Prophane, loquacious, infolent, and loud,
The grave Jack-Pudding of a fniveling crowd,
Who promis'd heaven in change for pence receive,
For those who teach to die, know how to live.

The PRUDE auftere, who fhuns each forward spark,'
Meets lefs referv'd her footman in the dark ;
The gay COQUET, the coxCOMB, and the wir,
Acrofs Life's stage like airy phantoms flit,
Applaufe nor pity fure their parts command:
The mark of fcorn let Affectation ftand!

If, then, the finish'd man can fometimes err,
And make mistakes on the World's Theatre,
Defert himself, as various paffions call,
And prove at last no character at all;
We ask your candour, if in us appears.
Th' imperfect growth of unexperienc'd years ;
Tho' buds, yet learning like the fun has power
To rear the stem, and paint the future flower!
If JOHN fhould not each stroke of guilt impart,
Nor CONSTANCE triumph o'er the feeling heart,
Think, in Life's happy morn we cannot know
The fad extent of baseness or of woe!
Boys as we are, to us each scene is new,
If fometimes wrong, e'en there we copy you:
To bold attempts be then indulgence fhewn,
And learn to pity faults fo like your own.

ΕΡΙ

PITE of court tricks, of forrow, madnefs, pain,

SPITE

I've brush'd thro' all, and am myself again.

O Ladies! what cannot our fex perform?-
A buftling woman lives thro' every ftorm.
Have I not dash'd my character with spirit?
To bully two fuch Kings was no small merit.
Around the world to find the wretch I'd fearch,
Who dares to leave a woman in the lurch.
My fon the dupe of regal baseness made,
Myfelf amus'd by hopes, cajol'd, betray'd,
My jointure loft, a widow, and not young,
I had no weapon left me but my tongue-
Should any Fair be here whose nerves are weak,
Who when man blufters, is afraid to speak,
Whofe gentle bosom no resentment fires,
But with her eau de luce in hand, expires,

She'll think, no doubt, my voice too loudly thunders;
Truft me, this female inftrument does wonders.

Vol. III.

T

Thofe

Those who turn o'er the page of ancient story,
Muft own the tongue was ever woman's glory.--
Who has not heard of fam'd XANTIPPE's lute?
That play'd her philofophic husband mute :

Or her, whofe artful notes fo well could flander
Her rival, and fubdue great ALEXANDER ?—
What gifts of speech had EGYPT'S QUEEN to boaft,
Who talk'd till ANTONY the world well loft!
Think of the Maid of ORLEANS, JOAN of ARC,
There was an enterprizing, female spark!
Whole armies the harrangu'd, whole hosts withstood;
Her tongue was furely more than flesh and blood!
Tho' last, not least shall BESS of ENGLAND ftand,
Who box'd her courtiers with her own fair hand,
To female rules profefs'd a brave dislike,

Her majefty could fwear as well as ftrike.

Ladies! might I advise, let's urge our power,
Dethrone ufurping man, and take him lower;
He'd only have us learn the gentle arts
Of studying graces, and fubduing hearts:
These are but fchemes to trifle Life away,
Our nobler aim is-

UNIVERSAL SWAY.

INSCRIP

BY THE REV. MR. PARSONS OF WYE, KENT,

PROCUL ESTE PROFANI!

MARK

ARK, mortals! mark with awe profound
What folemn ftillness reigns around

Know then, tho' ftrange it may appear,

Spirits-why ftart?-inhabit here.
Whene'er we leave the circled green,

We Fairies chuse this shady scene;

Tho' mortal hands have form'd thefe bowers,
Yet is the sweet retirement ours.

For here, when as the pallid moon
"Riding hear her higheft noon,"

Edging the clouds with filver white,

Darts thro' these fhades a checquer'd light,

Here, when we cease our airy sport,

We range

e'our bands and fix our court.

My royal throne, exalted high,
Unfeen by feeble, mortal eye,

Tho' fpangled with ten thousand dews,
Tho' colour'd with ten thousand hues,
(Approach not with unhallow'd hands)
Beneath yon tall Laburnum ftands.
T 2

Then

Then enter here with guiltless mind,
Spurn each vile paffion far behind.
Hence Envy with her pining train,
And venal love of fordid gain;
Hence Malice, rankling at the heart,
And dire Revenge with poison'd dart;
Hence Luft with fly uneafy mien,
That thro' the twilight creeps unfeen;
Hence Vice; avoid this arching grove,
1. Pollution follows where you move;
Hence; nor near the spot be found,
"Hence! avaunt!-'tis holy ground!"

OBERON.

ABSENCE. A PASTORAL BALLAD,

BY THE SAME.

WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1750.

OW fweet to recall the dear moments of joy!

How

'Tis this and this only can Absence employ, Can eafe my fond heart and beguile my soft pain, "Till I fee with delight my dear charmer again.

Ah!