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TO HIS GRACE
THE DUKE OF NOETHUMBERLAND,
LORD LIEUTENANT OP
MASTER OF THE HORSE TO THE KING.
The Author of this Play was an upright, useful and distinguished magistrate for the County of Middlesex; and by his publications laid the foundation of many wholesome laws for the support of good order and subordination in this metropolis, the "effects of which have been, and now are, forcibly felt by the Public. His social qualities made his company highly entertaining. His genius, so universally admired, has afforded delight and instruction to thousands. The memory of such a man calls for respect; and to have that respect shewn him by the great and praiseworthy, must do him the highest honour.
Under these circumstances this little orphan posthumous work, replete with humour and sound sense, looks up to your Grace for protection, as a nobleman who makes rank and affluence answer the great purposes of displaying true dignity and beneficence. Thus adorned by accomplishments, and enriched by manly sentiments, it is the interest of society to join with me in the warmest wishes for the continuance of your Grace's health, and of all those powers so liberally and so constantly exerted by your Grace for the good of mankind.
I have the honour to be,
WRITTEN BY MR. GAKRICK, SPOKEN BY MR. KINO.
When from the world departs a son of fame,
But who the Author? need I name the wit,
Next, sweet Sophia comes—she cannot speak—
Her wishes for the play o'erspread her cheek;
In ev'ry look her sentiments you read:
And more than eloquence her blushes plead.
Now Blifil bows—with smiles his false heart gilding,
He was my foe—I beg you'll damn this Fielding;
Right, Thwackum roars—no mercy, Sirs, I pray—
Scourge the dead Author, thro' his orphan play.
What words! (cries Parson Adams), fie, fie, disown 'em,
Good Lord !—de mortuis nil nisi bonum:
If such are Christian teachers, who'll revere 'em—
And thus they preach, the Devil alone shall hear 'em.
Now Slipslop enters—tho' this scriv'ning vagrant,
Salted my virtue, which was ever flagrant,
Yet, like black Thello, I'd bear scorns and whips,
Slip into poverty to the very hips,
T' exult this play—may it decrease in favour;
And be it's fame immoraliz'd for ever!
'Squire Western, reeling, with October mellow,
Tall, yo!—Boys!—Yoax—Critics! hunt the fellow!
Damn'em these wits are varmint not worth breeding,
What good e'er came of writing and of reading?
Next comes, brim-full of spite and politics,
His sister Western—and thus deeply speaks;
Wits are arm'd pow'rs, like France attack the foe;
Negotiate 'till they sleep—then strike the blow!
Allworthy last, pleads to your noblest passions—
Ye gen'rous leaders of the taste and fashions;
Departed genius left his orphan play
To your kind care—what the dead wills, obey:
O then respect the Father's fond bequest,
And make his widow smile, his spirit rest.
Sir George Boneour,
Mrs. Boncour Mrs. Hopkins.
Miss Boneour, Miss Younge.
Miss Valenee, Mrs. Baddeley.