Or the Perfians, as we're told
Near relations may be bold :-
Vive la Liberté, Sir!
Lazy monks no more shall dwell, Sir,
Or pale nuns in cloister'd cell, Sir,
Faft and penance now farewell, Sir,
Matins, nones*, and vefpers.
Such poor devils, all fet free,
Vows and veils renounce, you'll fee,
And, round Liberty's fair tree,
Dance with merry step, Sirs!
Men admiring this fam'd junto,
And the blifs they 've brought us unto,
Ev'ry nation foon will run to
Such fure means of glory :-
This proud boaft do Frenchmen owe
Firft to Turgot, years ago,
Now to Roberfpierre and Co.
Chiefs renown'd in story.
One there is, who, heart and voice, Sir,
With his people would rejoice, Sir,
Nay, refign his rule of choice, Sir,
Would it good command 'em.
Yet muft he love virtue well,
Who for nought a crown would sell !
Such advisers I'd foon tell
How to teach their grandam!!!
PROLOGUE to "Every one has his Fault." By the Rev. Mr. NARES. Spoken by Mr. FARREN.
UR Author, who accufes great and small,
And fays fo boldly, there are faults in all,
Sends me with difmal voice and lengthen'd phiz,
Humbly to own one dreadful fault of his;
A fault, in modern Authors not uncommon,
It is now don't be angry-He's a woman.
Can you forgive it? Nay, I'll tell you more,
One who has dar'd to venture here before,
Has feen your fmiles, your frowns,-tremendous fight!
O, be not in a frowning mood to-night!
The maffes formerly faid at nine in the morning,
The play, perhaps, has many things amifs:
Well, let us then reduce the point to this,
Let only thofe that have no failings his.
The rights of woman, fays a female
Are, to do every thing as well as men;
To think, to argue, to decide, to write,
To talk, undoubtedly-perhaps, to fight,
(For females march to war, like brave Commanders,
Not in old Authors only-but in Flanders).
I grant this matter may be ftrain'd too far,
And Maid 'gainft Man is moft uncivil war.
I grant, as all my City friends will fay,
That Men fhould rule, and Women should obey;
That nothing binds the marriage contract fafter,
Than our-a "Zounds, Madam, I'm your Lord and Master."
I grant their nature and their frailty fuch,
Women may make too free-and know too much.
But fince the fex at length has been inclin'd
To cultivate that useful part the mind;
Since they have learnt to read, to write, to fpell;-
Since fome of them have wit-and use it well;
Let us not force them back with brow fevere
Within the pale of ignorance and fear,
Confin'd entirely to domeftic arts,
Producing only children, pies, and tarts:
The fav'rite fable of the tuneful Nine,
Implies that female genius is divine.
Then drive not, Critics, with tyrannic rage,
A fupplicating fair-one from the stage;
The Comic Mufe, perhaps, is growing old,
Her lovers, you well know, are few and cold.
"Tis time then freely to enlarge the plan,
And let all those write Comedies-that can.
EPILOGUE. By M. P. ANDREWS. Spoken by Mrs. MATTOCKS.
ACH has his fault," we readily allow,
To this decree our dearest friends must bow;
One is too carclefs, one is too correct,
All, fave our own fweet felf, has fome defect;
And characters to ev'ry virtue dear,
Sink from a hint, or fuffer by a fneer.
"Sir Harry Blink! Oh, he's a worthy man, "Still anxious to do all the good he can; "To aid diftrefs, wou'd fhare his last poor guinea, Delights in kindness-but then, what a ninny!"
Lady doll Primrofe fays to Lady Sly,
"You know, Mifs Tidlikins? Yes-looks awry—
"She's going to be married—that won't mend it;
They fay the'll have a fortune-and she'll spend it.
"I hope your Ladyfhip vifits Lady Hearty,
"We meet to-night-a moft delightful party.
"I don't like Dowagers who wOULD be young,
"And 'twixt ourfelves, they fay-fhe has a tongue."
If fuch the general blame that all await,
Say, can our Author 'fcape the general fate?
Some will diflike the faucy truths fhe teaches,
Fond batchelors, and wives who wear the breeches.
"Let me be wedded to a handfome youth,"
Cries old Mifs Mumblelove, without a tooth.
"Thefe worn-out Beaux, because they have heavy purses, Expect us fpinfters to become their nurses.
