
Peace to all ſuch, if ſuch can peace enjoy,
Whoſe ſhallow promiſe tends but to deſtroy
Their neighbour's peace,—that wretch I envy not,
Who boaſts a name by broken friendſhip got;
For ever will I bar my homely door,
Againſt the greateſt knave, ſo meanly poor.
Conſcience ſhall haunt the diſingenuous ſlave,
And time ſhall lead him blindfold to his grave.

I boaſt no art, thence can no credit loſe:
I paint to ſhew my meaning, not confuſe:
No rogue to flatter, nor no friend abuſe.
The meaneſt figure, claims as great a ſhare
Of ſkill to paint it well, as the moſt fair.
But thoſe the meaneſt of the mean I call,
Who gain, with all my pains no praiſe at all,

[86]

You that by nature have an heart deſign'd

To hear and heal the ſuff'rings of mankind,

May you ne'er truſt the wretch whoſe friendſhip tends

To no one's good, but his own private ends.

AN ALLEGORY ON FRIENDSHIP.

WHAT ſtrange migrations happen every day,
How ſhort, alas, is friendſhip's golden reign!
Like op'ning roſe-buds drink the dews of May,
Then ſhortly fall in winter's lap again.

The glowing beam, whoſe life-creating fire,
Warm'd ev'ry root, and bids the cowſlips peep,
Declines its aid, and 'bove the clouds retire,
And leaves them, in their former ſtate to ſleep.

SUNDAY, A POEM.

[87]

HAIL holy day, by heav'nly laws deſign'd
A conſolation to all human kind,
To man and brutes a day of peace and reſt,
Wou'd man but own his duty, and be bleſt:
As when the harp, in Jeſſe's golden days,
Tun'd ev'ry ſabbath to Jehovah's praiſe,
By holy prophets, and by virgins ſtrung,
When truth and faith inſpir'd ev'ry tongue;
Or when his ſon with eloquence divine,
(The greateſt favourite of the ſacred Nine)
Made the proud Saul, whene'er he touch'd his ſtrings,
Bow his ſtiff neck, and own the King of Kings.

Obſerve the preſent age,—how vain, how ſtrange!
How true ſang he, who told us, "all things change."
A puny race of infidels and fools,
True ſlaves to vice, and faſhion's gaudy tools;
Strangers to virtue, enemies to fame,
Except in foreign dreſs, or foreign name.

[88]My Lord ſends forth his hopeful heir to roam
To foreign climes, to bring new faſhions home:
Caught with their manners and their taſte, he burns,
And after ſix years travel, he returns
A flimſy fop, a coxcomb and a fool,—
A greater dunce, than when he left the ſchool:
Quick at intrigue, to gamble, or to fight,
A debauchee, if not a ſ—te.

Britain and France with emulation try
T' outdo each other in abſurdity.
For here at home what vaſt exceſs we ſee,
In city fops, and city quality:
Is there a folly introduc'd at court,
But ſtreight on ſwifteſt pinions of report,
It thro' the city in a trice is fann'd,
And introduc'd,—ſor taſte, at ſecond hand?
With cards and routs their Sunday is employ'd,
And ev'ry Chriſtian virtue is deſtroy'd.
Mode will bewitch, all eyes may plainly ſee,
And nothing charms like flimſy gaiety:
In all degrees, at ev'ry age, we find,
There's nought like faſhon captivates the mind:
Do but obſerve the rich Sir Traffick's wife,
Old and deform'd, upon the verge of life,
[89] With fulſome art, ſhe rolls her faded eyes,
And thinks to make a conqueſt ere ſhe dies;
While in their dreſs, there's no diſtinction ſeen,
'Tween ſixty-ſix, and ſhe of gay ſixteen.

But to my theme; my muſe at random ſtrays,
And with a tedious prelude, ſhe delays
My better meaning, and perverts my plan,
I'll paint the ſcenes from nature, if I can;
We raiſe ſubſcriptions and new churches build,
But heaven knows how ſeldom they are fill'd.
Should Sunday ſhine a ſummer's day, and fair,
Behold what legions round the town repair;
What flocks to Richmond and to Windſor drive,
And buz and ſip, like drones about a hive,
At ev'ry welcome tavern which they meet,
Affecting bucks, and aſſes prove complete,
On hackney'd ſteeds, the giddy blockheads fly,
Who kindly drag 'em home, perhaps, and die;
Of all the ſlaves dame nature's giv'n us here,
There's none ſo noble, treated ſo ſevere,
As the kind ſteed, that's ever yet been curſt,
To have his laſt load greater than his firſt.
Then worn with hunger, ſlav'ry and age,
Finds ſtill a harder journey to engage;
[90] Than when in youth and vigour he would bear
My Lord a mile or two to take the air.
But ſuch is fate, when uſeleſs and grown old,
To ſome unfeeling monſter he is ſold.

Each needy wretch his thirſt for taſte declares
Whene'r he ſpeaks, but more by what he wears;
Oft is the fancy of ſome brainleſs prig,
Couch'd in the choice of his enormous wig,
And oft we learn the tenor of the fair,
By the fly glance, or belle-affected air.
Is there a nymph oppreſs'd by Fortune's frown,
That beauty might indeed have ſtamp'd her own?
Behold her ſailing in the pink of taſte,
Trump'd up with powder, frippery and paſt,
Reſolv'd 'gainſt Fortune, beauty's force to try,
(The greateſt powers now beneath the ſky,)
Rather than fate her conqueſt ſhou'd impede,
She'll not retreat, tho' virtue's ſure to bleed.

Behold what droves to Bagnigge Wells repair,
Crowding together for the ſake of air,
And ſtrictly keeping Sunday's weekly fair.
Sunk in a vale, this fair retreat is plac'd,
And with a mountain on each ſide is grac'd;
[91] Receiving all the rubbiſh of the town,
That has for ages, there, in loads been thrown.
Smooth thro' its flat, a muddy riv'let ſtreams,
And down its ſides a wholſome church-yard teems;
Here, cloſe pent up by thouſands, we repair,
And praiſe the water, liquor and the air:
Here love-ſick couples ev'ry Sunday run,
They marry next, and find themſelves undone:
Soon ſhifts the ſcene, the paſſion next is cloy'd,
And all their promis'd happineſs deſtroy'd.

Behold a pair, that but two years ago,
She a conquette, and he a city beau,
Now look with ſorrow at their former ſtate,
And curſe the burden of their preſent fate.
Marry'd, they walk indifferent and grave,
Whilſt worldly cares their ev'ry thought enſlave:
He, at a diſtance, from the crowd retires,
She, at a diſtance, leaves her gay deſires.

See, ſelf-admir'd, Miſs, of four feet high,
Diſplay her charms, and with an ogle, try
To captivate ſome dull unwary ſpark.
She often ſhoots, but ſeldom hits the mark:
For ſhould the rogue ſome imperfection ſpy,
Her crooked legs, or bolſter'd ſhape, awry:
[92] If the high ſhoulder, which ſhe'd fain conceal,
Some thoughtleſs turn ſhou'd cruelly reveal,
No new device, how well ſoe'er 'tis dreſs'd,
Will win the lover to her ſtrutting breaſt.

If ſuch a wretch would deal in Hymen's laws,
Let her throw off her frippery and gaze;
Nor vainly try, with ſelf-imagin'd charms,
To win the lover to her ſtunted arms.
To charm with perſon, never make pretence,
But try to pleaſe with gravity and ſenſe;
Plain be your dreſt, ſeem conſcious of defect,
Let love ſubſide, and try to win reſpect.
Shou'd ſome grave friend of ſixty, ſeek a wife,
A needful helpmate, at the verge of life,
Who's with your virtues, not your perſon mov'd,
Is better far by ſuch to be approv'd,
Than try with ſuch a form to make a prize,
Or hope in vain to charm a lover's eyes,
Who will but rally, flatter and deſpiſe.
Devote no more your Sunday to intrigue,
Nor longer keep your vanity in league;
For where the perſon and the mine's awry,
We ſeldom find it catch a lover's eye.

[93]Let not white Conduit, Bagnigge, or the Spaw,
One Sunday more your vain attention draw,
Where ſwarms of fools, of coxcombs, bucks and beaux,
Adore themſelves, and next themſelves, their clothes,
Where belles repair to catch, and to be caught,
Who never yet gave being to a thought.

You, on whom Fortune has been pleas'd to ſmile,
Lay by your giddy pleaſures for awhile;
Regard the cries of nature in diſtreſs,
Conſine awhile your appetite and dreſs:
Where Fortune's giv'n enough, and ſome to ſpare,
Let the remainder be the poor man's ſhare.

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

[94]

FArewel, kind youth! my friend farewel!
Since fate will have it ſo;
Ceaſe, ceaſe, the ſolemn paſſing bell,
Nor rggravate my woe.

In plaintive notes my muſe ſhall ſing
Thy merits and thy name,
And on her weak, but plaintive wing,
She'll bear thee up to fame.

What tho' obſcure, thou ſpent thy days
A friend to virtue's cauſe,
Thy merits ſtill demand my lays,
To whiſper thy applauſe.

The lonely bud that blows obſcure
Beneath the ſpreading thorn,
Often preſerves a ſcent more pure,
Than what the tops adorn.

[95]

I little thought, my deareſt friend,

To ſee thee dead ſo ſoon,

For who could think the day wou'd end,

Before it well was noon?

Thy noon of life an ev'ning prov'd,
Thy ſun ran quickly down,
Thy morning was by all belov'd,
Thine eve without a frown.

Thro' life with even pace thou ſtee'rd,
Without one ſingle foe,
(By friends belov'd, by truth rever'd,)
Leſt envy made them ſo.

But who cou'd be a foe to thee,
A friend to all mankind:
Whoſe breaſt was all tranquility,
With harmony combin'd.

How oft have I at peep of dawn,
Thy friendly ſummons heard,
And with thee trod the verdant lawn,
Before the ſun appear'd.

[96]

From Richmond hill to Twick'nam dale,

How often have we ſtray'd,

Charm'd with the thruſh and nightingale,

That ſang in Dyſart's ſhade.

When cloudy miſts from off the brooks
Proclaim'd a ſummer's day,
With glee we talk'd of men and books,
And argu'd time away.

Whene'er a wild romantic ſcene,
Has ſtruck our wand'ring eyes,
And where the magic circle's been,
Great Shakeſpeare would ariſe.

Where gentle Zephyrs blew ſerene,
As thro' the copſe we ſteer'd,
Or when ſome garden we have ſeen,
Great Milton has appear'd.

When nature daſy'd o'er the lawn,
And bloſſom'd ev'ry tree,
The humble Thompſon's muſe would dawn,
Like pure ſimplicity.

[97]

When o'er the hill we've chanc'd to ſtray,

And view'd ſome manſion by,

Oft with a ſmile, I've heard thee ſay,

"Its wealthy Lord muſt die."

Thou envy'dſt not the proud his wealth,
His luxury and pride,
Thy only boon, a little health,
But that the Fates deny'd.

