What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex, While maids and metaphors confpire to vex! In ftudious dishabille behold her fit, A letter'd goffip, and a housewife wit; At once invoking, though for different views, Her gods, her cook, her millener, and mufe; Round her ftrew'd room a frippery chaos lies, A chequer'd wreck of notable and wife; Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mafs, Opprefs the toilet, and obfcure the glafs ; Unfinish'd here an epigram is laid,

And there, a mantua-maker's bill unpaid; Here new-born plays foretatte the town's applaufe,

There, dormant patterns lie for future gauze: A moral effay now is all her care;

A fatire next, and then a bill of fare:

mix.

Sappho, 'tis true, long vers'd in epic fong, For years efteem'd all houfchold fiudies wrong; When, dire mifhap! tho' neither fhame nor fin, Sappho herfcif, and not her Mufe, lies in. The virgin Nine in terror fly the bow'r, And matron Juno claims defpotic pow'r : Soon Gothic hags the claffic pile o'erturn, A caudle-cup fupplants the facred urn; Nor books nor implements efcape their rage, They fpike the ink-ftand, and they rend the page: Pocins and plays one barbarous fate partake; Ovid and Plautus fuffer at the ftake; [cake. And Ariftotle's only fav'd---to wrap plum

}

Yet fhall a woman tempt the tragic fcene? And dare---but hold---I muft reprefs my fpleen; I fee your hearts are pledg'd to her applaufe, While Shakspeare's fpirit seems to aid her caufe; Well pleas'd to aid---fince o'er his facred bier A female hand did ample trophies rear, And gave the gentleft laurel that is worshipp'd

there.

า

Should Envy's ferpents hifs, or Malice frown, Tho' I'm a coward, zounds! I'll knock 'ern "down."

Next, fweet Sophia comes---1 -fhe cannot speak--Her wifles for the play o'erfpread her cheek; In ev'ry look her fentiments you read, And more than eloquence her blushes plead. Now Plifil bows---with finiles his falle heart gild ing-

"He was my foe--I beg you'll damu this Field"ing

66

66

Right!" Thwackum roars, "no mercy, Sirs, "I pray;

Scourge the dead author, thro' his orphan play." "What words!" cries Parfon Adams;

"fie! difown 'em!

name;

Yet, not content, the public call for art,
To refcue from the tomb his mortal part;
Demand the painter's and the sculptor's hand,
To fpread his mimic form throughout the land;
A form, perhaps, which living was neglected,
And, when it could not feel refpect, respected.
This night, no buft or picture claims your praife,
Our claim's fuperior---we his spirit raise;

"fellow!

"What good cre came of writing and of reading?" Next comes, brim full of fpite and politics, His fifter Western---and thus deeply speaks: “Wits are arm'd pow'rs; like France attack the

"foe;

"Negociate till they fleep---then strike the blow." Allworthy laft pleads to your nobleft paffions: "Ye gen'rous leaders of the taftes and fashions, "Departed Genius left his orphan play

CHILL'D by rude gales, while yet reluctant
May

Withholds the beauties of the vernal day;
As fome fond maid, whom matron frowns reprove,
Sufpends the fimile her heart devotes to love;
The feafon's pleatures too delay their hour,
And winter revels with protracted pow'r :
Then blame not, critics, if thus late we bring
A winter's drama; but reproach---the fpring.
What prudent cit dares yet the feafon trust,
Bafk in his waifky, and enjoy the duft ?
Hous'd in Cheapide, fcarce yet the gayer fpark
Achieves the Sunday triumph of the Park;
Scarce yet you fee him, dreading to be late,
Scour the New-road, and dath thro' Grofvenor-
gate.

Anxious---and fearful too---his ftced to fhew,
The hack'd Bucephalus of Rotten-row :
Carclefs he feems, yet vigilantly fly,
Woos the fray glance or ladies paffing by;
While his off-heel, infidiously afide,
Provokes the caper which he feems to chide.
Scarce rural Kentington due honour gains,
The vulgar verdure of her walk remains,
Where white-rob'd miffes amble two by two,
Nedding to booted beaux---"How do, how do?"
With gen rous queftions, that no answer wait,
"How vaftly full" A'n't you come vaftly late?
"Isn't it quite charming? When do you leave

"town?

