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Her love was fought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her-
When he has walk'd before.
But now her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;
The doctors found when he was dead
Her laft diforder mortal.
Let us lament, in forrow fore,
For Kent-ftreet well may say,
That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more-
She had not died to-day.
AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,
Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,
Grief dares to mingle her foul-piercing voice,
And quells the raptures which from pleasure ftart.
O, Wolfe! to thee a ftreaming flood of woe,
Sighing, we pay, and think even conqueft dear-
Quebec in vain shall teach the breast to glow,
Whilft thy fad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.
Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,
And faw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes; Yet they shall know thou conquereft, though dead! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rife.
O MEMORY! thou fond deceiver,
Still importunate and vain,
To former joys, recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain;
Thou, like the world, the oppreft oppreffing,
Thy fmiles increase the wretch's woe;
And he who wants each other bleffing,
In thee muft ever find a foe.
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY OF SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
Ан, me! when shall 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 difcover.
She that gives all to the falfe one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.
FROM THE ORATORIO OF CAPTIVITY.
THE wretch condemn'd with life to part,
Still, ftill on hope relies;
And every pang that tends the heart,
Bids expectation rise.
Hope, like the glimm'ring taper's light,
Adorns and cheers the way;
And still, as darker grows the night,
Emits a brighter ray.
TO THE TRAGEDY OF ZOBEIDE.
In thefe bold times, when Learning's fons explore
The diftant climates, and the favage shore;
When wife aftronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanifts, all cold to fmiles and dimpling,
Forfake the fair, and patiently-go fimpling;
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures:
With Scythian ftores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way fieers his courfe, 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 reck'ning fure is loft!
This feems a rocky and a dangerous coast.
Lord! what a fultry climate am I under!
Yon ill-forboding cloud feems big with thunder!
(Upper Gallery.) There mangroves spread,and larger than I've seen 'em—
Here trees of fiately fize, and billing turtles in 'em—
Here ill-condition'd oranges abound
And apples, bitter apples firew the ground:
The inhabitants are canibals I fear:
I heard a hiffing-there are ferpents here!
O, there the people are-best keep my distance;
Our captain (gentle natives) craves assistance :
Our ship's well stor’d—in yonder creek we've laid her,
His honour is no mercenary trader:
This is his firft 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 promifes fo ample!-
I'd beft ftep back-and order up a sample.
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-submission must be mine;
Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys,
Hopeless of pleafing, yet inclin'd 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 honour ends.
Preferved by Macrobius---translated and printed in 1759.
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 confcience.
My pride forbids it ever should be faid,
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 jeft.
(Takes off his mask.)
Whence, and what art thou-vifionary birth?
Nature difowns, and reafon fcorns 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 nofes;
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 retreatingIf I ceafe Harlequin, I ceafe from eating.