Thy honeſt ear wou'd ne'er attend
The vile detractor's lye,
But with a manly zeal defend
Both friend and enemy.

Oft when the lark had clos'd her wings,
The Moon began her reign,
I've heard thee touch thy magic ſtrings,
And play thy uſual ſtrain.

Scarce had the Thames ſent up a breeze,
Or dews fall'n on the ground,
But thro' the gentle waving trees,
I heard the pleaſing ſound.

[98]

Enraptur'd have I ſtood alone,

Beneath a cooling ſhade,

With extacy I've caught each tone,

In ſoft pianos play'd.

But now the ev'ning charms no more,
No more the morn delight,
Since morn nor ev'ning can reſtore
Thee back again to ſight.

No more ſhall I at break of day,
Thy friendly ſummons hear,
Nor with thee o'er the woodlands ſtray,
Before the Sun appear.

In ſad remembrance o'er thy tomb,
Thy requiem will I ſing,
When night with dull and awful gloom,
Shall ſpread her raven wing.

THE BANKS OF CHELMER.

[99]

THO' Windſor boaſts her tyrants and her kings,
Her ſhady groves, her foreſt and her ſprings;
Her lofty temples, and her coſtly gems,
Her murm'ring Loddon, and her ſilver Thames;
Admit my Muſe ſo tread in humbler lays,
And ſing, tho' lowly, in fair CHELMER's praiſe.
What tho' thy banks, by kings were never trod,
No ſtately ſavage grac'd thee with a nod;
Thou happ'ly 'ſcap'd the arbitrary frown,
Nor felt the curſe, of being near a crown.

Once, on a time, there liv'd a rural pair,
The gentle Philo, and Salina fair;
The ſad Leander lov'd not more than he,
When, arm'd with love, he dar'd the raging ſea;
No ſtory'd fair cou'd ever boaſt a mind
More pure; no maid cou'd ſhew an heart more kind
Than ſhe; her treſſes play'd about her waiſt
In flowing curls; her head, with poſies grac'd,
Like the fair lilly eſſenc'd ev'ry gale,
While o'er the lawn ſhe tript, or thro' the dale.

[100]On CHELMER's banks the gentle pair firſt trod,
Ere this fair land felt vile oppreſſion's rod;
In golden times, when love o'er intereſt ſtood,
And ſtateſmen fought their king and country's good;
He tended flocks, while ſhe the diffaff play'd,
Upon the brow, or near ſome friendly ſhade.

Long had their breaſts felt Cupid's gentle flame,
And ſtifl'd love with common friendſhip's name;
Till burſting forth, the blaze diſpell'd the ſmoke,
And Philo firſt to his Salina ſpoke:—
We've long, my fair Salina, trod theſe plains,
In ſummer's heat, and winter's drenching rains;
We often ſteal the honey from the bees,
And oft we pluck the bloſſom from the trees,
Their tempting ſweetneſs urge us to the deed,
But yet we find 'em cloy us as we feed.
There grows one flower, yet, that I revere,
Survives in bloom, throughout the killing year,
Whoſe tempting bluſh, and never-fading ſmell,
By far, all bloſſoms of the ſpring excel;
Whoſe damaſk leaves diſtil a balmy dew,
That breeds deſire, and maintains it too;
I oft behold it, as I tread the mead,
And every day, my longing eyes I feed
[101] With fond deſire; till at laſt I pine,
Sigh to myſelf, and wiſh the bloſſom mine.
Still muſt I pine, ſtill muſt I ſigh in vain,
'Tis you muſt eaſe my hopes, and cure my pain;
Within your reach it hangs, within your breaſt,
To make me wretched, or to make me bleſt.

Nay, ceaſe to grieve, the fair Salina cry'd,
Have you e'er aſk'd me ought, that I deny'd?
Sure you have found me ſelfiſh and unkind,
To think, I bear about ſo poor a mind:
Did you a Lambkin or an heifer chuſe,
You never knew me ſuch a boon refuſe.
Then bring me, Philo, where this wonder grows,
Be it a lilly, hyacinth or roſe;
Be it the faireſt bud that ever ſprung,
The ſweeteſt blue-bell ever fairy rung,
Within my reach, or in my power to give,
If Philo aſk it, Philo ſhall receive.

Thanks lovely maid,—but O! you'll change your mind,

When you this fair, this blooming beauty find.

Nay doubt me not, nor yet my truth decry,
Let not my word, upon ſuſpicion, die;
[102] Let not your thoughts be timid and unkind,
Till I've my promiſe, and my truth declin'd:
No tempting ſweet, no roſe that ever ſprung,
Shall make me faulter in my heart or tongue;
Ne'er let me tread theſe fertile banks again,
Nor walk with Philo o'er the verdant plain,
When I forget the promiſe I have made,
Baniſh Salina to ſome diſtant ſhade.

Nay, lovely maid, be ever, ever near,
Shou'd you, ſhou'd fair Salina diſappear,
Theſe lonely plains wou'd be more lonely ſtill,
And burs and thiſtles grow on ev'ry hill;
To yonder brook then let us bend our way,
And there behold the prodigy of May;
And there behold, my heart's, my ſoul's delight,
My wiſh by day, and all my dreams by night.

Methinks, 'tis ſtrange, that one poor ſimple flower,
Shou'd, o'er an heart like yours, obtain ſuch power;
The bee, 'tis true, and butterfly will rove,
And ſport around, with animated love,
When ev'ry flower riſing to their ſight,
Invites the heart, and yields 'em new delight;
The ſun declines apace, let's inſtant go,
And try, if I will keep my word, or no.

[103]Then ſtraight they trip together o'er the plain,
And bands of Cupids follow'd in a train.
To bind two hearts with wreaths that never fade,
And prove the promiſe of a tender maid;
The banks they reach, and next, the cryſtal brook,
In which young Philo bid Salina look.

The banks are pleaſant, and the ſtream is clear,
But yet I ſee no roſe or lilly near;
Some cruel ſwain has ſtole it, e'er we came;
In ſuch a caſe, can I be ought to blame?

Say, can you nothing in the ſtream behold?
No perfect beauty of celeſtial mould?
See you not ſomething, like yourſelf appear?
The ſubſtance of that ſhadow, I revere;—
Thou art the ſubſtance, thou, my boaſted bloom,
'Tis thou muſt eaſe my heart, or ſeal my doom.

Ungen'rous ſwain, how cou'd you thus enſnare,
With ſtudy'd arts, a poor unguarded fair!
Am I the faireſt, Philo ever ſaw,
Cou'd poor Salina ſuch defire draw?
Alas! I grieve to think what I have done,
Things end in ſorrow, that are raſh begun;
[104] Let me recall it, ſure I was aſleep;
Muſt I, indeed, my artleſs promiſe keep?
Muſt I, perforce then, give myſelf away,
To be the idol of a ſingle Day?
To be forgot, if Philo e'er ſhou'd ſee,
Some other maid, ſtill fairer yet than me?
But O! remember, ſhou'd you ever find
Some other maid, more fair, more true, more kind,
Forget not then, who once you deem'd a prize,
Nor make your captive fair, a ſacrifice.

O never! never! talk not ſo again,
Such fancy'd ills will rive my heart in twain.—
Here do I vow, and when I prove unkind,
Teem down ye clouds, and unlooſe the wind;
Let forked lightning thro' my cottage ſhoot,
And thunder tear whole foreſts by the root;
Let every lamb, that in my paſtures ſtray,
By turgid floods be caught, and waſh'd away;
Let me be ſunk in famine and deſpair,
Beneath the horror of the warring air.

Nay, gentle ſwain, my heart wou'd bleed, to ſee
Thee made the ſpectacle of miſery;
Shou'd thou prove kind, and keep thy paſſion true,
I won'd not wiſh a fairer ſwain than you.

[105]When I prove falſe,—but that can never be,
My health, my life, my ev'ry hope's in thee;
If this fond heart ſhou'd e'er a traytor prove,
And violate the ſacred laws of love,
Let ſhame be painted on my guilty breaſt,
And ſorrow hunt me from the bed of reſt.
What ſhall I ſay,—for O, I cannot feign
What I am not, were I the world to gain;
What ſhall I ſay, to make my fair believe,
Theſe tears are real,

Ceaſe, O! ceaſe to grieve;
Here, take my hand, my heart I wou'd reſign,
But that has fled this many a day to thine;
My breaſt, forlorn, oft led me to deſpair,
Save when, methought, I felt my Philo's there.

O! let me claſp it to my panting breaſt,
Heal my fond heart, and give it endleſs reſt.
Ye woods and vales, that heard the lovely ſound,
Tell it in echoes to the plains around;
Let the ſweet woodlark raiſe his notes divine,
Telling each ſwain, that fair Salina's mine.

THE FIRST OF MAY.

[106]

MY tale I take from times of old,
When truth was more eſteem'd than gold;
When pride walk'd threadbare and deſpis'd,
When folks were better exercis'd
Than now-a-days, when broils and ſtrife
Defiles the ſtory of each life.

A country villa, near a green,
Inhabitants, but twice ſixteen;
An honeſt 'ſquire held the hall,
Surrounded by a turfen wall,
The friend and landlord of 'em all.
A neighbourhood ſo well inclin'd,
So ſimple, honeſt, and ſo kind,
Each try'd his neighbour to excel,
In friendſhip, and in doing well.

As ſoon as morning dawn appear'd,
Or early chanticleer was heard,
E'er the fond herds began to feed,
Or Fairies fled the bluſhing mead,
[107] The thrifty villagers aroſe,
And from the bed of ſweet repoſe,
They met the labours of the day,
And chearful, ſung the time away;
At eventide, when work was done,
They all return'd at ſetting ſun,
And met upon the plain—with glee
They pip'd, and danc'd upon the lee;
There in a lowly, ſimple ſtate,
They felt the joys that fly the great;
No load of conſcience gall'd their breaſt,
Content and labour gave 'em reſt.

'Twas now the roſy morn of May,
When Flora, in her beſt array
Bedeck'd each little riſing hill
With cowſlips ſweet, or daffodil;
A may-pole tall, with garlands hung,
And rows of birds eggs neatly ſtrung,
Was plac'd upon a verdant green,
A tribute to the morning's queen.

Each ruſtic ſummons forth his fair,
And round the pole they all repair.
The 'ſquire 'mongſt the reſt aroſe,
As 'twas his cuſtom to diſpoſe
[108] Of various gifts, upon that day,
And gave good ale and cakes away.

Twelve garlands one ſmall hillock grac'd,
In ſimple order each was plac'd.
The honeſt 'ſquire now propos'd,
That each, by choice, ſhou'd be diſpos'd;
Said ev'ry ſwain had equal right
To any garland, now in ſight,
And all beneath, if ought ſhou'd be,
To claim, his right and property.
For each, ſome little prize contain'd,
So that the loſer, ſomething gain'd,
Tho' ſome were greater than the reſt,
Each ſwain now ſtrove to chooſe the beſt.

