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ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX,
MRS. MARY BLAIZE.
GOOD people all, with one accord,
Lament for Madam Blaize,
Who never wanted a good word-
From those who spoke her praise.
The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.
She strove the neighbourhood to please,
With manners wond'rous winning,
And never follow'd wicked ways→→
Unless when she was sinning.
At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size;
She never slumber'd in her pew➡
But when she shut her eyes.
Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her-
When she has walk'd before.
1 This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot soldier. Growing tired of that employment, be obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Henriade.
O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain; Thou, like the world, th' opprest oppressing, Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe! And he who wants each other blessing, In thee must ever find a foe.
WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY
THE POET LABERIUS,
A ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CÆSAR FORCES UPON THE STAGE.
PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS'.
WHAT! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age!
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year,
What in the name of dotage drives me here?
1 This translation was first printed in one of our author's earliest works, The present State of Learning in Europe, 12mo. 1759.
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
Unaw'd by pow'r, and unappall'd by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honour dear;
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honour is no more;
For, ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine;
Him I obey, whom Heav'n himself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin❜d to please.
Here then at once I welcome ev'ry shame,
And cancel at threescore a life of fame;
No more my titles shall my children tell,
The old buffoon will fit my name as well;
This day beyond its term ny fate extends,
For life is ended when our honour ends.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,
My heels eclips'd the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a pyeball vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest,
[Takes off his mask,
Whence and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth:
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood,
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu❜d!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities.
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?
May rosin'd lightning blast me, if I do?
No I will act-I'll vindicate the stage:
PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
In these bold times, when learning's sons ex-
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 trad-
Yet ere he lands has order'd me before,
To make an observation on the shore.
Where are we driven? our reck'ning sure is lost!
This seems a rocky and a dang'rous coast.
Lord! what a sultry climate am I under!
Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder:
There mangroves spread, and larger than I've
Here trees of stately size-and billing turtles in
Here ill-condition'd oranges abound- [Stage.
And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground:
Th' inhabitants are cannibals I fear.
I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!
O, there the people are best keep my distance:
Our captain (gentle natives) craves assistance;
Our ship's well stor'd-in yonder creek we've
His honour 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
Equally fit for gallantry and war.
What, no reply to promises so ample?
-I'd best step back-and order up a sample.
SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES,
IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT.
prompter, hold! a word before your non-
I'd speak a word or two to ease my conscience.
Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns!
The mad'ning monarch revels in my veins.
Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme:
"Give me another horse! bind up my wounds!-
soft 'twas but a dream." [treating;
Aye, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no re-
If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.
'Twas thus that sop's stag, a creature blameless,
Yet something vain, like one that shall be name-
Once on the margin of a fountain stood,
And cavill'd at his image in the flood.
"The deuce confound," he cries, "these drum-
They neither have my gratitude nor thanks;
They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead!
But for a head-yes, yes, I have a head.
How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow!
My horns! I'm told horns are the fashion now."
Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd! to his view,
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen
Hoicks! hark forward! came thund'ring from be-
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind:
He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze.
At length his silly head, so priz'd before,
Is taught his former folly to deplore;
Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,
And at one bound he saves himself, like me.
[Taking a jump through the stage door.
TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS.
WHAT! five long acts-and all to make us wiser!
Had she consulted me, she should have made
Our authoress, sure, has wanted an adviser.
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 sink-
Have pleas'd our eyes, and sav'd the pain of
Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill,
What if I give a masquerade?-1 will.
But how? aye, 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.
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 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 ev'ry gazer all in white,
If with a bribe his candour you attack,
He bows, turns round, and whip-the man's in black!
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.
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 vain;
Who take a trip to Paris once a year,
To dress, and look like aukward Frenchmen here,
Lend me your bands.-O fatal news to tell,
Their hands are only lent to the Heinelle!
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,
HOLD, ma'am, your pardon. What's your bu- And be unco merry when you are but gay;
Yes, the epilogue, my dear.
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.
Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,
Make but of all your fortune ove va loute:
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, bark away to the crack, Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack,
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.
Yes, he's far gone :-and yet some pity fix, The English laws forbid to punish lunatics'.
SA CRED 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.
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.
SONG. BY A MAN AFFETUoso.
Virtue on herself relying, &c.
Death's growing pow'r,
And trembled as he frown'd.
As helpless friends who view from shore
The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
While winds and waves their wishes cross:
They stood while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail
'The inevitable loss.
Relentless tyrant, at thy call
How do the good, the virtuous fall!
Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,
But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.
SONG. BY A MAN-BASSO, STACCATO, Spirituoso.
When vice my dart and scythe supply,
How great a king of terrours I !
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble ye mortals at my rage!
Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings!
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!
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 sa-
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
To take us in when we have drain'd the cup
'Tis nature's kind retreat, that's always open
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.