OF LABERIUS, A ROMAN KNIGHT AND FARCE-WRITER.
From the Latin, preserved by Macrobius.
WHAT! no way left to shun the inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age?
Scarce half alive, oppressed with many a year,
What in the name of dotage drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide-
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
Unawed by power, and unappalled by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honor dear:
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honor is no more
For, ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine!
Him I obey, whom heaven itself obeys;
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please.
Here, then, at once I welcome every shame,
And cancel at three-score 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 my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honor ends.
As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure — Thus, on the stage, our play-wrights still depend, For epilogues and prologues, on some friend Who knows each art of coaxing up the town; And make full many a bitter pill go down. Conscious of this, our bard has gone about And teased each rhyming friend to help him out. "An epilogue things can't go on without it; It could not fail, would you but set about it." Young man," cries one- a bard laid up in clover"Alas! young man, my writing days are over; Let boys play tricks and kick the straw; not I: Your brother doctor there perhaps may try." "What, I! dear sir," the doctor interposes; "What, plant my thistles, sir, among his roses! No, no; I've other contests to maintain; To-night I head our troops at Warwick-lane:
Go, ask your manager." "Who, me?- your pardon;
These things are not our forte at Covent Garden."
Our author's friends, thus placed at happy distance,
Give him good words, indeed, but no assistance:
As some unhappy wight, at some new play,
At the pit-door stands elbowing away,
While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug,
He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug-
His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes,
Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise:
He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace;
But not a soul will budge to give him place.
Since, then, unhelped, our bard must now conform
To bide the "pelting of this pitiless storm"
Blame where you must, be candid where you can.
And be each critic the good-natured man.
TO THE SISTER, A COMEDY, BY MRS. CHARLOTTE LENNOX.
and all to make us wiser!
Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.
Had she consulted me, she should have made
Her moral play a speaking masquerade ;
Warmed 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 sinking;
Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking.
Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill,
What if I give a masquerade? - I will.
But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing]—I've got my cue:
The world's a masquerade! the maskers, you, you, you.
[To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.
Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses
False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!
Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside them,
Patriots in party-colored suits that ride them.
There Hebes, turned of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of three-score.
These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.
Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman;
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,
And tries to kill, ere she 's got power to cure.
Thus 'tis with all their chief and constant care
Is to seem everything but what they are.
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
Who seems to have robbed his visor from the lion;
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade,
Looking, as who should say, damme! who's afraid ?
Strip but this visor 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 to assume,
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,
And seems to every gazer all in white,
If with a bribe his candor you attack,
He bows, turns round, and whip - the man's a 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 once spare you.
A TRAGEDY, BY JOSEPH CRADOCK.
In these bold times, when learning's sons explore
The distant climate, 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 -
When bosom swells with wondrous scenes,
every
Priests, cannibals, and hoity-toity queens·
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 trading -
Yet ere he lands he has ordered me before,
To make an observation on the shore.
Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost!
This seems a barren and a dangerous 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 seen them-
Here trees of stately size-and turtles in them—
Here ill-conditioned oranges abound
And apples, [takes up one and tastes it] bitter apples strew the
The place is uninhabited, I fear;
I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!
O! there the natives are a dreadful race!
The men have tails, the women paint the face.
No doubt they're all barbarians - yes, 'tis so;
I'll try to make palaver with them, though;
'T is best, however, keeping at a distance.
Good savages, our Captain craves assistance :
Our ship's well stored-in yonder creek we've laid her;
His honor is no mercenary trader :
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