Young Ralph, a fair and comely ſwain,
The very hero of the plain,
Beheld fair Alecy, on her way,
No ſtar ſo bright, no nymph ſo gay;
Her ſmall and eaſy waiſt was bound
With wreaths moſt ſweet; her head was crown'd
With ev'ry flower of the field,
That Flora's ſelf, to her might yield.
She, on her head a garland bore,
Its equal ne'er was ſeen before.

[109]Young Ralph ſet off full ſpeed, to meet
This lovely maid, this nymph complete,
And ſtruck the reſt with great ſurprize,
To ſee him claim her for his prize;
He firſt bereav'd her of her crown,
And claim'd the maiden, all his own.

Now ev'ry youngſter on the plain,
Look'd with envy on the ſwain,
But all in juſtice did declare,
He won the maid;—the trick was fair.

The 'Squire paus'd, and ſhook his head,
His hearty ſmile of humour fled,
To ſee his child another's claim,
And now he 'gan himſelf to blame.
The ſwain beheld the good man's eyes,
With tears, he offer'd back his prize.

The 'Squire, charm'd at ſuch a deed,
Cry'd, you deſerve her now indeed!
It glads me much, young ſwain, to find,
Thou bear'ſt ſo great, ſo good a mind;
Here, take her, lad,—I murmur not,
If ſhe's contented with her lot.

[110]

She ſmil'd conſent, and chear'd the drooping ſwain,

She gave her hand, her meaning to explain.

The 'Squire ſaw, and bleſs'd the blooming pair,

And three loud vollies broke the peaceful air.

A PASTORAL ON THE DEATH OF MR. C. CHURCHILL, AND MR. R. LLOYD,
The latter dying ſoon after the news of the former's death.

JONNY and ROBIN.

JONNY.

AH! Robin, haſt thou heard the news?

Our blitheſt ſwain is dead,

The greateſt fav'rite of the Muſe

Is in the church-yard laid.

ROBIN.

[111]

Thou doſt not ſure, my CHARLEY mean,

My true and faithful friend?

If ſo, alas! my woes again,

Will never have an end.

JONNY.

I wou'd it were not him indeed,

I'm griev'd the news to tell,

I know thy honeſt heart will bleed,

Thou lov'dſt the ſwain ſo well.

ROBIN.

Ah! woe is me, what ſhall I do!

How eaſe the pangs I feel,

Thy words have cut my life-ſtring thro',

More abſolute than ſteel.

JONNY.

Nay, do not go and leave me too,

To wander here alone,

To ſit beneath the church-yard yew,

To weep beſide thy ſtone.

ROBIN.

[112]

Alas! kind youth, alas, I die,

My eyes begin to fade,

I ſoon ſhall with my CHARLEY lie,

Beneath the yew-tree ſhade.

JONNY.

Ah! moſt diſtreſs'd and wretched me,

To live to ſee this day,

I'll ſit beneath ſome gloomy tree,

And ſigh my ſoul away.

ROBIN.

Nay, pray thee live, thou worthy ſwain,

And hope a better day,

Let not my lambs die on the plain,

When I am turn'd to clay.

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

[113]

I Said I'd write, but did not dream,
Of looſing by the way—my theme;
I've been this half hour in a pother,
To think, how I ſhou'd find another,
For all I'd gather'd in my head,
I found, alas, this morning fled;
I ſcratch'd my head, implor'd the Muſe,
But found it all of little uſe;
Sometimes a thought wou'd ſtrike my pate,
About the Troglodites of ſtate,
A ſavage kind of folks, you know,
That liv'd five hundred years ago,
Much alike, in all their ways,
To thoſe we have in our days;
But bright-ey'd Caution ſtopp'd my hand,
And gave me then to underſtand,
The danger that attends the taſk,
Shou'd we but try, to ſtrip the maſk,
From off ſome falſe, fair-ſeeming knave,
Who's ev'ry thought is to enſlave
His king and country ev'ry hour,
For ev'ry knave is fond of power:
[114] A little fellow never ought
To tell a great one of his fault,
For very like, for all his pains,
The other may knock out his brains,
Who having little of his own,
He's anxious for another's grown.
I'll leave ſuch themes, to ſuch I'feck,
That neither care for head or neck,
Who run full tilt, thro' muck and mire,
To ſet themſelves, and world on fire.

I hear you ſay,—what, can't you find,
Amongſt the race of human kind,
Another ſubject to engage,
And live in this abandon'd age!
No worthy character diſtreſs'd,
By ſome purſe proud knave depreſs'd;
No worthy friend fall in your way,
To elevate your tardy lay?
Why yes, I have, I own it too,
Memory brings it to my view;
Whene'er of friendſhip I wou'd talk,
I'm ſure to meet you in my walk.

ON THE DEATH OF BONNELL THORNTON, ESQ.

[115]

SEE Genius hangs her rueful head,
Like pity all in tears,
And ſighing, cries, my THORNTON's dead,
For ſee, his ſhrine appears.

Wit rais'd the ſmile, whene'er he ſpoke,
Enforc'd by manly ſenſe,
He never urg'd a ſingle joke,
That gave the leaſt offence.

No praiſe could ever make him vain,
No foe enforce a frown,
Yet cou'd he feel for other's pain,
As ſharp as for his own.

[116]

Where will the needy find relief?

Where merit, meet a friend?

That while they tell their tale of grief,

Shall one like him attend?

Tho' fate has clos'd thee in the urn,
Thy name ſhall never die,
Thy matchleſs wit ſhall ever burn,
To endleſs memory.

Adieu, my deareſt friend, adieu!
Theſe lines are due from me,
For ev'ry riſing hope I view,
Was planted firſt by thee.

THE FOPLING AND THE EWE, A FABLE.

A Fopling dreſs'd in all his tinſill'd pride,
With knot, and rapier dangling by his ſide,
With foppiſh gate he tripp'd along the ſtreet,
And fear'd each clumſy mortal that he met,
[117] Leſt his ſilk hoſe might ſome rude ſplaſh receive,
Or filthy ſweeper, bruſh his crimſon ſleeve:
An Ewe, hard drove, and panting for her life,
To 'ſcape the ſavage butcher and his knife,
Hopeleſs and faint, ſhe cou'd no farther fly,
And tho' all innocent, was loth to die;
The Fopling ſhe beheld, to him ſhe flew,
And thought ſhe might be ſafe, if once he drew
His ſword, in pity to her wretched ſtate,
And at his feet, ſhe 'gan to ſupplicate;
"Take pity, Sir, the Ewe in anguiſh cry'd,
"O, pluck the rapier from your noble ſide,
"Oh! let your gracious mercy interpoſe,
"And ſtop the bloody purpoſe of my foes;
"Life, Sir, is ſweet, when I alas, am dead,
"My lambs will periſh in the frozen mead,
"They yet are young, and want a mother's care,
"To ſhield 'em from the ſharp inclement air."

The Fop, enrag'd to think a brute ſhou'd meet,
And interrupt his paſſage in the ſtreet,
He was too proud the groſs affront to brook,
And with an haughty, but unmanly look,
Drew forth his ſword, and plung'd it in her ſide,
The hapleſs victim fell; but ere ſhe died,
[118] In mournful accents ſhe addreſs'd my Lord,
Her tears guſh'd briefly forth, at ev'ry word:
"If't be your reaſon that provok'd the deed,
"If't be your juſtice, that I guiltleſs bleed,
"My fellow brutes more mercy wou'd have ſhown,
"E'en tygers might, had they my ſtory known;
"Had they my lambkins heard, in yonder plain,
"Bleating, in hopes to ſee their dam again;
"Helpleſs and young, they'll ſtray the barren moor,
"But ne'er muſt ſee their tender mother more,
"Ungrateful Lord; no beaſt was e'er ſo rude,
"For ſavages will ſhew ſome gratitude;
"The coat that makes your Lordſhip now ſo fine,
"Grew on my back, was once a coat of mine;
"The tender meal to-day, on which you fed,
"Sprang from my womb, and for your pleaſure bled,
"But I'm too bold, by far, I fear, too rude,
"To charge a courtier with ingratitude;
"Forgive me, Sir, tho' bold the truth I ſay,
"Courtiers receive, but ſeldom will repay,
"Their hearts ungrateful, no compunction feel,
"I ſought thy aid, but met thy fatal ſteel."

QUERIES, ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND.

[119]

OUR betters ſeem to make a rout,
To find the cauſe of famine out,
Pretend the myſt'ry is too great,
To tell us why we have no meat;
Nor can our ableſt ſtateſman's head,
Find out the cauſe, we have no bread.
The reaſon's plain, I'll tell you why,
I don't believe, they ever try.

But ſhou'd they want to lay a tax
Upon our heavy-laden backs,
There is not one, but knows the way,
To do it for us, any day.

Like dog i'th' fair, they ſhift about,
To-day in place, to-morrow out;
Nor ſhall you find the beſt reſign,
Without ſome motive or deſign

[120]

To wriggle into better bread;—

Then can you think he'll plague his head

About ſuch things as you or I,

Who were but born to ſtarve and die?

QUERY I.Were they, like poor men, apt to feel
An appetite, without a meal;
Say, wou'd they not ſoon find the way,
To move this obſtacle away?

II.Wou'd foreſtallers and regretors,
Until now, have 'ſcap'd their betters,
If ſome great rogue, 'tween you and I,
Had not giv'n them authority?
Thieves are ſeldom hang'd for ſtealing,
Where my Lord's a fellow-feeling.

III.If one knave ſhou'd chance to ſwing,
O that wou'd be a happy thing.
[121] In ſuch a caſe, 'tis ten to four,
But he'd impeach a hundred more;
And then l'd lay you nine to ten,
That half of them were n—n,
Or ſuch to whom we give the name,
For they, by birth aſſume the claim,
And have not in reality,
The ſmalleſt claim to quality.
Titles that once were bravely won,
That have thro' generations run,
May grace at laſt ſome worthleſs fool,
Perhaps ſome haughty fav'rite's tool,
In ſome baſe office exercis'd,
And by his countrymen deſpis'd.

THE PROLOGUE TO THE MERRY MIDNIGHT MISTAKE.^*

[122]

WITH much reluctance they have brought me here,
To try your patience, and to cure my fear;
But if, in trying, I ſhou'd chance to fail,
You ſoon will ſee me (Frenchman-like) turn tail.

Our Author's here behind, in ſuch a taking,
Scratching his head, ſhivering and ſhaking,
For fear his comic bantling ſhou'd not pleaſe—
He here preſents you with his prologue fees;
A little canting, and a thouſand ſmiles—
For complimenting, more than truth, beguiles:
So he, poor man! ſince canting is the mode,
Muſt needs go plodding in the common road;
[123] Begs you'd let his brat walk unmoleſted,
Shou'd the poor thing chance to be diveſted
Of Congreve's wit, or Dryden's nice connection:
For ſure, the pooreſt child claims ſome protection.
And if, in walking, it ſhou'd chance to trip,
Or falling, cut its little noſe or lip,
You'll pleaſe to ſave the poor declining thing,
By kindly catching hold the leading-ſtring.