Thefe fuburb pleafures of a London May,
Imperfect yet, we hail the cold delay;
But if this plea's denied, in our excufe
Another still remains you can't refufe;
It is a lady writes---and hark---a noble Mufe!
But fee a critic ftarting from his bench-
"A noble author?" Yes, Sir, but the play's not
French;

Yet if it were, no blame on us could fall ;
For we, you know, muit follow fathion's call:
And true it is, things lately were in train
To woo the Gallic Mufe at Drury-lane;
Not to import a troop of foreign elves,

But treat you with French actors---in ourfelves:
A friend we had, who vow'd he'd make us ipeak
Pure flippant French---by contracći---in a week;
Told us 'twas time to study what was good,
Polifh, and leave off being understood:
That crowded audiences we thus might bring
To Monfieur Partons, and Chevalier King:
Or fhould the vulgars grumble now and then,
The propter might tranflate---for country gen-
tlemen.

Straight all fubfcrib'd---kings, gods, mutes, fingers, actors:

A Flanders figure-dancer our contra&or.
But here I grieve to own, tho''t be to you,
He acted---e'en as moft contractors do,
Soid what he never dealt in; and, th' amount
Bang fira difcharg'd, fubmitted his account;

Then the rogue told us, with infuking tat,
So it was foreign it was fure to pleate:
Beaux, wits applaud, as fathion thould commet,
And milfes laugh--to seem to underfland-
So from each clime our foil may fomethingaan;
Manhood from Rome, and fprightlineis tem
Spain;

Some Ruifian Rofcius next delight the age,
And a Dutch Heinel fkate along the frage.
Exotic fopperies, hail! whofe fiatt ring imile
Supplants the fterner virtues of our ifle!
Thus while with Chinese firs and Indian pines
Our nurs'ries fwarm, the British oak declines:
Yet vain our Mufes fear---no foreign laws
We dread, while native beauty pleads our exer
While you to judge, whote imiles are han
higher

Than verie fhould gain, but where the feeyes fpire.

But if the men prefume your pow'r to auc,
Retort their churlish fenatorial law :
This is your houfe---and move---the gentle-
men withdraw:

Then they may vote, with envy never col
Your influence has increas'd and is inc.:
But there, I truft, the refolution's finifii'd;
Sure none will fay---it ought to be dimmifi'd.

111. Epilogue to the fimo; 1780.

JEKYLL

THE men, like tyrants of the Turkish kial,
Have long our fex's energy contia'd;

In full-dicfs black, and bows, and folema fik,
Have long monopoliz'd the Prologue's walk;
But fill the flippant Epilogue was ours,
It afk'd, for gay fupport, the female pow'rs;
It afk'd a flirting air, coquet and free,
And fo, to murder it, they fix on me.

Much they mistake my talents---I was born To tell, in fobs and fighs, fome tale forlora; To wet my handkerchief with Juliet's wous, Or turn to Shore's defpair my tragic nofe.

Yes, gentlemen, in education's fpite, You ftill thall find that we can read and write; Lakę you, can fwell a debt or a debate, Can quit the card-table to steer the state, And bid our Belle Affemblée's rhet`ric flow, To drown your dull declaimers at Scho! Methinks e'en now I hear my fex's tongues, The thrill, fmart melody of female lungs! The form of queftion, the divifion calm, With "Hear her! hear her! Mrs. Speaker,

"Ma'am'

"O order! order!" Kates and Sufans rife,
And Marg ret moves, and Tabitha replies.
Look to the camp---Coxheath and Warky
Common

Supplied, at least, for ev'ry tent a woman;
The cartridge-paper wrapt the billet-doux,
The rear and piquet form'd the rendezvous;
The drum's ftern rattle fhock the nuptial bed,
The knapfack pillow'd Lady Sturgeon's head;

Love was the watch-word, till the morning fife Rous'd the tame Major and his warlike wife.

