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Of pride, which can such various forms assume,
Now rise an emperor, now sink a groom.

Mounted aloft, the wonder of his age,
With hackney-coachmen furious war to wage;
Six swan-down waistcoats swathe him into shape,
His legs all buck-skin, and his coat all cape;
With manners, looks, and language, such, you'd swear
His tutor had been Piccadilly's bear;

When most contemptible, most hoping praise,
And only envious of the groom he pays;
Four dappled greys in front, behind three men,
Down 'James-street dashing, to dash up again,
Then only in his height and pomp of pride,
When girl or gambler's seated by his side,
Driving by day, dicing by night, his passion;
Such is the modern man of high-flown fashion!
Such are the scions sprung from Runnymede!
The richest soil that bears the rankest weed!
Potatoe-like, the sprouts are worthless found,
And all that's good of them is under ground.

Of pride-one single sketch in crayons more,
Behold her torch! hark! thunder shakes the door!
The carriage stops-the footmen make a lane-
The feathers stoop and enter lady Jane;
Perfect in How d'ye do-drop-bob, and bow-

(Curtsies, my friends, are out of fashion now)-(To the galleries) First, to his grace-next, to the next of birth

She none forgets-save genius, wit, and worth:

Whom, if she mark, 'tis with a modish stare,

To ask, Who knows them? or, How came they there?

Now at the bank, in anti-chamber kept,

Where Pharaoh's host twelve tedious hours had slept,
She seats herself, like palpitating lover,
Eager the last night's losses to recover.
"No sense of virtue, dignity, or shame,

"Her greatest pride's her knowledge of the game,
"That pride most picqued, most mortified to see
"A nabob's wife stake larger sums than she!"
And now three anxious hours have slipt away,
Three hundreds have been lost in piddling play.
No luck for her! Aloud "fresh cards!" she calls-
Her passions rising as her pocket falls.

She punts: again she loses, and again!
Oaths quiver on her lip! she names the ten.`

Stung

Stung to the soul, a desp'rate set she makes,
'Till even the winning banker deals and quakes.
Ghastly she pants, with horror in her eye,
To be the first the fatal card to spy.
The fatal card is turn'd, and ends the reign
Of fashion, folly, pride, and lady Jane.

Here too we end, oblig'd ourselves to own,

Our pride is great-when we can please the town.

[Exit.

- PROLOGUE to the Road to Ruin." Spoken by Mr. FAWCETT.

A

Enters, driving a boy across the stage.

WAY! 'Sblood! Run for the author! We can do nothing till he

appears;

Tell him in less than five minutes we shall have the house about our

ears!

[To the Audience.]

O, Sirs! the prompter has mislaid the prologue, and we are all a-mort. I suppose our friends above yonder will soon be making pretty sport! For pity's sake, suffer us to go on without it-Good, dear sirs, do! 'Twas most abominably dull-Zounds! there stands the writer. Well 'tis very true.

One of our te-tum-ti heroes was to have spoken it, who measure out nonsense by the yard;

'And our chief hope was you'd make too much noise for it to be heard. The author had mounted on the stilts of oratory and elocution;

Not but he had a smart touch or two about Poland, France, and the-the

Revolution;

Telling us, that Frenchmen, and Polishmen, and every man is our brother;

And that all men, ay, even poor negroe men, have a right to be free: one as well as another!

Freedom, at length, said he, like a torrent, is spreading and swelling,
To sweep away pride, and reach the most miserable dwelling:
To ease, happiness, art, science, wit, and genius to give birth;
Ay, to fertilize a world, and renovate old Earth!

Thus he went on, not mentioning a word about the play;
For he says prologues are blots which ought to be wip'd away;
A Gothic practice, and in spite of precedent, not the better for being

old;

For, if we tell any part of the plot, it then becomes a tale twice told!

VOL. XXXIII.

E e

And

And such twice telling can rarely once excite our wonder:
Ergo, he that says nothing is least likely to blunder.

Since therefore prologues are bad things at best, pray, my good friends,
Never mind the want of one, but live in hopes the play will make amends.

EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mrs. Mattocks.

Y scenic faults and follies laid aside,

No widow now, nor disappointed bride,
My own plain self I once again resume;
Sent by the author here, to know his doom,
Would you condemn him? do, with all my heart;
To own the truth, I don't half like my part:
Through five long acts the butt of ridicule,
A hard unfeeling heart, a flirt, a fool,
My daughter's tyrant, and my lover's tool;
I hop'd the bitter pill he'd overcome,
By making up an Epilogue sugar-plum.
But no! madam, said he, take my advice,
And conquer feelings which are much too nice :
Fear not to hold the mirror up to vice.