Some, proudly pleas'd in finding out a fault,
But moſtly thoſe, who can't digeſt a thought;
Rude Nature gave 'em rancour to condemn,
But bury'd all their candour in their phlegm.
Or (like enough) ſome ſage good dame may frown,
Diſpleas'd with every notion but her own,
And in her pride, from pious motives, ſay,
"There's nothing good can come from out a play;"
And kindly ſhewing 'tis not from her ſpleen,
But judges wiſely what ſhe's never ſeen.
For many Author's have unjuſtly bled;
Their plays being damn'd before a line was read.

The Actor too, your candour muſt implore,
If Actors thoſe, who never play'd before;
Unſkill'd, unſtudied, in theſe ſtage-affairs—
They've other buſineſs to engroſs their cares—
[124] They only do it to oblige a friend;
No other motive, ſecret pride, or end,
Save this—to force a gentle ſmile from you—
We'll do our beſt—'tis all the beſt can do.

THE EPILOGUE TO THE MERRY MIDNIGHT MISTAKE.

I Tell you, I will—Plague on't, I'm ſo teaz'd—
The Author thinks, his firſtling has not pleas'd;
I ſay, he's quite miſta'en; it wonnot do;
He'll not be eaſy, till he hears from you.
He wants poor me, your anger to amuſe,
By trumping up ſome frivolous excuſe.
I fain wou'd lay it on the acting now;
But that his modeſty will not allow—
I'd lay it on the Prompter—if I knew how.
You plainly ſee, I've no excuſe at all,
The beſt way'll be, to let the curtain fall.—
[125] Yet hold—I've ſomething yet to ſay—aye right;
We'll do better, Sirs, another night;
We'll be more perfect, act with better ſpirit,
For application is the way to merit.
Fear's the great tyrant in a doubtful breaſt,
From thence, our firſt attempts are ſeldom beſt,
Cou'd we have acted, as we did intend,
Not one ſoul here, but would have been our friend.
Thanks to that ſimile—by Jove, methinks I hear
You kindly ſay—"We need not be in fear,
"Becauſe there's none but friends and neighbours here."
Thanks for this good confeſſion, 'tis very kind,
I long to carry this good news behind.
They're all diſtreſs'd to know, what I have done,
And I'm as much impatient, to be gone.

THE PROLOGUE TO REDOWALD, A MASQUE.^*

[126]

WERE it not, Sirs, impoſſible to find,
A ſubject ſuiting ev'ry reader's mind,
A Prologue or a Preface wou'd be vain,
Becauſe we know, that no one wou'd complain;
And yet, I've ſeen a well wrote piece go down,
And pleaſe (tho' rare) the better half, the town;
An half-bred prig, to ſhew ſuperior ſkill,
That ſcarce cou'd read, or knew the uſe of quill,
Has ſally'd forth, with envy in his eye,
And ſpight of fate, wou'd ſhame itſelf defy,
And Critic-like, to do the thing he ought,
Wou'd find a beauty, in an errant fault;
That not enough, to prove himſelf a fool,
Wou'd murder beauties, by the ſame rule.
[157] Our infant-author hopes his piece may fall
In better hands, or elſe in none at all;
Juſt from the lap of Genius, bends his way,
No fam'd Parnaſſian fields, where Poets ſtray;
But finds it cull'd and ſhorn, a barren field,
That furniſh'd ages, now will hardly yield
A ſingle ſhrub, but what we've ſeen before
Be-clipt and turn'd, and twin'd into a ſcore.
Such as they are, he brings to public view,
And if you find there's old ones with the new,
Pray tell me, Sir, that famous Poet's name,
That living bard, that does not do the ſame.
If near his neighbour's produce he intrudes,
For nature's ſelf has her ſimilitudes;
The ſelf-ſame thought might ſtrike both you and me,
And I the laſt, ſtand charg'd of piracy.
You've here in hand, a little moral piece,
Nor ſtole from France, nor Italy, nor Greece,
A child of fancy, nurtur'd by the mind,
If bad comes on't, I know 'twas well deſign'd.

THE EPILOGUE TO REDOWALD, A MASQUE.

[128]

SHou'd ſome grave wit our Author's piece decry,
And damn the plot from meer acerbity;
Let gentle candour riſe and take his part,
And own, he's ſhewn more genius than art.
To write a play, you'll own is no ſmall taſk,
Then what muſt be the labour of a Maſque?
Fancy muſt aid the Bard, where nature fails,
And daring Genius muſter all her ſails;
Our nonag'd poet unregarding Time,
Slipt from his wing, and tow'ring forth ſublime,
Survey'd the Muſes with enraptur'd eyes,
Ador'd their tracks, and mounted to the ſkies.—
Shou'd it be ſaid, ambition was the cauſe
That urg'd him firſt to write;—or vain applauſe;
Ere you convict him of a thirſt for fame,
Turn to the title, and find out his name.

SHAKESPEARE'S JUBILEE, A MASQUE.

[]

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

[130]

APOLLO,
TRAGEDY,
COMEDY,
CERES,
MINERVA,
HECATE,
THREE WITCHES,
OBERON,
FAIRY QUEEN,
PUCK,
A BAND OF FAIRIES,
SIR JOHN FALSTAFF,
CALIBAN,
ATTENDANTS AT THE JUBILEE.

SHAKESPEARE'S JUBILEE.

[]

Enter Three Witches.

RECITATIVE.

FIRST WITCH.

WELL met, my wayward ſiſters, once again,

Ye ſpell-fraught offspring of great SHAKESPEARE's brain,

Immortal ſpirits were we made by him,

Whoſe fame-beam'd glory, time can never dim.

Let's to his Jubilee with ſpeed repair,

And meet his fav'rite ſon; for he'll be there.

AIR I.Tune in Harlequin Sorcerer.
Over Avon let us flec,
To great Shakeſpeare's Jubilee,
There in revels, all day long,
Join unſeen the mortal throng.
Over Avon, &c.

[132]RECITATIVE.

SECOND WITCH.

Where's Hecate gone?

THIRD WITCH.

At Acheron ſhe waits,

Making ſecure the tripple-bolted gates

Of dark perdition; where, with fell diſtraction,

Pale envy raves, with malice and detraction.

Foul-favour'd harpies, happy to deſtroy

Each deed of merit, and each promis'd joy.

SECOND WITCH.

There let 'em howl and rave till I releaſe 'em,

And fierce Alecto with new tortures teaze 'em:

While I upon the wind's ſwift courſers ride,

Cloſe by the harping Aeolus's ſide.

AIR II.Tune, In the Witches, a Pantomime.
Come, come, come, come, come away.
Let us be merry,
Let no ſpell our time delay,
But fly the ferry.
We nor pay, or tax, or toll,
No mortal law can us controul.
Then come, come, come, come away.

[Exeunt.

[133]Enter Oberon, Fairy Queen, Puck, and Band of Fairies.

AIR III.

Tune, Merry Sailors. Slow.

QUEEN.

Beware the ground,
Look careful round,
If near no deadly reptiles dwell;

Let all beware,
The magic ſnare,
Of hell-born Hecate and her ſpell.

CHORUS.Beware the ground,
Look careful round,
If near no deadly reptiles dwell.

RECITATIVE.

OBERON.

Prepare, ye elves, my ſummons all attend,

Your dumb attention for a moment lend;

[134] The mortals all prepare to revel ſoon,

And try with luſtre to eclipſe our moon.

Great SHAKESPEARE's matchleſs fame they mean to ſing,

Whoſe ſpirit often join'd us in the ring;

When we by moon-light have our gambols play'd,

Around ſome haycock, or within ſome ſhade.

AIR IV.

Tune, Allemand in the Maſquerade, Drury-lane. Slow.

'Tis now ſerene,
We'll trip unſeen
Oe'r Avon's lovely banks ſo green,
All free-coſt we,
At Jubilee;
Will ſip and ſip around:

Where ſome that ſup
Too deep o'th' cup,
May need a friend to hold 'em up;
And ſome fair maid
May want our aid,
To ſave her from the ground.

[135]RECITATIVE.

PUCK.

Before your gracious ſummons we purſue,

I'll tell you ſomething odd, and ſomething new;

Laſt night, when half the world was faſt aſleep,

I chanc'd into a ſot-houſe club to creep,

Where taylors, weavers, butchers, bakers, ſate,

Diſputing high of politics and ſtate;

Here ſat a Methodiſt, a man of blood,

Who thought no precepts but his own were good.

There a poor taylor, one of vaſt perſuaſion,

A politician, fond of innovation,

A very coward, yet he ſwore he'd [...]ight,

Before he'd loſe one privilege or right.

He look'd all fierceneſs, and he talk'd moſt brave,

And yet he prov'd himſelf a fool and ſlave.

From morn to night, he ſat a muddl'd ſot,

Bound like a vaſſal, to his ſcore and pot.

His heart oft gave his fruitleſs tongue the lie,

For he lov'd liquor, more than liberty.

Anon, a vehement debate aroſe,

And then I whipp'd acroſs his burning noſe;

Sometimes I'd tickle him. I love to teaze,

And then, to clear his head, wou'd make him ſneeze,

[136] When next, our SHAKESPEARE on the carpet came,

Tho' all were ſtrangers to his worth and fame;

The puritan declar'd, he cou'd not ſee,

What cou'd be meant by SHAKESPEARE's Jubilee.

He thought it impious—avarice betide him,

He cou'd not bear to ſee ought go beſide him.

Mankind were too profuſe, but hell ſhou'd ſtint 'em,

They'd better bring their mite to Doctor Squintum.

I ſaw their minds were dark, and out of ſpight,

I was reſolv'd to leave them without light;

I broke their pipes, and blew their candles out,

And left them making ſuch a horrid rout,

Swearing and jolting, one block 'gainſt another,

Each blockhead fell'd his loggerheaded brother;

I laugh'd, until my ſides were fit to crack,

Then hi'd me hither on an owlet's back.

QUEEN.

Well didſt thou ſerve them, dull and heady fools,

Set on, like curs, to be their maſters tools.

PUCK.

Where are you bound?

OBERON.

To yonder flow'ry vale,

For, hark! how heavy ſings the nightingale,

[137] That from her harſh and melancholy lay,

She ſees ſome token of approaching day.

The cowſlip, daiſy, and the daffodil,

Begin t'appear on yonder verdant hill,

Let's deck ourſelves, before the early bee

Bereaves them of their precious quality.

PUCK.

Well, by the way I'll drink, or elſe I choak,

With laſt night's heat and ſtink, its noiſe and ſmoke.

AIR V.Tune, The May-blown Flower.
I'll drink a draught of cryſtal dew,
And dye it of a purple hue,
All pleaſing to the eye;
For in't a bilberry I'll ſqueeze,
The niceſt appetite to pleaſe,
Then ſtrait to Stratford hie.

[138]RECITATIVE.

OBERON.

I'll lead the way, o'er ſome ſmooth moſs-grown walk,

Where ſtone nor ſtubble ſhall our journey balk.

