WERTER;

A TRAGEDY,

IN THREE ACTS:

AS PERFORMED AT THE

THEATRES-ROYAL, COVENT-GARDEN, BATH, BRISTOL, and DUBLIN.

By F. REYNOLDS, Efq.

AUTHOR OF THE DRAMATIST-NOTORIETY-HOW TO GROW RICH-THE RAGE-SPECULATION-&C, &c.

Improbe amor! quid non mortalia pectora cogis?

A NEW EDITION.

VIROIL.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY A. STRAHAN, PRINTERS-STREET;

FOR T. N, LONGMAN AND O. REES, PATERNOSTER-ROW.

(Written by MR. MEYLER, of Bath,)

Spoken by MR. HOLMAN.

THE tragic mufe, attach'd to regal show,
Too long has fhunn'd the scenes of private woe;
In fplendid diction fhe enrols the great,
And fcorns the forrows of an humbler state,
Where hopeless love 's to defperation driv❜n,
Or anguish lifts its plaintive voice to heaven.

Not fo our mufe-who, with a partial care,
Makes Werter's tale a garb dramatic wear.
Who has not read of Werter? Hapless youth!
The flave of paffion, honour, love, and truth.
Who has not figh'd, when, o'er the canvass warm,
The artist brings poor Charlotte's beauteous form ?
Who but with her has hung o'er Werter's bier,
And shed with her the fympathetic tear?

Our bard-a youth just loosen'd from the schools, From grave preceptors, and from pedant rulesWith dread anxiety and terror fues

Your beft indulgence to his infant mufe.

Conscious how many obftacles were near,
Ere Werter's tale could meet the public ear;
With cautious hand-fair Virtue's humble friend-
He strives to draw some chaste, fome moral end;

To fhew pale Suicide in horror bleed,

And warn impiety to shun the deed.

Doubtful to venture on this ocean vaft, And brave the fury of a critic blast, He taught his little bark at firft to glide. Down the smooth furface of Avonia's 'tide; There, by repeated, kindlieft fignals given, She found at Bath-an hofpitable haven. Her pilots there-implore that, for their fake, To this dread port a voyage fhe may make And they, who oft have stampt the player's worth, May bring, perhaps, fome fterling author forth. They gave the bright theatric ftar a name, And led a Siddons to the road of fame. To-night's fair heroine, in her earlier age, There-fhone the rifing wonder of the stage.

There Henderfon!-but memory heaves a figh, And points to where, fcarce cold, his relics lieOh!-may the favour that adorn'd his name, With all the laurels of theatric fame, Extend its influence to our youthful bard, And spare his errors-by a kind award!