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Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses! | Besides, a singer in a comic set!
False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false
Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em,
Patriots, in party-colour'd suits, that ride 'em.
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore.
These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.
Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the wo-
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,
And tries to kill, ere she's got pow'r to cure.
Thus 'tis with all-their chief and constant care
Is to seem ev'ry thing but what they are.
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion;
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round
Looking, as who should say, damme! who's
Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am
You'll find his "onship a very lamb. 1
Yon politician, famous in debate,
Perhaps to vulgar eyes bestrides the state;
Yet when he deigns his real shape t' assume,
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,
And seems to ev'ry gazer all in white,
If with a bribe his candour you attack,
He bows, turns round, and whip-the man's in
Yon critic, too-but whither do I run?
If I proceed, our bard will be undone !
Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too:
Do you spare her, and I'll for ouce spare you.
SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY AND MISS CATLEY.
Enter Mrs. Bulkley, who curtsies very low as beginning to speak. Then enter Miss Catley, who stands full before her, and curtsies to the audience.
MRS. BULK LEY.
HOLD, ma'am, your pardon. What's your business here?
Yes, the epilogue, my dear.
Excuse me, ma'am. The author bid me sing it.
Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring,
Suspend your conversation while I sing.
Excuse me, ma'am; I know the etiquette.
What if we leave it to the house?
Why sure the girl's beside herself: an epilogue of singing,
A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning.
And she, whose party's largest, shall proceed.
And first, I hope, you'll readily agree
I've all the critics and the wits for me.
They, Iam sure, will answer my commands;
Ye candid judging few, hold up your hands:
What, no return? I find too late, I fear,
That modern judges seldom enter here.
I'm for a diff'rent set- Old men, whose trade is
Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies.
Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smil-
Still thus address the fair, with voice beguiling:
Turn my fairest, turn, if ever
Strephon caught thy ravish'd eye:
Pity take on your swain so clever,
Who without your aid must die.
Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu,
Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho.
Let all the old pay homage to your merit :
Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit.
Ye travell'd tribe, ye macaroni train,
Of French friseurs, and nosegays, justly vaio;
Who take a trip to Paris once a year,
To dress, and look like aukward Frenchmen bere;
Lend me your hands.-O fatal news to tell,
Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle!
Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,
Make but of all your fortune one va toute:
Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few,
Sure you mistake, ma'am. The epilogue I bring "I hold the odds-Done, done, with you, with
Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, [you."
"My lord-your lordship misconceives the case:"
Doctors, who answer every misfortuner,
"I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner :"
Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty,
Come end the contest here, and aid my party.
Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack,
Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack,
Ay, take your travellers, travellers indeed!
Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the
Where are the cheels? Ah, ah, I well discern
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairne:
A bonny young lad is my Jockey.
I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day,
And be unco merry when you are but gay;
When you with your bagpipes are ready to play,
My voice shall be ready to carol away,
With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey,
With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey.
For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack, | Yes, he's far gone :-and yet some pity fix, When the ladies are calling, to blush, and hang The English laws forbid to punish lunatics'.
But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?
The Moon, says he :-but I affirm, the Stage:
At least in many things, I think, I see
His lunar and our mimic world agree.
Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone, We scarce exhibit till the Sun goes down. Both prone to change, no settled limits fix, And sure the folks of both are lunatics. But in this parallel my best pretence is, That mortals visit both to find their senses. To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits, Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits. The gay coquet, who ogles all the day, Comes here at night, and goes a prude away. Hither the affected city dame advancing, Who sighs for operas, and doats on dancing, Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on, Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson. The gamester too, whose wit's all high or low, Oft risques his fortune on one desperate throw, Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts. The Mohawk too-with angry phrases stor❜d, As "Dam'me, sir," and, " sir, I wear a sword;" Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating, Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. Here come the sons of scandal and of news, But find no sense-for they had none to lose. Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser, Our author's the least likely to grow wiser; Has he not seen how you your favour place On sentimental queens and lords in lace? Without a star, or coronet, or garter, How can the piece expect or hope for quarter? No high-life scenes, no sentiment :-the creature Still stoops among the low to copy nature.
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS THE
PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.
SPOKEN AND SUNG IN THE GREAT ROOM IN SOHOSQUARE,
Thursday the 20th of February 1772.
The following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius.
In justice to the composer it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music was adapted in a period of time equally short.
Mr. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy.
Mr. Champnes, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson. The music prepared and adapted by Signor Vento.
OVERTURE-A SOLEMN DIRGE.
Arise, ye sons of worth, arise,
And waken every note of woe!
When truth and virtue reach the skies,
'Tis ours to weep the want below.
When truth and virtue, &c.
The praise attending pomp and power,
The incense, given to kings,
Are but the trappings of an hour,
Mere transitory things.
The base bestow them: but the good agree
To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.-
But when to pomp and power are join'd
An equal dignity of mind:
When titles are the smallest claim:
When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,
But aid the power of doing good,
Then all their trophies last-and flattery turns
'This epilogue was given in MS. by Dr. Goldsmith to Dr. Percy (now Bishop of Dromore); but for what comedy it was intended is not remembered.
Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,
Shall spread and flourish from the tomb,
How hast thou left mankind for Heaven!
Even now reproach and faction mourn,
And, wondering how their rage was born,
Request to be forgiven!
Alas! they never had thy hate:
Unmov'd in conscious rectitude,
Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send :
In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urged thy end:
Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience
And purchased strength from its increasing load.
Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free,
Affliction still is virtue's opportunity!
Virtue on herself relying,
Every passion hush'd to rest,
Loses every pain of dying
In the hopes of being blest.
Every added pang she suffers,
Some increasing good bestows,
And every shock that malice offers,
Only rocks her to repose.
Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer:
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature,
As a safe inn where weary travellers,
When they have journey'd thro' a world of cares,
May put off life and be at rest for ever.
Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables,
May oft distract us with their sad solemnity.
The preparation is the executioner.
Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face,
And is a terrour only at a distance:
For as the line of life conducts me on
To death's great court, the prospect seems more fair,
'Tis nature's kind retreat, that's always open
To take us in when we have drain'd the cup
Of life, or worn our days to wretchedness.—
In that secure, serene retreat,
Where all the humble, all the great,
Where wildly huddled to the eye,
The beggar's pouch and prince's purple lie,
May every bliss be thine.
And ah! blest spirit, wheresoe'er thy flight,
Through rolling worlds, or fields of liquid light,
May cherubs welcome their expected guest,
May saints with songs receive thee to their rest,
May peace that claim'd while here thy warmest
May blissful endless peace be thine above.
But every day her name I'll bless,
FAST by that shore where Thames' translucent My morning prayer, my evening song,
I'll praise her while my life shall last,
A life that cannot last me long.
Reflects new glories on his breast,
Where, splendid as the youthful poet's dream,
He forms a scene beyond Elysium blest:
Where sculptur'd elegance and native grace
Unite to stamp the beauties of the place:
While, sweetly blending, still are seen
The wavy lawn, the sloping green:
While novelty, with cautious cunning,
Through every maze of fancy running,
From China borrows aid to deck the scene:
There sorrowing by the river's glassy bed,
Forlorn, a rural bard complain'd,
All whom AUGUSTA'S bounty fed,
All whom her clemency sustain'd;
The good old sire, unconscious of decay,
The modest matron, clad in home-spun grey,
The military boy, the orphan'd maid,
The shatter'd veteran, now first dismay'd;
These sadly join beside the murmuring deep,
And as they view the towers of Kew,
Call on their mistress, now no more, and weep.
CHORUS. AFFETTUOSO, LArgo.
Ye shady walks, ye waving greens,
Ye nodding towers, ye fairy scenes,
Let all your echoes now deplore,
That she who form'd your beauties is no more.
First of the train the patient rustic came,
Whose callous hand had form'd the scene,
Bending at once with sorrow and with age,
With many a tear, and many a sigh between,
"And where," he cried, "shall now my babes
In decent dress, and coarsely clean,
The pious matron next was seen,
Clasp'd in her hand a godly book was borne,
By use and daily meditation worn;
That decent dress, this holy guide,
AUGUSTA'S care had well supply'd.
And ah! she cries, all woe begone,
What now remains for me?
Oh! where shall weeping want repair
To ask for charity?
But all my wants, before I spoke,
Were to my mistress known;
She still reliev'd, nor sought my praise,
Contented with her own.
Or how shall age support its feeble fire?
No lord will take me now, my vigour fled,
Nor can my strength perform what they require:
Each grudging master keeps the labourer bare,
A sleek and idle race is all their care:
My noble mistress thought not so!
Her bounty, like the morning dew,
Unseen, tho' constant, used to flow,
In innocence and youth complaining,
Next appear'd a lovely maid,
Affliction o'er each feature reigning,
Kindly came in beauty's aid;
Every grace that grief dispenses,
And as my strength decay'd, her bounty grew." Every glance that warms the soul,
Too late in life for me to ask,
And shame prevents the deed,
And tardy, tardy are the times
To succour, should I need.
SONG. BY A WOMAN.
Each day, each hour, her name I'll bless,
My morning and my evening song,
And when in death my vows shall cease,
My children shall the note prolong.
The hardy veteran after struck the sight,
Scarr'd, mangl'd, maim'd in every part,
Lopp'd of his limbs in many a gallant fight,
In nought entire-except his heart:
Mute for a while, and sullenly distress'd,
At last the impetuous sorrow fir'd his breast.
Wild is the whirlwind rolling
O'er Afric's sandy plain,
And wild the tempest howling
Along the billow'd main :
But every danger felt before,
The raging deep, the whirlwind's roar,
Less dreadful struck me with dismay,
Than what I feel this fatal day.
Oh, let me fly a land that spurns the brave,
Oswego's dreary shores shall be my grave;
I'll seek that less inhospitable coast,
And lay my body where my limbs were lost.
SONG. BY A MAN.-BASSO SPIRITUOSO.
Old Edward's sons, unknown to yield,
Shall crowd from Cressy's laurell'd field,
To do thy memory right:
For thine and Britain's wrongs they feel,
Again they snatch the gleamy steel,
And wish the avenging fight.
In sweet succession charms the senses,
While pity harmoniz'd the whole.
"The garland of beauty" ('tis thus she would
"No more shall my crook or my temples adorn,
I'll not wear a garland, AUGUSTA's away,
I'll not wear a garland until she return:
But alas! that return I never shall see:
The echoes of Thames shall my sorrows proclaim,
There promis'd a lover to come, but, oh me!
'Twas death, 'twas the death of my mistress that
But ever, for ever, her image shall last,
I'll strip all the Spring of its earliest bloom;
On her grave shall the cowslip and primrose be
And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her
SONG. BY A WOMAN.-PASTORALE.
With garlands of beauty the queen of the May No more will her crook or her temples adorn; For who'd wear a garland when she is away, When she is remov'd, and shall never return,
On the grave of AUGUSTA these garlands plac'd,
We'll rifle the Spring of its earliest bloo'n,
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast, And the new-blossom'd thorn shall whiten her tomb.
CHORUS. ALTRO MODO.
On the grave of AUGUSTA this garland be plac'd,
We'll rifle the Spring of its earliest bloom,
And there shall the cowslip and primrose be cast,
And the tears of her country shall water her