The royal game of goofe was there in view,
And the twelve rules the royal martyr drew;
The Seafons, fram'd with lifting, found a place,
And brave Prince William fhew'd his lamp black face.
The morn was cold; he views with keen defire
The rufty grate unconfcious of a fire:

With beer and milk arrears the freize was fcor'd,
And five crack'd tea cups drefs'd the chimney board;
A night-cap deck'd his brows inftead of bay;
A cap by night--a stocking all the day!

THE CLOWN's REPLY.

OHN Trott was defir'd by two witty peers,
To tell them the reafon why affes had ears?

"An't please you,” quoth John, “I'm not given to "letters,

"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 faved! without thinking on affes.” Edinburgh, 1753.

THE GIFT: TO IRIS,

In Bow Street, Covent Garden.

SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,

Dear mercenary beauty,

What annual off'ring fhali I make
Expreffive of my duty?

My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair- one prize
The gift, who flights the giver?

A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give-and let 'em.
If gems, or gold, import a joy,
I'll give them-when I get 'em.

I'll give but not the full-blown rofe,
Or rofe-bud, more in fashion;
Such fhort-liv'd off'rings but disclose
A tranfitory paffion.

I'll give thee fomething yet unpaid,

No lefs fincere than civil:

I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee-to the devil:

ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.

IMITATED FROM THE SPANISH.

SURE 'twas by Providence defign'd,
Rather in pity, than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind, ·
To fave him from Narciffus' fate.

STANZAS

ON THE

TAKING OF QUEBEC.

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 pleasures start.
O, Wolfe, to thee a ftreaming flood of woe,
Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear :
Quebec in vain fhall teach our breath 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 fhall know thou conquereft, though dead!
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

STANZAS ON WOMAN.

WHEN lovely woman stoops to folly,

And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can foothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her fhame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bofom-is, to die.

PROLOGUE, TO ZOBEIDE:

A TRAGEDY.

Written by

JOSEPH CRADOCK, ESQ.

Acted at the Theatre-Royal, Covent-Garden, 1772.
SPOKEN BY MR. QUICK.

IN thefe bold times, when Learning's fons explore
The diftant climates, and the favage fhore;
When wife aftronomers to India fteer,

And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to fmiles and dimpling,
Forfake the fair, and patiently-go fimpling;
Our bard into the general fpirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian ftores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way fteers his courfe, in hopes of trading-
Yet ere he lands, he's order'd me before,

To make an obfervation on the fhore.

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-foreboding cloud feems 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 ftrew the ground:

The inhabitants are canibals I fear.

(Tafting them.)

I heard a hiffing-there are ferpents here!
O, there the people are-best keep my distance:
Our Captain (gentle natives) craves affiftance.

Our fhip's well ftor'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 promises fo ample?

-I'd best step back-and order up a fample.

A PROLOGUE,

WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET

LABERIUS,

A Roman Knight, whom Cæfar forced upon the Stage.

W

PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS.*

HAT! 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 difperfes 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 itfelf obeys; Hopeless of pleafing, 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.

This tranflation was first printed in one of our Author's earlieft works, The Prefent State of Learning in Europe," 12 mo. 1759.

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWIS.
In the Character of Harlequin,

AT HIS BENEFIT.

HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your non

fense;

I'd fpeak a word or two, to eafe my confcience.
My pride forbids it ever fhould be faid,
My heels eclips'd the honours of my head
That I found humour in a pyeball veft,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.

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 fcene with all thy brood,
Of fools purfuing, and of fools purfu'd!
Whofe ins and outs no ray of fenfe difclofes,
Whofe only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilst from below the trap door Dæmons rife,
And from above the dangling deities;
And fhall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?
May rofin'd lightning blast me, if I do!
No-I will act, I'll vindicate the ftage;
Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
Off! off! vile trappings? a new paffion reigns!
The mad'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.

'Twas thus that fop's ftag, a creature blameless, Yet fomething vain, like one that fhall be nameless,