A SONNET.*

WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,
Lost to every gay delight,
Myra, too sincere for feigning,
Fears th' approaching bridal night.

Yet why impair thy bright perfection,
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Myra followed my direction,
She long had wanted cause of fear.

SONG.

From the Oratorio of the Captivity.

THE wretch condemned with life to part,

Still, still on hope relies;

And every pang that rends the heart

Bids expectation rise.

Hope, like the glimmering taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.

SONG.

From the Oratorio of the Captivity.

O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,

And turning all the past to pain.

*This sonnet is imitated from a French madrigal of St. Pavier.

Thou, like the world, the oppress'd oppressing,

Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe;
And he who wants each other blessing,

In thee must ever find a foe.

SONG.

Intended to have been sung in the Comedy of She Stoops to Conquer, but omitted, because Mrs. Bulkley, who acted the part of Miss Hardcastle, could not sing.

АH me! when shall I marry me?

Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me;

He, fond youth, that could carry me,

Offers to love, but means to deceive me.

But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:

Not a look, nor a smile, shall my passion discover. She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE, A TRAGEDY;

WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADOCK, ESQ., ACTED AT THE
THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN, 1772.

SPOKEN BY MR. QUICK.

IN these bold times, when Learning's sons explore
The distant climates and the savage shore ;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;

While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,

Forsake the fair, and patiently

go simpling:

Our bard into the general spirit enters,

And fits his little frigate for adventures.

With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading;
Yet ere he lands he's ordered me before,

To make an observation on the shore.

Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost!
This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast.
Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!

Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder:

Here ill-condition'd oranges abound

And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground:

The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear;

[Stage.

[Tasting them.

I heard a hissing - there are serpents here!

Oh, there the people are - best keep my distance:

Our Captain, gentle natives, craves assistance;

Our ship's well stored-in yonder creek we've laid her,

His Honor is no mercenary trader.

This is his first adventure: lend him aid,

And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.

His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far,

Equally fit for gallantry and war.

What! no reply to promises so ample?

I'd best step back - and order up a sample.

EPILOGUE

TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS.*

WHAT! five long acts and all to make us wiser!
Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.
Had she consulted me, she should have made
Her moral play a speaking masquerade :
Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage,
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
My life on't this had kept her play from sinking,
Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking.
Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill,
What if I give a masquerade?—I will.

But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing] I've got my

cue:

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

Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses!

False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!

Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em,

Patriots in party-color'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:

*By Mrs. Charlotte Lennox, author of the Female Quixote, Shakspeare Illustrated, etc. It was performed one night only at Covent Garden, in 1769. This lady was praised by Dr. Johnson, as the cleverest female writer of her age.

Miss,

not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman; The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure, And tries to kill, ere she 's got power to cure. Thus 't is with all: their chief and constant care Is to seem everything—but what they are. Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion; Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade, Looking, as who should say, Damme! who's afraid?

[Mimicking.

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

the man 's in black!