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On Friday, June 5, 1772.
Spoken by Mr. YOUNGER.

WHEREVER Commerce spreads the swelling

Letters and Arts attend the prosp'rous gale.
When Cæsar first these regions did explore,
And northward his triumphant Eagles bore,
Rude were Britannia's sons—a hardy race-
Their faith, idolatry; their life, the chace.
But soon as Traffick fix'd her social reign,
Join'd Pole to Pole, and nations to the Main,
Each art and science follow'd in her train.
Augufta then her pomp at large display'd,
'The seat of majesty, the mart of trade;
The British Muse unveil'd her awful mien,
And Shakespeare, Jonson, Fletcher, grac'd the Scene:


Long too has Mersey rolld her golden tide, And seen proud vessels in her harbours ride : Oft on her banks the Muse's fons would roam, And wish'd to settle there a certain home;


Condenm’d, alas ! to hawk unlicens’d Bayes,
Contraband Mummeries, and smuggled Plays !
Your' foft'ring care at length reliev'd their woes :
Under your auspices this Staple rose.
Hence made free merchants of the letter'd world,
Boldly advent'ring forth with fails unfurld,
To Greece and Rome, Spain, Italy and France,
We trade for Play and Op'ra, Song and Dance.
Peace to his shade, who first pursu'd the plan!
You lov'd the Actor--for you lov'd the Man.*
True to himself, to all mankind a friend,
By honeft means he gain'd cach honest end.
You, like kind Patrons, who his virtues knew,
Prompt to applaud, and to reward them too,
Crown'd his last moments with his wifh obtain'd,
A ROYAL CHARTER by your bounty gain'd !

* MR. GIBSON, lase of the Theatre Royal, Covent Garden,




On the Departure of the MANAGER of the THEATRU

Royal COVENT-GARDEN, May 26, 7774.

Spoken by Miss BARSANTI.

F mortal men how equal is the date !

Kings and Mock Kings submit alike to Fate.
Abroad, in state, one mighty monarch lies;
While here, his Majesty of Brentford dies.

Hung be the Stage with black ! and Juliet's Bell, 'Midft flashing Refin, toll our monarch's knell ! While we with tragick plumes and mournful verse, In flow procession all attend his hearse. First, in dead march the mufickanbrac'd drums Then with a monstrous purse the Treasurer comes. The hugeness of the bag your fancy cozens ! Prick it! and outcome Orders by whole Dozens! Swell'd as it is, no substance sure enough; No cash-but like a bladder blown-all puff ! Two tiny Fairies bear an Epitaph ; Two Printers next, with each a Paragraph; Both boasting of Applause that ne'er was shown, And crouded Houses that were never known.


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Big as a Sybil's Self, or something bigger,
Old Mother Shipton comes, a noble figure!
Full horribly fhe grins with ghaftly charms,
Our Monarch's baby-image in her arms.
Then follow Sylphs, Ghosts, Witches in Macbeth,
A gouty Harlequin, a Prompter out of breath;
A white-glov'd Housekeeper with whiter wand,
An empty box-book in the other hand;
One, like Lord Chamberlain, his office graces ;
The other shews you there are store of places.
Six Beggar's-Opera Ladies tend the bier,
Parted, like Hector's wife, 'twixt Smile and Tear;
Elfrida's Virgins too proceed before us,
A Modern-Antient, English-Grecian, Chorus.
Scene-shifters, Candle-snuffers, and Stage-keepers,
Bill-stickers, Pickpockets, and Chimney-sweepers,
The Mob without doors, and the Mob within,
Close the Procession, and complete the din.

Thus having buried him let's waive Diffection!
'Tis now too late to give his faults correction.
Peace-if peace may be to his shade! He died
Felo de se, poor soul! a Suicide :
Yet he confess'd with his departing breath,
And in the very article of death,
Oft did your favour cherish his pretences,
Which now defrays his Funeral Expences.





Spoken by Mr.: KING.

November, 1773

And Words and Perriwigs have both their day. Each have their purlieus too, are modish each In stated districts, Wigs as well as Speech. The Tyburn Scratch, thick Club, and Temple Tye, The Parson's Feather-top, frizz'd broad and high! The Coachman's Cauliflow'r, built tiers on tiers ! Differ not more from Bags and Brigadiers, Than great St. George's, or St. James's stiles, From the broad dialect of Broad St. Giles.

What is Bon Ton! -Oh, damme, cries a Buck -Half drunk-ak me, my dear, and you're in luck! Bon Ton's to swear, break windows, beat the watch, Pick up a wench, drink healths, and roar a catch. Keep it up, keep it up! damme, take your swing ! Bon Ton is Life, my Boy; Bon Ton's the Thing !


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