"To love and be beloved's the happy wife;
"A mutual paflion is the charm of life."
Marriage is Heav'n's beft gift, we must believe it,
Yet fome with weak ideas can't conceive it.
Poor Lady Sobwell's grief the Town wou'd stun;
Oh, Tiffany! your mistress is undone."
"Dear Ma'am I hope my Lord is well-dont cry."-
"Haven't I caufe?-The monster will not die-
"The reafon why I married him is clear,
"I fondly thought he could not live a year:
"But now his dropfy's better, and his cough-
"Not the leaft chance for that to take him off.
I, that could have young hufbands now in plenty, "Sha'n't be a widow till I'm one-and-twenty-
No lovely weeds-No fweet dishevell'd hair
"Oh! I could cry my eyes out in despair." [Sobbing and crying.
Sir Triftram Tefty worn with age and gout,
Within all spleen, and flannel all without,
Roars from his elbow-chair, "Reach me my crutches;
Oh! if death had my wife within his clutches,
"With what delight her funeral meats I'd gobble, And tho' not dance upon her grave, I'd hobble;
"No longer then my peace fhe could unhinge;
I shou'd cut capers foon- [Tries to jump, and fumbles.
"Zounds what a twinge!"
• These playful pictures of difcordant life,
We bring to combat difcontent and strife;
And, by the force of contraft, fweetly prove,
The charms that wait on fond and faithful love;
When fuited years and pliant tempers join,
And the heart glows with energy divine,
As the lov'd offspring of the happy pair
Oft climb the knee the envied kifs to fhare.
Such joys this happy country long has known,
Rear'd in the Cot, reflected from the Throne;
Oh! may the glorious zeal, the loyal ftand
Which nobly animate this envied land,
Secure to every breaft, with glad increase,
The heart-felt bleflings of domestic peace!
STANZAS. Written by LORD CAPEL, when he was a Prifoner in the Tower, during CROMWELL'S Ufurpation.
BEwell, pried waves, high as Jove's roof;
EAT on, proud Billows! Boreas, blow!
Your incivilities do plainly fhow
That Innocence is Tempest-proof.
Tho' furly Nereus frowns, my thoughts are calm:
Then ftrike, Affliction, for thy wounds are balm.
That which the world mifcalls a jail
A private closet is to me,
Whilft a good Conscience is my bail,
And Innocence my liberty:
Locks, bars, and folitude, together met,
Make me no prisoner, but an Anchoret.
Here Sin-for want of food-must starve,
Where tempting objects are not feen;
And these strong walls do only ferve
To keep rogues out, and keep me in :
Malice is now grown charitable, fure;
I'm not committed, but I'm kept fecure.
And whilft I wish to be retir'd,
Into this private room I'm turn'd,
As if their wisdom had confpir'd
The Salamander fhould be burn'd:
Or, like thofe Sophifts who would drown a fish,
I am condemn'd to fuffer what I wish.
The Cynic hugs his poverty,
The Pelican her wilderness,
And 'tis the Indian's pride to be
Naked on frozen Caucafus :-
Contentment feels no fmart-Stoics we fee
Make torments eafy by their apathy.
I'm in this cabinet lock'd up,
Like fome high-prized Margarite; Or, like some great Mogul or Pope, I'm cloifter'd up from public fight: Retiredness is a part of Majefty,
And thus, proud Sultan, I'm as great as thee!
These manacles upon mine arm
I as my miftrefs' favours wear;
And, for to keep mine ancles warm,
I have fome iron fhackles there :-
Thefe walls are but my garrifon-this cell-
Which men call jail-is but my citadel.
Thus he that ftruck at Jafon's life,
Thinking to make his purpose sure,
By a malicious friendly knife
Did only wound him to his cure :------
Malice, we fee, wants wit for what is meant;
Mifchief ofttimes proves favour by the event.
Altho' I cannot see my King,
Neither in perfon nor in coin,
Yet Contemplation is a thing
That renders what I have not mine:-
My King from me no adamant can part,
Whom I do wear engraven in my heart.
Have you not heard the Nightingale,
A prifoner clofe kept in a cage,
How he doth chaunt her woful tale
In that her narrow hermitage?-
Ev'n that her melody doth plainly prove,
Her boughs are trees, her cage a pleasant grove.
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