AIR VI.Tune, In the Elopement. Bradſhaw's Warehouſe.
Follow, follow, follow me,
Over lake, and over lea,
No fen ſhall ſtink, no bramble tear,
No foul contagion reign in air,
But gentle ſpirits like ourſelves,
Little, harmleſs, airy elves.
Shall ſalute us heartily,
As we paſs them merrily.

[Puck going.

RECITATIVE.

QUEEN.

Stay, ſtay, good Puck, awhile; methinks I ſee,

Coming this way, a maſſy prodigy,

OBERON.

[139]

A Firkin ſure, but he'll afford ſome ſport,

And entertain awhile, our Fairy court.

PUCK.

'Tis fat old Jack, a moſt diverting knave,

'Tis Falſtaff, charm-call'd from his quiet grave.

OBERON.

'Tis even ſo, a thirſty, greedy Jack,

I truſt he comes to ſurfeit with our ſack.

To it he brings an appetite moſt keen,

We'll talk of ſack, but we'll remain unſeen,

Poor monſter, how he puffs and pants for breath,

He's had a ſturdy ſtruggle ſure with death.

Enter Falſtaff, yawning.

FALSTAFF.

I've had a ſwinging nap, or was I dead?

It ſeems moſt like it, by my fear and dread.

Cold as an iſicle, dry as a toaſt,

Am I Jack Falſtaff, or Jack Falſtaff's ghoſt?

PUCK.

[140]

Thou'rt not Jack Falſtaff, no, thou'rt but a Jack,^†

Eat up with luſt, and craving ſtill for ſack.

FALSTAFF.

What puny whiſtler in the wind art thou?

Who fain wou'd chatter, but aſham'd to ſhew

Thy beaſtly ſelf, becauſe thy graceleſs ſhape,

Too much, perhaps, reſembles that of ape.

Why Hal! Why Page! Why Bardolph?

OBERON.

They're aſleep,

Where worms and maggots o'er their aſhes creep,

As they do thine, altho' thy ſprite's releas'd,

To pay attendance at thy maſter's feaſt.

Brought by his genius from thy mould'ring cell.

FALSTAFF.

To know the fate of heav'n or of hell!

[141] Zounds! how I quiver, Percy, were he here,

Could not have fill'd me half ſo full of fear.

Why did they ſend for me? Wou'd I were back.

PUCK.

You'd better ſtay, and here carouſe with ſack;

Anon you'll ſee the ſumptuous table ſpread,

Good ſack in plenty on the ſideboard laid,

And SHAKESPEARE's ſon diſtinguiſh'd at the head.

FALSTAFF.

Rare, by the gods, why this my lads, will do,

If you but make your goodly ſaying true.

AIR VII.QUEEN.
Come, come, let's haſte, let's haſte away!
Behold the golden ſtreaks of day;
From yonder cottage chimney, look,
Pillars riſe of curling ſmoke,
And diſperſing into air,
Tell, ſome early houſewife's there.
Trip it, trip it haſtily,
Follow Oberon and me.

[142]RECITATIVE.

FALSTAFF.

What are you gone without me? hip! hillo!

Let's have a look at you before you go.

Well, Jack! and what art then to think of this?

Their invitation true, was not amiſs.

Upon the whole, too, they are plaguy civil,

But that's a trick, us'd ſometimes by the devil:

Whene'er he wants to gain ſome potent end,

He'll wheedle, and profeſs himſelf a friend;

Let them be devils then, as I'm old Jack,

I'll not refuſe—if devils offer ſack.

AIR VIII.

Tune, Queen Mab. Pantaloon's locking up of Columbine.

Were they from the devil,
Let 'em be but civil;
Yes, will I ſmack,
Their dainty ſack,
And drink what they pleaſe:

[143]Let 'em only try me,
And with ſack ſupply me,
I'll be all day
Moſt blith and gay,
And browſe at my eaſe.

Thunder and Lightning.

Enter Hecate and Three Witches.

RECITATIVE.

HECATE.

Welcome! thou ſhalt a gueſt moſt welcome be,

And join with us in mirth and revelry!

Receive our ſon, and inſtantly make room,

To take this viſitor acroſs your broom.

[Falſtaff ſhews great fear.

AIR IX.Aſſemble, aſſemble, aſſemble,
Ye airy ſpirits, blith and nimble,
Ye mortals briſkly run;
[144]For bark! the trumpets loudly ſounding,
From heaven to the earth reſounding,
Proclaim the feaſt begun.

[They endeavour to get Falſtaff acroſs the broom.

RECITATIVE.

FALSTAFF.

Out, out, ye old carl-cats; out, with ye, hags!

Ye imps of old Satan, made up of rags;

Ride behind you! by the lord, I'd as ſoon,

Get up and ride, with a louſy baboon.

Ye faggots of filth; you,

WITCHES.

Ho, ho, ho, ho!

[laughing.

HECATE.

Come, give him a ride, let him like it or no.

[They force him acroſs, and fly away with him. Falſtaff cries out.]

[Exeunt.

GENIUS OF SHAKESPEARE.

[145]

Aſcend, grim night, with all thy ſtarry train,

Spur thy fleet dragons through the duſky air;

Nor leave one chilling planet now behind,

But high above the reach of mortal eye,

Soar to the Zenith; where enwrapt in Aether,

Thou ſhift'ſt thy ſable veſt for heavenly blue.

Come, grave Aurora, with thy twilight taper,

Call up the ſhepherd from his drowſy bed,

Waken the ſleeping groves, bid all the tribe

Of feather'd ſongſters riſe with harmony

Unequall'd; fill with airs the ruſtling groves.—

Come, Flora, fair induſtrious maiden, come,

Open the dewy buds which night had clos'd,

Wreath thee with garlands, cull'd from ev'ry vale.

Aſcend, great god of day, and o'er the arch

Spread thy gold ſtreamers, and with thy bright beams

Drive ev'ry vapour from the moiſten'd earth.

Muſe-fam'd Apollo, from thy orient chair,

Favour yon temple with thy heavenly form;

Where roſy Cherubs hang in ſwelling wreaths,

Where columns riſe, of ſapphire mixt with gold,

Plac'd here by mortal hand, in grateful duty

To thy all-fav'rite ſon; who view'd thy rays

With wonder, and the attentive world

Declar'd the glories of thy happy reign.

[146]THE PROCESSION.

GRAND MARCH IS PLAYED.

NIGHT aſcends with a ſtarry mantle, drawn by dragons through the air. Aurora with a taper, repreſenting twilight; with garlands of flowers, which bloſſom in her hands. As ſhe walks gently down the ſtage, birds are heard to ſing, and ſoft muſic, as in the air; the rays of the Sun appear in the greateſt glory, and the clouds ſeem all fretted with gold; the light in⯑creaſes, and diſcovers a magnificent and extenſive temple, with Cherubims playing, ſitting on feſ⯑toons and wreaths of flowers, which are twined about moſt beautiful columns of ſapphire and gold. Apollo riſes as the Sun. Flora, with a baſket of ſtowers, and a garland on her head, ſcattering flowers as ſhe walks along the temple. Ceres, decorated with her implements of harveſt, and a wreath of corn; Pomona, with a cornuco⯑pia; Minerva, in a chariot of poliſh'd ſteel, drawn by lions; Diana, with her quiver; Tra⯑gedy and Comedy, in their proper habits, fol⯑lowed by the Nine Muſes, the Fairy King and [147] Queen, and a Band of Fairies. Witches deſcend in thunder. Falſtaff, Caliban, Piſtol, and all SHAKESPEARE's favourite Characters, walk two and two down the temple; Apollo comes for⯑ward, his chair riſes, reveals a pair of lofty gates, he opens them, and diſcovers the ſtatue of SHAKESPEARE.

ODE, BY APOLLO.

BEGIN, thou fav'rite bard of Thrace,
Now touch thy golden lyre;
Aſſiſt, ye ſweet harmonious race,
And every breaſt inſpire;
Let not a ſound
Sink to the ground,
But notes, like gentle gales ariſe,
Charming each attentive ear,
Raiſe the ſmile, or fall the tear,
And lift the ſoul above the ſkies.
Aſſiſt, ye bounteous, ye coeleſtial nine,
To make the joyful chorus all divine.

[148]CHORUS.

Sound, ſound the trump, the trump of Fame;

Proclaim immortal SHAKESPEARE's name;

Around his head the laurel twine,

Fav'rite of Nature and the Nine.

Sweet Sylvan maids, whoſe ſofter ſtrain
Delights the ſhepherd's breaſt;
Soothing ſome ſad and love-ſick ſwain,
Or ſing his cares to reſt;
Repeat your lays
To SHAKESPEARE's praiſe,
That ſung, like you ſof [...] themes of love,
How this ſhepherd would admire,
How that maiden would retire,
Like the chaſte and fleeting dove:
Sing in the ſtrain that he was wont to do,
For who, but him, can ſing of love like you.
Sound, ſound the trump, &c.

Ye Naiads that in ſecret glide
Upon the ſilver wave;
Of Avon's gentle riſing tide,
Or in the fountain lave;
And as you float,
With watry note,
[149] Such as the Swan, when dying fings;
Do not forget what muſic hung,
Upon the Swan of Avon's tongue,
Whene'r he muſing plum'd his wings.—
To ev'ry river, ev'ry fountain tell,
This is the Swan of Avon's feſtival.
Sound, ſound the trump, &c.

Ye ſpirits that reſide in air,
Or in deep caverns dwell,
Such as boaſt intentions fair,
Or fiends from native hell,
Come hither now,
Such ſprites as owe
To his creative boundleſs muſe,
Your exiſtence, birth, and name,
Come and revel to his fame;
Let Hecate e'ry charm diffuſe.
What mortal, ſprite, or Fairy can deny,
To ſing their maſter's immortality?

CHORUS.Sound, ſound the trump, the trump of Fame,
Proclaim immortal SHAKESPEARE's name;
Around his head the laurel twine,
Fav'rite of Nature and the Nine.

AN EPIGRAM ON AN UGLY LADY,
Who thought herſelf handſome, and who often made uſe of a common piece of fineſſe peculiar to pretty women: "HOW CAN YOU SAY I'M PRETTY?"

[150]

CELINDA is ugly, pretends oft to know it,

But ſhe thinks, that ſhe's handſome, and often will ſhow it;

If you tell her ſhe's handſome, ſhe'll ſay, how you flatter,

She'd wiſh to be taller, and fairer, and fatter;

But ſhou'd you ſtill further in converſe proceed,

And talk of a nymph, that is handſome indeed,

She'll ſoon ſhew her mind, which you plainly may ſee,

She thinks there's no creature, ſo handſome as ſhe.

THE OLD WOMEN WEATHERWISE: AN INTERLUDE.

[]

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

[]

CRAMP.
TWITCH.
RHEUM.

THE OLD WOMEN WEATHERWISE.

[]

Enter Twitch and Cramp.

TWITCH.

GOOD morrow neighbour, how do you do?

CRAMP.

Good morrow, goody Twitch, to you.

TWITCH.

'Tis ſorry weather, neighbour Cramp.

CRAMP.

Ah! very dirty, very damp.

TWITCH.