Look to the stage---to-night's example draws A female Dramatift to grace the caufeSo fade the triumphs of prefumptuous man! And would you, ladies, but complete my plan, Here thould ye fign fome patriot petition To mend our conftitutional condition. The men invade our rights, the mimic elves Lifp and nick-name God's creatures like ourselves. Rouge more than we do, fimper, flounce, and fret, And they coquet, good gods, how they coquet! They too are cov; and, monftrous to relate, Theirs is the coyness in a téte-à-tête. Yes, ladies, yes, I could a tale unfold, Would barrow up your---cufhions---were it told; Part your combined curls, and freeze---pomatum, At griefs and grievances, as I could ftate 'em. But fuch eternal blazon myft not speak; Befides, the Houfe adjourns fome day dext week. This fair committee fhall detail the reft; And then let monsters, if they dare, proteft.

§ 112. Prologue to Fatal Curiosity; 1782. LONG

COLMAN. ONG fince, beneath this humble roof, this play,

Wrought by true English genius, faw the day.
Forth from this humble roof it fearce has ftray'd;
In prouder theatres 'twas never play'd.
There you have gap'd and doz'd o'er many a
piece,

Patch'd up from France, or ftol'n from Rome

Give me a tale the paffions to controul,
"Whofe flightoft word may harrow up the foul!"
A magic potion, of charm'd drags commixt,
Where pleasure courts, and honour comes betwixt

Such are the fcenes that we this night renew, Scenes that your fathers were well-pleas'd to view. Once we half-paus'd---and while cold fears prevail,

Strive with faint ftrokes to foften down the tale;
But foon, attir'd in all its native woes,
The fhade of Lillo to our fancy role:
Check thy weak hand, it faid, or feem'd to fay---
Nor of its manly vigour rob my play!
From British annals I the ftory drew,

And British hearts fhall feel, and bear it too.
Pity fhall move their fouls, in fpite of rules;
And terror takes no lesson from the fchools.
Speak to their booms, to their feelings truft,
You'll find their fentence generous and jufl.

ven.

In a long feries of bright glories dreft,
Britons inuft hail this day fupremely blest.
First on this day, in liberty's great caufe,
A Brunswick came to guard our rights and laws:
On this great day, cur glorious annals tell,
By British arms the pride of Cuba fell;
For then, the Moro's gallant chief o'erthrown,
Th' Havaunah faw his fate, and felt her own:
The felf-fame day, the fame aufpicious morn,
Our elder hope, our Prince, our George was burn.
Upon his natal hour what triumphs wait!
What captive treafures crowd the palace-gate!
What double joys the Royal Parent claim,
Of homefelt happinets and public fame!

Long, very long, great George, protect the
land,

Thy race, like arrows in a giant's hand!
And kill the budding beauty ere it blows,
For ftill, tho' blights may nip fome infant rofe,
Indulgent Heaven prolongs th' illuftrious line,
Branching like th' clive, cluiting like the vine.

Long, very long, thy comic of glory run,
A bright example to thy Royal Sen!
Forming that Son to grace, like thee, the throne,
And make his Father's virtues all his own!

Thus once when fick Sir Gripus, as we're told,
In grievous ufury grown rich and old,
Bought a good book that, on a christian plan,
Inculcates The Whole Duty of a Man.
To every fin a finner's name he tack'd,
And thro' the parish all the vices track'd:
And thus, the comment and the text enlarging,
Crowds all his friends and neighbours in the
margin.

Pride, was my lord; and drunkennefs, the 'fquire;
My lady, vanity and loofe defire;
Hardness of heart, no mifery regarding,
Was overfeer---luxury, churchwarden.
All, all he damn'd; and carrying the farce on,
Made fraud the lawyer---gluttony, the parfon.
'Tis faid, when winds the troubled deep de-
form,

Pour copious ftreams of oil, 'twill lay the storm :
Thus here, let mirth and frank good-humour's

balı

Make cenfure mild, fcorn kind, and anger calm! Some wholefome bitters if the bard produces, 'Tis only wormwood to correct the juices.

