When correspondent tastes impart The meaning caught ere well 'tis told. The works of ages start to view, And ancient wit elicits new. But, wit and parts if thus we praise, Which Wit, O Virtue! makes to thee! And lose the praise, and pleasure too! The thought unchaste-to check that To spurn a fame so dearly bought; Shall stand recorded and admired But let the lettered and the fair, On wit, on warmth, and heed your Friend. In vain shall listening crowds approve,- This charm, this witchcraft?"-"Tis Attention: Thy graceful form I well discern, In act to listen and to learn. 'Tis thou for talents shalt obtain That pardon Wit would hope in vain. Thy wondrous power, thy secret charm, Shall Envy of her sting disarm. Thy silent flattery soothes our spirit, Nor hate thee, though thou shine in turn; With mild complacency to hear, Which mars the story you could mend; 'Tis pleasure rising out of duty. CHARLES DIBDIN. [Born at Dibden, Southampton, in 1745; died in London in 1814. In boyhood he was placed under the organist of Winchester Cathedral. Going afterwards to London, he wrote part of the music for The Maid of the Mill, and himself acted in that opera. Love in a Village and many other operas followed; in several, such as The Waterman, Dibdin wrote both words and music. In 1788 he appeared in a monodramatic entertainment of his own composition, named The Whim of the Moment, or Nature in Little. He finally retired on a government pension of £200, well earned by his thoroughly British and popular strains, but not long paid in full. The nautical turn which is so distinctive of Dibdin's songs was caught by him from a brother, a master of a merchant-vessel. One of the song-writer's sons, also named Charles, wrote many other ditties of similar character]. JACK AT THE OPERA. AT Wapping I landed, and called to hail Mog; Half a George handed out, at the change did not look, As I mounted to one of the uppermost tiers, Such a damnable squalling saluted my ears I thought there'd been somebody hurt; But the devil a bit-'twas your outlandish rips You'd ha' swored you'd been taking of one of they trips "What's the play, Ma'am?" says I, to a good-natured tit. "The play! 'tis the uproar, you quiz.” 4 "My timbers," cried I, "the right name on't you've hit, For the devil an uproar it is.' For they pipe and they squeal, now alow, now aloft; If it wa'nt for the petticoat gear, With their squeaking so mollyish, tender, and soft, Next at kicking and dancing they took a long spell, And spessiously one curious Madamaselle,— Oh she daintily handled her feet! But she hopped, and she sprawled, and she spun round so queer, 'Twas, you see, rather oddish to me; And so I sung out, "Pray be decent, my dear; Consider I'm just come from sea, "'Taint an Englishman's taste to have none of these goes; Leaving all your fine Bantums and Ma'am Parisoes, So I made for the theatre, and hailed my dear spouse; And, when I'd shook hands and saluted her bows, Up the Mediterranin, One day was explaining ONE. The chaplain and I about poets and bards; For I'm pretty disarning, And loves about larning To know, and all notions that such things regards. Then to hear him sing out 'bout the islands around, Tell their outlandish names, call them all classic ground, Swore they thought 'em all goddesses, creatures divine ;- Cried I, "Well said, old ones! These poets were bold ones; But everything's vanity under the sun. Love's as good sport as any ; But nine's eight too many ;- I have one worth all nine, and my Nancy's that one." Then we read, for their wishes, They turned to queer fishes, To cocks and to bulls, in some verses they call And one Mr. Orphus Went to hell for his wife-but that's nothing at all. 'Tis quite melancholy That a man can't be blessed till his neighbour's undone ; Take the world, that's my maxum, So one be left me, and my Nancy that one. RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN. 271 Then we'd hot work between us 'Bout Graces and Wenus, With their fine red and white, and their eyes full of darts. "To be sure, pretty faces Be well in their places, But, your reverence, in love there be such things as hearts! 'Tis unmanly to chatter behind people's back, But 'tis pretty well known that the lady's a crack. Besides, if these things about beauty be true, That there is but one Wenus, why, I says there's two! Say there is but one Nancy, you'll then not mistake, For she's mine, and I'd sail the world round for her sake. Or chatterifications, Bout Wenus, and Graces, and such pretty fun, That so runs in your fancy ; Just see but my Nancy, You'll find all their charms spliced together in one." RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, [Born in Dublin, September 1751; died in London, 7 July 1816.] ODE TO SCANDAL. "O THOU whose all-consoling power Whose touch, in Spleen's most vapourish hour, "Thee, I invoke! Great Genius, hear! Pity a Lady's sighs! Unless thy kind relief be near, Poor Colvileia dies! "Haste thee then, and with thee bring Many a little venomed sting, Many a tale that no one knows Of shall-be-nameless Belles and Beaux, Just imported-curtain-lectures, Winks and nods, and shrewd conjectures, And horns just fitted to some people's heads, "Teach me, powerful Genius, teach Safe from Retaliation's reach |