[154]

By the gnawing in my ſhoulder,

Before we are a fortnight older,

I fear, we worſe and worſe ſhall ſee.

CRAMP.

Ah! that we ſhall, for my poor knee

Twitches and throbs, and gives me pain;

Depend upon't, it brings us rain.

TWITCH.

Nay, I muſt differ from you there;

I rather think, it will be fair;

For, by the burning in my toe,

And by this corn of mine—oh!—oh!—

Good lack a-day! it makes me ſweat—

Oh! the burning and the heat!

Beſides, my cat ſo whiſk'd about,

Up ſtairs and down, made ſuch a rout—

And that's a ſign, I always find,

That brings us either froſt or wind.

CRAMP.

[155]

My cat for all the world's as ſtrange,

Whene'er the weather's 'bout to change,

Makes ſuch a racket, and a ſqualling,

Juſt like Italian catawawling.

TWITCH.

Pray tell me, Goody, how is that?

CRAMP.

Why, don't I tell you?—like a cat.

I'll tell you how, at leaſt, I'll try.—

A long-legg'd fellow, ſix foot high,

I heard once ſinging on a ſtage,

I ſwear, it ſet me in a rage,

To ſee a man, ſo fine and tall,

Have ſuch a movement, and a ſqual.

TWITCH.

Well, I, methinks, ſhou'd like to hear 'em.

CRAMP.

O lud-a-mercy, I can't bear 'em.

[156] You've heard the ſtory, I do not doubt,

Where puſſy makes a horrid rout,

About her tail,

TWITCH.

No, not a word on't,

I don't remember, to have heard on't.

CRAMP.

Then I'm ſure, 'twill make you ſmile,

For it's the true Italian ſtile,

And I will try to ſqual it you,

Juſt as the male Italians do.

SONG.Poor Puſs was once at friſky play,
Upon a high and windy day;
She wiſk'd up ſtairs, then round the floor,
And then ſhe'd hurry out o'th' door;
The wind blew to the door at laſt,
And caught her by the tail ſo faſt,
She ſcream'd, ſhe ſquall'd,
She ſcratch'd, ſhe bawl'd,
She ſpit, ſhe ſwore, and 'gan to rail,
But with her fury, leſt her tail.

[157]God ſend a change, then, very ſoon!

And, if we judge it by the Moon,

The new one which appear'd laſt night,

Lay on her back, and ſhone ſo bright,

That, I aſſure you, on my word,

She look'd as ſharp, as any ſword.

TWITCH.

What ſays old Sodo?—he has learning,

And, has, beſide, a quick diſcerning;

He ſoon cou'd tell, ſhou'd he but look

Into his fortune-telling book.

CRAMP.

I ſaw him, ſcarce three nights ago;

But then he terrify'd me ſo,

I cou'd not reſt all night in bed,

His ſtory ran ſo in my head.

Sometimes he call'd the Moon a punk,

And ſaid, that Neptune made her drunk,

And that ſhe tippl'd greedily,

Upon the ſpring-tides of the ſea;—

One night (this great fore-teller ſaid)

The Moon was getting into bed,

[158] And in her reelings, had the lot,

To break her cryſtal chamber-pot;

That, he attributes one great reaſon,

Why we have had ſo wet a ſeaſon.

TWITCH.

Nay, I myſelf have ſeen her riſe,

With ſanguine noſe, and blood-ſhot eyes!

Sometimes, indeed, I've ſeen her ſhroud

Her head in ſhame, behind a cloud.—

Say, what's the reaſon?—

CRAMP.

Why, I think,

As Sodo ſays, the Moon muſt drink.

TWITCH.

If that indeed, ſhou'd be the caſe,

I think ſhe's wiſe, to hide her face.

[159]SONG.All things in nature, nay, all kind of people,
Are apt oftentimes, to thirſt and to tipple;
The finick and frible you always will ſee,
Sit over their coffee, cat-lap, or tea;
And the clown will regale,
O'er his noggin of ale;
Pray then, why ſhou'd not we,
Since we find it agree,
Regale on a dram, that at once will expell,
The ſpleen and the cholic, whene'er they rebel.

CRAMP.

Once I remember, it was told,

When I was ſcarcely nine years old;

The earth had been all flooded o'er,

For ſix and thirty days, and more;

'Twas the opinion of the wiſe,

Who knew the motion of the ſkies,

The Moon had turn'd her turvy-topſy,

And drank herſelf into a dropſy;

The reaſons given, were moſt various;

Some ſaid the archer Sagittarius,

[160] As he one night was paſſing by,

He let a bearded arrow fly;

And to this day, ſome folks will tell ye,

He hit the Moon plump in the belly;

Which tapping her, for five weeks a'ter,

She teem'd upon the earth, her water.

Others gave it out, it was her grief,

And that ſuits moſt with my belief;

For now, too plainly it appears,

She means to drown us with her tears.

TWITCH.

But here comes neighbour Rheum, I vow,

Who wears a very thoughtful brow;

I wonder where my lady's been,

She ſhakes her head; what can ſhe mean?

Enter Rheum.

RHEUM.

Goodies, I'm glad to ſee ye—

Health and happineſs be wi'ye!

TWITCH.

[161]

What news? what news!

RHEUM.

Sad news, alas!

If what I've heard, ſhou'd come to paſs.

CRAMP.

What have you heard?

RHEUM.

Nay, I've ſeen,

A wonder, where I lately been;

For, coming home, at twelve laſt night,

I ſaw a moſt alarming ſight;

No good to this world it portends—

No—that I can aſſure ye friends.—

TWITCH.

Good lack! you ſpeak and look ſo bitter,

It ſets me in a horrid twitter;

[162] My toothleſs gums together chatter,

I want, yet fear, to know the matter.

RHEUM.

Well, well,—I'll tell ye all about it—

I'll tell ye truth—ye need not doubt it.—

Laſt night I ſaw a flaming Comet!

CRAMP.

Good gracions heav'n keep us from it!

TWITCH.

A Comet!—Pray, what ſays our friend?

RHEUM.

He ſays the world is near an end:

And I believe his ſaying's right—

Oh! what a ſtriking, awful ſight!

For ſuch a ſwinging tail it bore,

I never ſaw the like before.

Nay more—he ſays—(but that between us)—

'Twill ſwinge the bum of madam Venus!

[163] And what is worſe—we're all undone—

'Twill tumble us into the ſun.

TWITCH.

Have mercy on us all, I ſay,

And grant, we ne'er may ſee that day!

RHEUM.

Nay, ye have further ills to fear,

Laſt night I ſaw ſuch ſigns appear,

Such ſights, as I ne'r ſaw before,

And hope, I ne'r ſhall ſee 'em more;

Such ſtrange convulſions in the air,

Nay, as I live, I do declare,

I ſaw whole armies by the ears,

Claſhing their ſhining ſwords and ſpears,

Such ſtreams of blood ran down the ſky—

Well may you wonder; 'tis no lie;

I had not well o'ercome the ſhock,

But ſtreight I heard of Portſmouth Dock. ^†

TWITCH.

[164]

Indeed, indeed, we've cauſe to fear,

When Comets and ſuch things appear;

They're ſeldom ſeen, but at a ſeaſon,

Big with civil ſtrife and treaſon;

That ſeaſon, I'm afraid, is come,

Which ſoon will put a final doom

To poor old England's happineſs,

And leave us beggar'd in diſtreſs.

CRAMP.

Before that time, it does infer,

There'll be a buſtle and a ſtir;

Harſh words will paſs, and high debate,

Between the multitude and ſtate.

RHEUM.

Few nights ago (like Jonny Bunyan)

After eating of an onion,

Nature chanc'd, as 'twere to ſteep

My ſenſes in lethargic ſleep,

I dream't the Sun had got a ſpot,

TWITCH.

[165]

Oh! that's another powder-plot.

RTEUM.

But yet, I dreamt a ſtranger thing,

I thought, I ſaw a headleſs king.

TWITCH.

Oh! that's the very worſt of dreams,

The Sun of England's loſt his beams.

RHEUM.

Dames, liſt awhile, and you ſhall hear,

While all theſe wonders now appear;

In nature, all things have their ſeaſon,

And nothing is, without ſome reaſon.

The mightieſt States, nay Kings and all,

Have had, you know, their riſe and fall.

Nature will not brook obſtruction,

So muſt the world ſoon meet deſtruction.

It, by the almanack appears,

The world has been ſix thouſand years,

[166] In one vaſt progreſſive ſtate,

And we ſhall be or ſoon or late—

CRAMP.

Brought to ſome horrible concluſion,

Some awful hurly and confuſion.

RHEUM.

Nay, goodies, goodies, I implore ye,

Let me go on with my ſtory:

Our ſummer's over, you will ſay,

TWITCH.

That is paſt, this many a-day,

RHEUM.

The autumn next, theſe days we'll call,

For 'tis too clear, we're in the fall.

Europe can boaſt more mighty things,

More popes, more prieſts, more laws, more kings,

Nay, I might add, it boaſts more pride,

Than all the wicked world beſide,

[167] But now it's in a ſtate ſupine,

And in a gallopping decline.

So, at the laſt, we ſhall be hurl'd

From this ſame winter of the world,

Into one vaſt and dread migration.

CRAMP.

We're in a horrid ſituation.

TWITCH.

Oh! dreadful, and diſtreſſing thought,

Oh! wicked world, great is thy fault.

I always ſaid, and you'll agree,

Whatever happen'd, was to be.

RHEUM.

And we ſhall [...]ee, too ſure a doom,

What is to he, will ſurely come.

CRAMP.

Oh your prognoſtication's right,

What is not wrong, of courſe is right;

[168] So we ſhall ſoon meet ſome tranſition,

Either to glory, or perdition.

RHEUM.

Methinks, we hold this theme too long,

What ſay ye, goodies, to a ſong.

CRAMP.

With all my heart; and I'll begin,

Tho' now I ſing not worth a pin.

SONG.O lack-a-day! O lack-a-day!
What ſhall I do, what ſhall I ſay?
Come, never think,
But let us drink,
'Till we have waſh'd our ſins away.
Then let it ſnow,
Or let it blow,
[pulls a bottle out of her pocket.
When we are lin'd with brandy O!
For if we die,
'Twixt you and I,
We have a weary jaunt to go.
[they dance the hays, and then all drink.

RHEUM.

[169]

When the horrors grow too ſtrong,

There's nothing kills 'm like a ſong.

CRAMP.

When ſong and dance will not prevail,

And all your wiſe preſcriptions fail—

TWITCH.

At ſuch a time, 'tis very handy,

To have hard by, a little brandy.

SONG.TWITCH, with the bottle in her hand.
Wet the other eye,
Wet the other eye,
Let's be jolly,
Melancholly
Is a folly;
Then refrain—
'Tis in vain
To complain,
Let us wet the other eye. [drinks.

CRAMP.

[170]

Wou'd I had liv'd in David's days,

Or when the pious poet ſays

The prieſts were wont their horns to blow—

RHEUM.

Ah! we had been in heaven now!

SONG.

