This day comes honeft Taffy to my houfe,

Cot plefs hur, hur has fav'd hur poy and fpoufe,
Hut fav'd my Gwinifred, or death had fwallow'd hur,
Tho' creat-krand, creat-krand-krand child to Cadwal-
lador.

Cries Patrick Touzle'em,- I'm bound to pray,
You've fav'd our Sue in your fame phyfic way,
And further shall I thank you yesterday.

Then Sawny came and thank'd me for my love,
(I very readily excus'd his glove)

He blefs'd the Mon, e'en by St. Andrew's crofs,
Who cur'd his bonny bearn, and blythfome lafs.
But merriment and mimick'ry a-part,

Thanks to each bounteous hand, and gen'rous heart,
Of those who ten 'erly take pity's part;
Who in good-natur'd acts can fweetly grieve,
Swift to lament, but swifter to relieve.

Thanks to the lovely fair-ones, types of heav'n,
Who raife, and beautify, the bounty giv'n;
But chief to him, in whom diftrefs confides,
Who o'er this noble plan fo gloriously prefides.

}

}

DIALOGUE-E PILOGUE

то THE

HUSBAND.

CARELESS

Spoken by Lady B. MODISH, and Ld. FOPPINGTON.

Ly Bet.]WELL now we've done, I'll feed my fex's

failing,

Attack the fops, and give a loofe to railing.
Of all the parts in life, the part oft oddih
Is furely that

[Peinting affectedly at him..
Ld. Fop.] of lady BETTY MODISH!
I grant you, Madam, there's no part in town

Is half fo odd

Ly. Bet-Except Lord FoPPINGTON.

Ld. Fop] A hit, 'faith-let's fairly try together, And weigh your pride

Ly Bet.]against your lordship's feather.

*Earl of Northumberland.

Lag.

Ld Fop.] A feather's light indeed, I must agree; But not fo light as woman's vanity.

Ly Bet.] Hold there my Lord, I fancy you've forgot. You wear a folitair, and fhoulder knot.

For what's that wig comb'd prim around your face ?
For what, that coat all o'er bedaub'd with lace?
For what, the farce of all your drefs befide?
For what, my lord,but vanity and pride?

Ld Fop.]O! fplit me, rat me, flap my vital breath! This woman's tongue will talk a man to death.

Ly Bet.] For pride, my Lord, and to attract the throng, Your gilded chariot rolls in pomp along:

Within you loll with careless air, and eafy,
And think you charm each female eye that fees ye.
I vow, for my own fingle part, that I
As foon could love a gaudy butterfly;

A while they teaze us, and then disappear;
But fops are drones that plague us all the year,
And buz their tender nonfenfe in one's ear.

Ld Fop.] Her clack is ftill; If pofiible I'll try,
If I can put a word in by the bye;
Faults I may have, yet ftill I am no fham,
My drefs difcovers what I truly am.

A poor infipid thing that's made for fhow;
For fenfe, none thinks to find it in a beau.
But a coquet's a two-legg'd walking cheat,
Whofe every look, and motion is deceit.
At ev'ry glafs you meet, your airs you try,
To fmile affected, and to play your eye;
Your cheeks are redden'd with vermillion art,
To make your face as falfe as is your heart;
Nay, ev'n your drefs is falfer than your face,
And your own works put of for Flanders' lace.

}

Ly Bet.] A truce, fince both our 'fcutcheons have a Ld Fop] And we but play the kettle and the pot, [blot, Ly Bet. By us be warn'd, ye fair, be warn'd ye beaus! For merit lies not in embroider'd clothes.

Ld. Fop.] Within beftow your fin'ry and expence, And lace your minds with virtue and with fenfe; Ly Bet.] Coquets alone are caught in coxcombs fnares, Ld Fop.J And only coxcombs prize coquettish airs. Ty Bet.] In our Sir Charles and in his virtuous wife, Ld Fop,] Behold two patterns for the marriage life.

Ly

Ly Bet.] Like her, gallants, may all your wives be fam'd, Ld Fop.] Your hutbands, ladies, like fir Charles reclaim'd.

EPIL

OGUE

то THE

SPANISH BAR BE R. SAID TO BE WRITTEN BY D. GARRICK, ESQ. Spoken by Mifs FARREN.

