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Even common-councilmen forget to eat.
The Fourth Act shows her wedded to the 'squire,
And madam now begins to hold it higher;
Dotes upon dancing, and in all her pride,
Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside;
Ogles and leers with artificial skill,
'Till having lost in age the power to kill,
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at Spadille.
Such, through our lives, the eventful history—
The Fifth and Last Act still remains for me.
The barmaid now for your protection prays,
Turns female barrister, and pleads for bays.

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS.i

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.

SPOKEN AND SUNG IN THE GREAT ROOM IN SOHO SQUARE, THURSDAY THE 20TH OF FEBRUARY, 1772.

ADVERTISEMENT.

The following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days; and may therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius.

In justice to the composer it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music was adapted in a period of time equally short.

SPEAKERS. Mr. Lee and Mrs Bellamy.

SINGERS.

Mr. Champnes, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson.

The music prepared and adapted by Signor Vento.

1 This poem was first printed by Mr. Chalmers from a copy given by Goldsmith to his friend, Joseph Cradock, Esq. of Gumley, author of Zobeide, Sec, and lent to Mr. Chalmers by Mr. Nicholls. v. Br. Poets, vol. xvi. p. 509.

THRENODIA AUGUSTAL1S.

OVERTURE A SOLEMN DIRGE. AIR TRIO.

Arise, ye sons of worth, arise,
And waken every note of woe!
When truth and virtue reach the skies,
Tis ours to weep the want below.

CHORUS.

When truth and virtue, &c.

MAN SPEAKER

The praise attending pomp and power,
The incense given to kings,
Are but the trappings of an hour,
Mere transitory things.
The base bestow them: but the good agree
To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.
But when to pomp and power are join'd
An equal dignity of mind;
When titles are the smallest claim:
When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,
But aid the power of doing good,
Then all their trophies last—and flattery turns to
fame.

Blest spiritthou, whose fame, just born to bloom, Shall spread and flourish from the tomb, How hast thou left mankind for Heaven! Even now reproach and faction mourn, And, wondering how their rage was born, Request to be forgiven! Alas! they never had thy hate: Unmov'd in conscious rectitude, Thy towering mind self-centred stood, Nor wanted man's opinion to be great. In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight, A thousand gifts would fortune send; In vain, to drive thee from the right, A thousand sorrows urged thy end: Like some well fashion'd arch thy patience stood, And purchased strength from its increasing load. Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free, Affliction still is virtue's opportunity! Virtue on herself relying, Every passion hush'd to rest, Loses every pain of dying In the hopes of being blest. Every added pang she suffers Some increasing good bestows, And every shock that malice offers Only rocks her to repose.

SONG. BY A MAN AFFETUOSO.

Virtue on herself relying, &c. to
Only rocks her to repose.

WOMAN SPEAKER.

Yet ah! what terrors frown'd upon her fate,

Death with its formidable band,

Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,

Determined took their stand.

Nor did the cruel ravagers design

To finish all their efforts at a blow:

But, mischievously slow,

They robb'd the relie and defac'd the shrine.

With unavailing grief.

Despairing of relief,

Her weeping children round,

Beheld each hour

Death's growing power,

And trembled as he frown'd.

As helpless friends who view from shore

The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,

While winds and waves their wishes cross:

They stood while hope and comfort fail,

Not to assist, but to bewail

The inevitable loss.

Relentless tyrant, at thy call

How do the good, the virtuous fall!

Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,

But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.

SONG. BY A MAN BASSO, STACCATO, SPIRITUOSO.

When vice my dart and scythe supply,
How great a king of terrors I!
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage 1

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