Pſha! pſha! what does it ſignify,
Whether to-day or to-morrow it prove;
Since we are all of us ſure to die,
Let us enjoy the paſſion we love.

Come let's have a noggin, my Goodies, a noggin,
Come let's have a noggin to chear up the heart;
Give me a good cordial, for we muſt be jogging,
Let's toſs off a bumper before we depart.

[Exeunt ſinging.

N. B. At the concluſion of every ſong, they amble the hays together, to the tune they have ſung.

TO A FRIEND,
Who ſeem'd to have a pleaſure of conſerring his favours on the Author, but a greater, in telling him of them.

[171]

I Wrote a letter long ago,
But did not like it, you muſt know,
So rather choſe to take my time,
And write my own defence in rhime,
Though not in your be-crabbed ſtile,
To ſpatter, threaten, and revile;
Nor with a cruel aggravation,
Remind you of each obligation.

Tho' Fortune, (may the devil have her)
Ne'er gave it, me, to do a favour,
Never dropt an ingot at my door,
But kept me ever, ever poor.
What matters then all inclination,
It is the deed gets reputation;
The heart, the will, are both as nought,
The poor muſt always be in fault,
And if, when wrong'd, he makes defence,
Each word is conſtru'd inſolence.
[172] His obligations may enſlave him,
But all his truth can never ſave him.
Two at a time, was it not hard?†
Laſhing away at one poor bard,
In whipcord rhimes, enough to flea,
A puny, thin-ſkinn'd ſcribe like me.
Howe'er, I reſt, with this content,
I'm of your charges innocent,
And ſhou'd your friendſhip me forſake,
I will one obſervation make;
Where fortune ſmiles not, friendſhip's weak,
The ſlighteſt fault the chain will break;
In doing good we ſoon are tir'd,
Except by intereſt we are hir'd,
Leſt to ſome gain our labours point,
Friendſhip is ſoon put out of joint:
It is in nature, not in you,
And with us from the cradle grew;
I do not ſay, that you're to blame,
For I myſelf might prove the ſame,
Had I, as you did, ev'ry day,
Thrown ſome advantage in your way,
I might have ſicken'd at the thought,
To be too kind, may be a fault.
[173] By ſome I'm flatter'd, ſome careſs'd,
I ſtand a tiptoe with the beſt.
To ſay I want, wou'd not be true,
I eat and drink, as well as you,
And have by far a greater ſhare
Of wholeſome ale, and wholeſome air;
Wines of the beſt, each day I drink,
I can't be badly off I think.

Although your lines were harſh and rude,
You ne'er ſhall ſay, ingratitude
Inherits any part of me,
'Till I have loſt my memory.
I know you fear'd nor ſun nor ſhower,
To do what ſervice in your power;
It wou'd be worldly, baſe, unkind,
To ſhut ſuch actions from my mind;
Tho' poor, I find, that ev'ry day,
Throws ſome new friend into my way,
And tho' they wiſh, and treat me well,
They ne'er ſhall make my heart rebel
Againſt a M—s or a R—e,
For all the gewgaws of the globe.
Then let not meer conjecture breed
Her airy crimes, 'tis hard indeed,
[174] Beneath imagin'd ills to groan,
Which fancy's fertile hand has ſown,
For in good faith, I ſhou'd not chooſe
So old and rough a friend to looſe:
Howe'er tenacious I may be,
Rebukes appear leſs harm in thee,
Becauſe I know, thy only aim,
Was to have handed me to fame.

Enough of this, I hope an anſwer,

Without abuſe too, if you can ſir.

ON RECEIVING SOME COMPLIMENTARY VERSES FROM A LADY.ALETHEA, with my muſe I ſend,
Happy to have ſo fair a friend,
And ſince you ſay, you like my rhime,
I'm glad, the day will give me time,
To jingle out my numbers rude,
From duty and from gratitude.
Happy, my B—t—ll, here, to tell,
I like my correſpondence well,
[175] Thy taſte for Clio, and for letters,
Will ſet thee far above thy betters,
Or thoſe, the world our betters call,
Whoſe fortune is their boaſted all,
Whoſe fortunes do at once controul
The deareſt paſſions of the ſoul;
But thoſe who've nothing elſe to boaſt,
Are lucky blockheads at the moſt;
For ever to their wealth a ſlave,
And creep unheeded to the grave;
No friend behind they leave to tell,
They ever thought or acted well,
Or that they one good day enjoy'd,
In manly ſentiment employ'd.
Are we not then far richer, ſay,
Who ſeldom paſs a ſingle day,
Without a ſocial friendly hour,
When ſprightly fancy oft will tow'r
Above the reach of vulgar bliſs,
And reaſon into happineſs,
Employ that reaſon we have given,
From fertile nature, and from heav'n.
Then let us, B—t—ll, ſpend our time,
In eaſy converſe, and in rhime,
True friendſhip never can be ſold,
It ſtronger grows, as it grows old.

EPIGRAM, On having received a compliment, on account of the publication of a new Burletta.[176]YES, Patrick is an Iriſhman, indeed,
There's few, like him, in compliment ſucceed,
He prais'd my piece, and ſaid, 'twas full of ſpirit,
Had my Muſician ſhewn a ſpark of merit,
It muſt have run full twenty nights or more,
Had not the muſic been ſo flat and poor:
I ſcarce had left the puppy half an hour,
Before my good Muſician (rather ſour)
For I before had told him what was ſaid,
Which had ſome ſmall reſentment in him bred,
But Patrick 'gan to praiſe, in diff'rent ſtile,
He now began the poet to revile,
Said, had the verſe been equal to his ſounds,
He muſt have clear'd a good five hundred pounds;
He thank'd the blockhead for his taſte and feeling,
But curſt him in his heart, for double-dealing.

EPIGRAM, ON A DRUNKEN MAN AND A FISH-WOMAN.[177]A Fiſh-woman once, with a kit on her head,
Pickle-Salmon was felling, to buy her ſome bread,
Tom Guzzle was drunk, and he dealt for a pound,
He had not well bought it, before that he found,
The Salmon was dry, and quite without liquor;
He threw back his bargain, and ſwore he wou'd kick her:
Hold, hold, ſaid the woman, pray be not ſo rough,
Tho' your Salmon was dry, you've liquor enough,
I wonder, indeed Sir, to find you ſo fickle,
For you ſeem to be in a very fine pickle;
I've ſeen pickle-ſalmon, an hundred or more,
But ne'er ſaw a gooſe ſo well pickl'd before.

EPIGRAM, ON A MODERN GENTLEMAN.[178]YOUNG Trifle, a fop and a ratling rake,
Reſolved laſt ſummer, a journey to take;
He'd travell'd thro' France, and had got into Spain,
Took it then in his head, to turn back again,
Was met, unexpected, by one in the Strand,
Whom he ſtrutted up to, and took by the hand,
Ha, ha, ſaid his friend, is it you, my boy Jack?
What fortune of war, pray, has driven you back?
Plague on you, I thought you at Rome or the Hague.
I ſhou'd have been there, but for war and the plague,
So my country I viſit, as I wou'd a friend,
From whom I wou'd wiſh to obtain ſome good end.

ON PLEASURE.

[179]

CLAD in her orient veſt behold,
Like Phoebus in the morn,
Fair Pleaſure with her crown of gold,
The maiden, Hope adorn.

Upon a throne of ſapphire bright,
The envy'd nymph appears,
For her, old Nox oft yields to light,
And Time calls back his years.

Gay Vanity, her handmaid, ſtands,
All ſmiling by her ſide,
And Folly claps his baby-hands,
The ſon of wealth and pride.

Dull prodigals her nectar ſip,
Nor ſee her dark decoys,
She holds her honey to their lip,
But ſoon, too ſoon deſtroys.

Oft near ſome maiden's glaſs conceal'd,
Where perfume fills the room,
She makes kind nature often yield,
And gives a poiſon'd bloom.

EPIGRAM, ON A TIPPLER.[180]TRAFFICK, a low but wealthy ſot,
Had made too free with porter-pot,
He wiſh'd himſelf aſleep in bed,
But fear'd his wife wou'd comb his head?
She was a very rough phyſician,
Whene'er he was in that condition.—
A comrade told him with a jeer,
Your legs won't bear you home, I fear;
Why then I'll truſt to my good porter,
For he's an excellent ſupporter.
Your porter's good, that I'll allow,
But he's, I fear, your maſter now;
If you uſe your ſlave too free,
He'll treat you oft contemptuouſly;
Whene'er he finds his maſter reels,
He ſometimes will trip up his heels.

THE COBLER AND HIS CREDITORS.

[181]

AN honeſt Cobler and his wife,
Who never had a moment's ſtrife,
Induſtrious, honeſt, yet ſo poor,
They cou'd not keep the wolf from door,
In ſpite of all their care and pains,
Heavy their labour, ſmall their gains;
Great his ſoul, little was his all,
A true attendant on his ſtall,
Save, now and then, perhaps he'd hug,
With too much zeal, the alehouſe mug;
When thoughts grew heavy, always found,
To make them lighter, was to drown'd,
And in good draughts of wholſome beer,
To bury all his load of care.
His brats wou'd oft make much ado,
This wanted ſtockings, that a ſhoe;
He found his troubles daily grew,
'Spite what he cou'd ſay or do,
[182] His wife from morn to night wou'd ſcrub,
Her knuckles bare at waſhing tub;
She hop'd her troubles ſoon wou'd end,
If fortune once wou'd prove her friend,
Her hopes oft made her ſeem to bear
Her troubles with a better air
Than ſhe wou'd otherwiſe have ſhown,
Had not ſhe her reaſons known.
For ſhe by Gypſies had been told,
Her coffers ſhou'd be lin'd with gold,
And ſhe had often lucky been,
When at fair or wake ſhe's ſeen,
The raffle-ſtand, or chanc'd to draw
The longeſt, and the lucky ſtraw.To draw the ſtraw is a method made uſe of in ſome countries, in raffling, to determine the prizes, which often is a metal punch-ladle, ſpoon, knife and fork, &c.
For eight long years ſhe'd made a hoard,
And hid it underneath a board,
That Time had looſen'd in the floor,
On purpoſe to receive the ſtore;
Unknown to Snob, for ſhe was ſly,
She weekly put a teſter by,
Till ſhe had ſav'd ten guineas bright,
She thought they ſhone a lovely ſight;
[183] It made her heart ach oft to think,
Of riſking all her pretty chink.
Which ſhe ſo oft with joy beheld,
When they with hope her heart have fill'd,
But as her luck had oft been kind,
She ſtill reſolv'd to hold her mind;
Reſolv'd her fortune ſoon to try,
So enter'd in the lottery.
But from that day no reſt ſhe had,
Her huſband often thought her mad,
He ne'er a night went up the ſtairs,
But found his pious wife at prayers;
Saint Whitfield had been preaching there,He had preached upon the Common.
Which fill'd the Cobler full of fear;
He begg'd, from praying ſhe'd deſiſt,
He thought her turn'd a Methodiſt,
A Methodiſt! ſhe made reply,
I've other methods in my eye,
Think you, ſuch fellows can exhort one,
I'm praying to my miſtreſs, Fortune.
Ah, you may kneel, and you may pray,
She'll never mind a word you ſay;
Pray, pray to God to ſend us bread,
And don't get Fortune in your head,
[184] A fickle, partial, flaunting jade,
She ſeldom lends the poor her aid.
Lord bleſs you, man, you talk ſo odd,
Pray, does not fortune come from God;
It is to him, from day to day,
To him I do for fortune pray.

