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SONGS.

O

MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys, recurring ever,
And turning all the paft to pain;
Thou, like the world, the oppreft oppreffing,

Thy fmiles increase the wretch's woe;
And he who wants each other blessing,
In thee must ever find a foe.

INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.

Ан, me! when fhall I marry me?

Lovers are plenty; but fail to relieve me.
He, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.

But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:
Not a look, not a smile shall my paffion discover.
She that gives all to the falfe one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and lofes a lover.

FROM THE ORATORIO OF CAPTIVITY.

THE wretch condemn'd with life to part,

Still, ftiil on hope relies;

And every pang that rends the heart,
Bids expectation rife.

Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way;

And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.

A SONNET.

WEEPING, murmuring, complaining,
Loft to every gay delight-
Myra, too fincere for feigning,
Fears th' approaching bridal night:
Yet why impair thy bright perfection,
Or dim thy beauty with a tear?
Had Myra follow'd my direction,
She long had wanted caufe of fear.

THE CLOWN'S REPLY.

JOHN TROTT was defir'd by two witty peers,
To tell them the reason why affes had ears?

• An't please you,' quoth John, 'I'm not given to letters, 6 Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters;

• Howe'er from this time I fhall ne'er fee your graces, As I hope to be fav'd, without thinking on affes.'

EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON*.

HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from mifery freed,
Who long was a bookfeller's hack-

He led fuch a damnable life in this world,
I don't think he'll wish to come back.

Who tranflated Voltaire's Henriade.

PROLOGUE

TO THE TRAGEDY OF ZOBEIDE.

IN thefe bold times, when Learning's fons explore
The distant climates, and the favage shore;
When wife aftronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forfake the fair, and patiently-go simpling;
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 'as order'd me before,

To make an obfervation on the shore.

Where are we driven?-Our reckoning fure is loft! This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast. Lord! what a fultry climate am I under! Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder! (Upper Gallery.) There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em(Pit.)

Here trees of stately fize, and billing turtles in 'em— (Balconies.) (Stage.)

Here ill-condition'd oranges abound-
And apples, bitter apples strew the ground:

(Tafting them.)

The inhabitants are canibals I fear:

I heard a hiffing-there are serpents here!
O, there the people are—best keep my distance;
Our captain (gentle natives) craves affistance;
Our ship's well ftor'd-in yonder creek we've laid her,
His honour is no mercenary trader.

This is his first adventure-lend him aid,

And we may chance to drive a thriving trade:

His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, Equally fit for gallantry and war.

What! no reply to promises so ample!—

I'd best step back—and order up a sample.

A PROLOGUE*,

WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A ROMAN KNIGHT,

WHOM CÆSAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE.

WHAT! no way left to fhun th' inglorious stage,
And fave from infamy my finking age!
Scarce half alive, opprefs'd 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 afide-
Unaw'd by power, and unappal'd by fear,
With honeft thrift I held my honour dear:
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honour is no more;
For, ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Cæfar perfuades, fubmiffion must be mine;
Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclin'd to please.
Here then at once I welcome every shame,
And cancel at threescore a life of fame;
No more my titles fhall 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 honour ends.

* Preserved by Macrobius-tranflated and printed in 1759.

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, AT HIS BENEFIT,
IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN.

HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense;
I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,

My heels eclips'd the honours of my head-
That I found humour in a pye-ball vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.
(Takes off his mask.)
Whence, and what art thou-vifionary birth?
Nature difowns, and reason scorns thy mirth-
In thy black afpect every paffion fleeps-
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How haft thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued!
Whofe ins and outs no ray of fense discloses→→
Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilft from below the trap-door dæmons rise,
And from above the dangling deities.
And fhall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?-
May rofin'd light'ning blast me, if I do!
No-I will act-I'll vindicate the stage-
Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
Off! off! vile trappings!-a new paffion reigns-
The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins!
Oh, for a Richard's voice to catch the theme-
"Give me another horfe!-bind up my wounds!".
foft-'twas but a dream.

Aye-'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating-
If I ceafe Harlequin, I ceafe from eating.

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