We, who paint human characters, must shew them
Such as they are; or nobody would know them.
-But, sir, the sex! a woman !-very true:
I'm sorry so many sat for me, while I drew.
-Sure, really, sir !-nay, don't be angry, madam:
Both ate the apple, Eve as well as Adam;

And while through thick and thin the passions goad,
Nor Eve nor Adam stay to pick their road:
And as for Epilogue, I'll not descend

Bad play by worse buffoonery to mend.

-

-Mister, said I, you are too wise by half;

Folks dont come here to learn, they come to laugh:
And if they choose like Hottentots their meat,
You must provide them what they please to eat.
Lord, sir! the beauties of proportion never please
Such as delight in frippery and frieze!

Do we not see, by men of travelled taste,
In open hall, on rising pillar plac'd,
Griffon or Sphinx, th' insulted eye before,

While Plato's bust stands hid behind the door?
But good advice I find is thrown away!
-Yes, good advice is like a rainy day;
Which, though it make our barns and coffers full,
Is often splenetic and always dull.

Our common cause, then, let us fairly trust
With those who are to sense and nature just.

[Exit.

[To

[To the Audience.]

"The richest soil, and most invig'rate seed, "Will here and there infected be with weed: "The gaudy poppy rears its broad bull head "Among the wheat, somnif'rous dews to shed: "Then whersoe'er rank couch-grass, fern, or tares, are found, "Tis yours to hand-weed, horse-hoe, clear, and till the ground."

Inscription in an obscure part of the garden of the late Mrs. Clive, at
Strawberry-hill, on a pedestal supporting a beautiful urn.
By the hon. Horace Walpole.

YE smiles and jests still hover round,

This is Mirth's consecrated ground!
Here liv'd the laughter-loving dame,-
A matchless actress, CLIVE her name.
The comic muse with her retir'd,
And shed a tear when she expir'd.

To Mr. Horace Walpole.

H. W.

On his inscription on an urn, dedicated to Mrs. Clive.
By Peter Pindar, esq.

ORACE! of Strawberry-hill-I mean, not Rome-

Truth and thy trumpet seem not to agree;

Know Comedy is hearty-all alive

The sprightly lass no more expired with Clive
Than dame Humility will die with thee.

The herald and the husbandman, a fable in the new edition of Smart's Poems.

I

Nobilitas sola est atque unica virtus.

With friend Juvenal agree,
Virtue's the true nobility;

Has of herself sufficient charms,
Although without a coat of arms.
HONESTUS does not know the rules,
Concerning Or, and Fez, and Gules.
Yet sets the wond'ring eye to gaze on
Such deeds as heralds ne'er could blazon.
Tawdry atchievements out of place,
Do but augment a fool's disgrace;
E e 2

Juvenal.

A cow

A coward is a double jest
Who has a lion for his crest;

And things have come to such a pass,
Two horses may support an ass;
And on a gamester or buffoon,
A moral motto's a lampoon.
An honest rustic, having done

His master's work 'twixt sun and sun,
Retir'd to dress a little spot
Adjoining to his homely cot,

Where, pleased, in miniature he found
His landlord's culinary ground,

Some herbs that feed, and some that heal,

The winter's medicine or meal.

The sage, which in his garden seen,
No man need ever die,* I ween;
The marjoram, comely to behold,
With thyme and ruddiest marygold,
And mint, and penny-royal sweet,
To deck the cottage-windows meet;
The baum, that yields a finer juice
Than all that China can produce;
With carrots red, and turnips white,
And leeks, Cadwallader's delight;
And all the savory crop that vie
To please the palate and the eye,
Thus as, intent, he did survey
His plot, a herald came that way,
A man of great escutcheoned knowledge,
A member of the motley college.
Heedless the peasant pass'd he by,
Indulging this soliloquy;

"Ye gods! what an enormous space,
"Twixt man and man does nature place;
While some, by deeds of honour, rise
To such a height as far out-vies
The visible diurnal sphere;

While others like this rustic here,
Grope in the grovelling ground content,
Without or lineage or descent.-
Hail, heraldry! mysterious art,
Bright patroness of all desert,
Mankind would on a level lie,
And undistinguished live and die,
Depriv'd of thy illustrious aid!
Such! so momentous, is our trade."

Cur moriatur homo, cui salvia crescit in horto?

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