WHAT various modes prevail in various parts,

And to indulge our paflions what strange arts! To cheat the Old, the Young exert their skill, And often cheat themfelves to have their will: In Spain to lock up girls it is their plan; To pick the locks, the Barber is the man; He, foe proteft to age, friend to young bloods, Oft leaves the blinded Argus in the fuds; And while warm youth with trembling beauty flies, With news and lather, fills his ears and eyes; The old-one chuckles, thinks all fafe within, Nor feels his forehead grow, while reap'd his chin! In France there needs no fubtle go-between ; Hufbands and wives are ne'er together feen; Or fhould by chance thofe eafy couples meet, In balls, plays, operas, gardens, or the street, No frowns exchang'd, each freedom gives and grants; Monfieur has madams, madam her gallants.

In Italy, the climate is fo warm,

Cupids, like gnats, throughout the country fwarm,
And fting both old and young-but in that nation,
No patient fuffers long an inflammation;

Hufbands themselves the men of skill invite,
And Cecifbeo Doctors cure the bite.-

For hearts inflam'd where get our fair their cure?
Here love's prime minifter's a French Friseur;
To each commodious art politely bred,
While he works up, he turns the female head:
From the fame land the millinery crew,
Finish the lady's head, and husband's too ;-
Intrigues, once dreadful, as our tafte improves,
Now eafy fit, and fit us like French gloves.-

But

But to be grave-if four old-age with care,

Will lock up, with their gold, the captive fair
We hope the fons of freedom not fo few,
Nor fo be-devil'd, be-macaronied too,

But fome old-fashion'd folks will lend their aid,
And with their country free each captive maid;
For what is gold or beauty in a nation,
Unless you give it a free circulation ?

;

Should it be faid (alas! with truth) that fome
Among the fair ramble too far from home,
In giddy whirls forget their fex and slate,
Then let each Gadder feel a diff'rent fate!
Let there no female Rakes in Britain be,
Nor female Slaves-but let us all agree,

That thofe too loose be fatt, and thofe too fast be free!

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

HEN Philip's fon led forth his warlike band,
To die, or conquer, in a diftant land;

To fan the fire, a martial mufe he chofe;
From Homer's fong a new Achilles rofe!
When generous Athens her prime trophies won,
Vanquish'd Darius, and Darius' fon,

The stage breath'd war the foldiers bofom burn'd,
And fiercer to the field each chief return'd:
Now, when the world refounds with loud alarms,
When victory fits plan'd on Britain's arms,
Be war our theme: the hero's glorious toil,
And virtue fpringing from the iron foil!
Our scenes prefent a fiege in ftory known;
Where magnanimity, and valour fhone:
If nature guides us, if the hand of truth
Draws the just portrait of a Roman youth,
Who, with the beft and nobleft paffions fir'd,
In the fame moment, conquer'd and expir'd;
Perhaps your hearts may own the pictur'd woe,
And from a fonder fource your forrows flow:

Whilft warm remembrance aids the poet's ftrain,
And England weeps for English heroes flain.

PRO L OGU E

то

PHILA S TE R. Spoken by Mr. KING.

WHILE modern tragedy, by rule exact,

Spins out a thin-wrought fable, act by act,
We dare to bring you one of thefe bold plays,
Wrote by rough English wits in former days;
Beaumont and Fletcher! those twin ftars, that run
Their glorious courfe round Shakefpear's golden fun;
Or when Philafter Hamlet's place fupply'd,
Or Beffus walk'd the stage by Falstaff's fide.
Their fouls, well pair'd, thot fire in mingled rays,
Their hands together twin'd the focial bays,
'Till fashion drove, in a refining age,

Virtue from court, and nature from the stage.
Then nonfenfe, in heroicks, feem'd fublime;
Kings rav'd in couplets, and maids figh'd in rhime.
Next, prim, and trim, and delicate, and chaste,
A hash from Greece and France, came modern taste.
Cold are her fons, and fo afraid of dealing
In rant and fultian, they ne'er rife to feeling.
Oh, fay, ye hard, of phlegm, fay, where's the name
That can with Fletcher, urge a rival claim?
Say, where's the poet, train'd in pedant schools,
Equal to Shakespear, who o'erleap'd all rules?
Thus of our bards we boldly speak our mind;
A harder task, alas, remains behind:
To-night, as yet by public eyes unfeen,
A raw, unpractis'd novice, fills the fcene.
Bred in the city, his theatric ftar

Brings him at length, on this fide Temple Bar;
Smit with the mufe, the ledger he forgot,
And when he wrote his name, he made a blot.
Him while perplexing hopes and fears embarras,
Skulking (1ke Hamlet's rat) behind the arras,
Me a dramatic fellow-feeling draws,
Without a fee, to plead a brother's cause.