One day Snob ſat at alehouſe-door,
For he had got a plaguy ſcore,
He did not care to venture in,
The white-chalk'd lines made ſuch a grin;
He wiſh'd he cou'd the ſcore eraſe,
It ſtar'd ſo grimly in his face;
He call'd a pint, it was refus'd him,
The hoſteſs threaten'd and abus'd him;
In vain all pleading now to her,
What matter'd his being cuſtomer;
What tho' he many pounds had paid,
Nothing wou'd pacify the jade,
All obligations ſhe forgot,
Whene'er he ow'd her for a pot.—
He much lamented his condition,
Yet he had not the leaſt ſuſpicion,
That ſhe'd a catchpole near, in waiting,
While they the matter were debating,
[185] He now began, enrag'd, to ſcold her,
But ſtreight felt ſome one tap his ſhoulder,
Then turn'd around, quite ſtiff with wonder,
As if he had been ſtruck with thunder;
He pleaded wife and family,
His hoſteſs wou'd hear no reply,
Av'rice did her breaſt controul,
She'd no compaſſion in her ſoul;
The catchpole ſaid he cou'd not ſtay,
And wou'd have hurry'd Snob away,
Had not his wife come, with a Spark,
Full of his ſcrapes, a broker's clerk;
She 'gan to hug him, and ſhe cries,
My ticket, Snob, is come a prize!
Pſha, what the devil, are you mad?
Cry'd Snob, you fool, you never had
A ticket in your life, not you.
Indeed, good Sir, her ſaying's true
The Clerk reply'd, ten thouſand pounds,
This day was drawn her prize: Odſzounds,
My boy, if what you ſay be true,
Good hoſteſs, I'll be one with you.
'Tis true enough, for here behold,
The weighty bags of ſhining gold.
The hoſteſs all confus'd appear'd,
When ſhe the confirmation heard,
[186] Wou'd made believe too, if ſhe cou'd,
She meant to do it for his good;
But all her coaxing wou'd not do;
He paid the ſcore, the bailiff too:
Now, huzzy, you may ſhut the door,
Your houſe I'll never enter more,
I'll ſue you for your inſolence,
That ſhall be my ſole pretence;
Whene'er I viſit you again,
You ſhall you ſcoundrel then explain.
He kiſs'd his wife, and then ſat out,
To know, how it cou'd come about.

EPIGRAM, ON A FEMALE VIRAGO AND ACTRESS.[187]DAME C—ve, one day, her Mantua-maker met,
As ſhe chanc'd turn the corner of a ſtreet;
She ſaid, her gown was unbecoming made,
Then call'd her ſtupid dowdy, cheating jade.
The woman told her ſhe'd a helliſh ſpirit,
And thought, no creature but herſelf had merit.
C—ve then reply'd, with an indignant pout,
You ſee, you b—ch, I throw my ſpirit out;
The other cry'd, I keep my ſpirit in;
And ſo you ought, cry'd C—ve, for yours is Gin.

EPIGRAM, ON A SPENDTHRIFT AND A HYPOCRITE.

[188]

OLD Pierrot oft complaineth that he's poor,
And poor, the blockhead always ought to be,
He gambles much, his daughter plays the whore,
His wife ſhe drinks until ſhe ſcarce can ſee.

Then Perriot, ceaſe to beg and to complain,
Nor let thy ſelf-made mis'ry yearly fall,
Upon thy kind deluded friends again,
If thou had'ſt mints, old dice wou'd have 'em all.

Is't not enough, that full of trick and ſin,
Thou play'ſt the fool and knave upon the ſtage,
But muſt thou try to take compaſſion in,
By pleading injur'd honeſty and age.

THE BANKS OF YARROW, IN IMITATION OF A SCOTCH BALLAD.

[189]

I.WHY turns my Jen her head awa,
My little blythſome ſparrow,
That us'd to wanton, ſmile and play
Upon the Banks of Yarrow.

II.When the primroſe blow'd ſo pale,
She look'd ſo winſome marrow,
And with her ſmiles ſhe chear'd the dale,
And crown'd the Banks of Yarrow.

III.Ah, what is't makes my Jenny weep,
What makes her looks aw ſarrow,
Has ſhe loſt her fav'rite ſheep,
That feed on bonny Yarrow.

[190]IV.

Alas, alas, I mainly fear,

The cauſe of aw this ſarrow,

Sh'as ſeen ſome other lad more dear,

Upon the Banks of Yarrow.

V.Ah well is me, Ah well-aday!
I ſee what caus'd this ſarrow,
I'll o'er the hills and far away,
And think na mare of Yarrow.

EPIGRAM, ON LE FEVRE'S CURING THE GOUT.OLD Guttle, one morning, was making a rout,
And grinn'd with the pangs of the tort'ring gout,
Nurſe talk'd of a cure; but he would not believe her;
She told him, the gout was now cur'd by a Fever.
Then I'll keep the gout, madam Nurſe, if you pleaſe,
Your remedy's worſe than my preſent diſeaſe.

EPIGRAM, On a Lady, who had left the Picture of her fa⯑vourite child at the Frame-makers.[191]MOther Dote, in a pet, at the Frame-makers call'd,
At the foot of the ſtairs, for the maſter ſhe bawl'd;
She no ſooner beheld him, before ſhe began,
To call him a ſhuffling, indolent man,
Said, the child had been framing theſe nine months or more;
A friend who was waiting for Ma'am at the door,
Had a mind to be witty, ſo made for reply,
With an air of conceit, and ſignificant eye,
If the child has been framing theſe nine months, I vow,
It is time the poor thing was delivered now.

EPIGRAM,
ON An affected and ſupercilious Poetaſter, who ſeldom ſpoke in company.

[192]

ARE you a Bard, cry'd Doll? I thought to ſee,

A man like you, much better company;

Spinrhime reply'd, I ſeldom talk; but think;

My pen I dip in gall, and talk in ink!

Your thoughts you talk away, they're dull and cold,

My thoughts are rich and warm, and turn to gold.

Doll now retorted ſomewhat in a rage,

Ah, that reflects upon our taſteleſs age.

THE END.

Notes

Cricket, &c.

†

A beautiful ſtatue of Fame ſtood in his garden.

Written by a gentleman of Chelmsford, and acted by a ſet of gentlemen of that place, for their amuſement, who had never perfo [...]m'd before.

Written by a young gentleman of ſixteen.

†

See Henry IV. Part I.

†

Alluding to its lately been ſet on fire.

†

Received two letters at once.

Distributed by the University of Oxford under a Creative Commons Attribution-ShareAlike 3.0 Unported License

Zitationsvorschlag für dieses Objekt: TextGrid Repository (2020). TEI. 5096 Analects in verse and prose chiefly dramatical satirical and pastoral pt 2. University of Oxford Text Archive. . https://hdl.handle.net/21.T11991/0000-001A-5915-9

1.

CONTENTS TO VOL. II.

THORNEY, LABEN, AND DOLEIN, A PASTORAL.

PASTORAL II.

THE COTTAGERS, AN OPERA: IN THREE ACTS.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

THE COTTAGERS.

ACT I.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

SCENE IV.

ACT II.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

SCENE III.

ACT III.

SCENE I.

SCENE II.

A POETICAL DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE AUTHOR OF AN OPERA, AND A COMPOSER OF THE MUSIC.

THE HAPPY HUSBAND. A SONG.

TO A FRIEND IN THE COUNTRY.

SONG.

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

THE FATAL INCIDENT.

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

AN ALLEGORY ON FRIENDSHIP.

SUNDAY, A POEM.

AN ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF A FRIEND.

THE BANKS OF CHELMER.

THE FIRST OF MAY.

A PASTORAL ON THE DEATH OF MR. C. CHURCHILL, AND MR. R. LLOYD,The latter dying ſoon after the news of the former's death.

AN EPISTLE TO A FRIEND.

ON THE DEATH OF BONNELL THORNTON, ESQ.

THE FOPLING AND THE EWE, A FABLE.

QUERIES, ADDRESSED TO A FRIEND.

THE PROLOGUE TO THE MERRY MIDNIGHT MISTAKE.*

THE EPILOGUE TO THE MERRY MIDNIGHT MISTAKE.

THE PROLOGUE TO REDOWALD, A MASQUE.*

THE EPILOGUE TO REDOWALD, A MASQUE.

SHAKESPEARE'S JUBILEE, A MASQUE.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

SHAKESPEARE'S JUBILEE.

AN EPIGRAM ON AN UGLY LADY,Who thought herſelf handſome, and who often made uſe of a common piece of fineſſe peculiar to pretty women: "HOW CAN YOU SAY I'M PRETTY?"

THE OLD WOMEN WEATHERWISE: AN INTERLUDE.

DRAMATIS PERSONAE.

THE OLD WOMEN WEATHERWISE.

TO A FRIEND,Who ſeem'd to have a pleaſure of conſerring his favours on the Author, but a greater, in telling him of them.

ON RECEIVING SOME COMPLIMENTARY VERSES FROM A LADY.

EPIGRAM, On having received a compliment, on account of the publication of a new Burletta.

EPIGRAM, ON A DRUNKEN MAN AND A FISH-WOMAN.

EPIGRAM, ON A MODERN GENTLEMAN.

ON PLEASURE.

EPIGRAM, ON A TIPPLER.

THE COBLER AND HIS CREDITORS.

EPIGRAM, ON A FEMALE VIRAGO AND ACTRESS.

EPIGRAM, ON A SPENDTHRIFT AND A HYPOCRITE.

THE BANKS OF YARROW, IN IMITATION OF A SCOTCH BALLAD.

EPIGRAM, ON LE FEVRE'S CURING THE GOUT.

EPIGRAM, On a Lady, who had left the Picture of her fa⯑vourite child at the Frame-makers.

EPIGRAM,ON An affected and ſupercilious Poetaſter, who ſeldom ſpoke in company.

A PASTORAL ON THE DEATH OF MR. C. CHURCHILL, AND MR. R. LLOYD,
The latter dying ſoon after the news of the former's death.

THE PROLOGUE TO THE MERRY MIDNIGHT MISTAKE.^*

THE PROLOGUE TO REDOWALD, A MASQUE.^*

AN EPIGRAM ON AN UGLY LADY,
Who thought herſelf handſome, and who often made uſe of a common piece of fineſſe peculiar to pretty women: "HOW CAN YOU SAY I'M PRETTY?"

TO A FRIEND,
Who ſeem'd to have a pleaſure of conſerring his favours on the Author, but a greater, in telling him of them.

EPIGRAM,
ON An affected and ſupercilious Poetaſter, who ſeldom ſpoke in company.