In this day's conteft, where, in colours new, Three play-houfe candidates are brought to view, Our little Bayes encounters fome difgrace: Should you reje&t him too, I mourn his cafe--He can be chofen for no other place.

$115. Prologue to Two to One; 1784. COLMAN.

TO-night, as heralds tell, a virgin mufe,

An untrain'd youth, a new advent'rer, fues; Green in his one-and-twenty, fcarce of age, Takes his first flight, half fledg'd, upon the stage.

Within this little round the parent bird
Hath warbled oft; oft patiently you heard;
And as he ftrove to raise his eager throat,
Your kind applaufe made mufic of his note.
But now, with beating heart and anxious eye,
He fees his vent'rous youngling ftrive to fly :
Like Dædalus, a father's fears he brings,
A father's hopes, and fain would plume his
wings.

How vain, alas, his hopes! his fears how

vain!

'Tis you must hear, and hearing judge the ftrain.

Your equal juftice finks or lifts his name ;
Your frown's a fentence, your applaufe is fame.
If humour warms his fcenes with genial fire;
They'll ev'n redeem the crrors of his fire;
Nor hall bis lead---dead! to the bottom drop,
By youth's enliv'ning cork buoy'd up at top.
If characters are mark'd with ease and truth,
Pleas'd with his fpirit, you'll forgive his youth.
Should fire and fon be both with dulnefs curst,
"And Dunce the fecond follow Dunce the

"first,"

The fhallow ftripling's vain attempt you'll mock, And damn him for a Chip of the old Block.

§ 116. Prologue occafioned by the Death of Mr Henderfon, 1785.. MURPHY,

FRE fiction try this night her magic strain,
And blend mysteriously delight with pain;
Ere yet the wake her train of hopes and fears
For Jaffier's wrongs and Belvidera's tears;
Will you permit a true, a recent grief,
To vent its charge, and feek that kind relief›

How thall we feel the tale of feign'd diftref,
While on the heart our own afflictions prets!
When our own friend, when Henderson expires,
And from the tomb one parting pang requires !
In yonder Abbey fhall he reft his head,
And on this fpot Ho virtuous drop be shed?

You will indulge our grief:--thofe crowded

rows

Shew you have hearts that feel domeftic woes;
Hearts that with gen'rous emulation burn,
To raife the widow, drooping o'er his urn;
And to his child, when reafon's op'ning ray
Shall tell her thom the loft, this truth convey;
Her father's worth made each good man his
friend;

Honour'd through life, regretted in his end!
And for his relatives to help his store,
An audience gave, when he could give no more.
Him we all mourn; his friends ftill heave the

figh,

And fill the tear ftands trembling in the eye.
His was cach mild, each amiable art,
The gentleft manners and the feeling heart;
Fair fimple truth; benevolence to all;
A gen'rous warmth, that glow'd at friendship's
call;

A judgment fure, while learning toil'd behind;
His mirth was wit; his humour, fenfe refin'd;
A foul above all guile, all meaner views;
The friend of fcience, friend of ev'ry muse !
Oft have I known him in my vernal year---
This no feign'd grief---no artificial tear!
Oft in this breaft he wak'd the Mufes' flame;
Fond to advise, and point my way to fame.
Who moft fhall praife him, all are still at ftrife;
Expiring virtue leaves a void in life.

A void our scene has felt :—with Shakspeare's

page

Who now, like him, fhall animate the ftage?
Hamlet, Macbeth, and Benedick, and Lear,
Richard, and Wolfy, pleas'd each learned car.
If feigning well be our confummate art,
How great his praife, who in Iago's part
Could utter thoughts fo foreign to his heart?
Falstaff, who thook this houfe with mirthful roar,
Is now no counterfeit ---he'll rife no more!
'Twas Henderfon's the drama to pervade,
Each paflion touch, and give each nicer thade.
When o'er thefe boards the Roman Father