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Ah ! I loves Life, and all the joys it yields
Says Madam Fussock, warm from Spitalfields.
Bone Tone's the space 'twixt Saturday and Monday,
And riding in a one-horse chair o’Sunday !
'Tis drinking tea on fummer afternoons
At Bagnigge-Wells, with China and gilt spoons !
'Tis laying-by our stuffs, red cloaks, and pattens,
To dance Cow-tillions, all in silks and fattins !


Vulgar! cries Miss. Observe in higher life
The feather'd spinster, and thrice-feather'd wife!
The CLUB's Bon Ton. Bon Ton's a constant trade
Of Rout, Festino, Ball, and Masquerade !
'Tis Plays and Puppet-lews; ’tis something new ;
'Tis losing thousands ev'ry night at Lu!
Nature it thwarts, and contradicts all reason;
Tis stiff French stays, and Fruit when out of season!
A Rose, when Half a Guinea is the price;
A set of Bays, scarce bigger than six mice;
To visit friends, you never wish to see;
Marriage 'twixt those, who never can agree ;
Old Dowagers, dreft, painted, patch'd and curl'd;
This is Bon Ton, and this we call the WORLD!

True, says my Lord ; and thou, my only son, Whate'er your faults, ne'er sin against Bon Ton !


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Who toils for learning at a Publick School,
And digs for Greek and Latin, 'is a fool !
French, French, my boy's the Thing! jasez ! prate,

Trim be the mode, whipt syllabub the matter !
Walk like a Frenchman ! for on English pegs
Moves native aukwardness with two left legs.
Of courtly friendship form a treacherous league;
Seduce men's daughters, with their wives intrigue ;
In fightly semi-circle round your nails;
Keep your teeth clean--and grin, if small talk

fails But never laugh, whatever jest prevails! Nothing but nonsense e'er gave laughter birth, That vulgar way the vulgar shew their mirth. Laughter's a rude convulsion, sense that justles, Disturbs the cockles, and distorts the muscles. Hearts may be black, but all should wear clean faces; The Graces, Boy! the Graces, Graces, GRACES !

Such is Bon Ton! and walk this City thro', In Building, Scribbling, Fighting, and Virtù, And various other shapes, 'twill rise to view. To night our Bayes, with bold but careless tints, Hits off a sketch or two, like Darly's prints. , Should Connoisseurs allow his rough draughts strike 'em, "Twill be Bon Ton to see 'em and to like 'em.



On opening the THEATRE ROYAL, at LIVERPOOL, for the

Winter Season.
Spoken by Mr. YOUNGER.

October, 1774


HE troups, who lately shone in bright array,

Proud on these plains their banners to display, Callid to their posts in town by beat of drum, Aided with fresh recruits I hither come. 1, your old Serjeant, once again appear, Happy to fix my Winter-quarters here; Here, where Good-humour shews her smiling mien, And Judgment with fair Candour ever seen. Oh for a foul of Aame, that might inspire, Thro’ all our ranks, a truely-martial fire ! But, oh! my breath is weak, my words are vain, My efforts poor, the mighty point to gain. What tho' in ev'ry breast strong ardours glow, On you alone their longing eyes they throw. Your frowns at once their noblest spirit damp, And strike a terror thro' our little camp; Yet, if you smile, again their hopes return, Again their souls with love of glory burn;


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Eager to fight, to conquer, or to fall,
From first to hindmost-Pioneers and all.
Nerveless and finewless their arms, 'tis true;
But yet ’tis glory to contend for you.

As some low hind, whose poverty's confess’d, Receives beneath his roof some mighty gueft, Dried winter fruits, alas! his only cheer, His only liquor some October beer, Makes up in welcome what he wants in store, Wishing his morsel better, riches more, Spreads with a willing heart his humble board, And freely empties all his little hoard; So we too, conscious of our homely fare, Trust to your smiles to snatch us from despair. Fall on with hearty stomachs to regale, Let not nice taste, but appetite, prevail; While we, plain landlords, a kind welcome give, Bless'd if we please you, whom to please we live!


P R O L OG U ,
To the revived Comedy called EASTWARD HOE.

Spoken by MR. KING.

November 9; 1775.

N Charles the Second's gay and wanton days,

When lords had wit and gentlemen wrote plays, A rural 'squire was term'd a country Put, And the grave City was a standing butt. To town, like oxen, honest knights were led, To fhew in droves, huge antlers on their head, Gallants in quest of game, cried Eastward Hoe! And oft fprung Puss within the sound of Bow; While ev'ry 'prentice in the galleries chuckled At London Alderman dubb'd London Cuckold.

But now the times are chang'd, and chang’d the jest ; For Horns, some say, sprout nobly in the West. The murrain 'mongst horn'd cattle spreads so far, 'It

rages on each side of Temple-bar. The modifh citizen o'erleaps his ward, And the gay Cit plants Horns upon My Lord; While Beaux, whose wives of Alattery chew the cud, . Are dupes full-blown, or Cuckolds in the bud. S4


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