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AN old trite proverb let me quote!
As is your cloth, fo cut your coat.-
To fuit our author and his farce,
Short let me be! for wit is fcarce.
Nor would I fhew it, had I any,
The reasons why are strong and many.
Should I have wit, the piece have none,
A flash in pan with empty gun,
The piece is fure to be undone.
A tavern with a gaudy fign,
Whofe bush is better than the wine,
May cheat you once. .-Will that device,
Neat as Imported, cheat you twice?

'Tis wrong to raise your expectations:
Poets be dull in dedications!
Dulness in these to wit prefer-
But there indeed you seldom err.
In prologues, prefaces, be flat!
A filver button spoils your hat.
A thread-bare coat might jokes escape,
Did not the blockheads lace the cape.
A cafe in point to this before ye,
Allow me, pray, to tell a story!

To turn the penny, once, a wit
Upon a curious fancy hit;
Hung out a board, on which he boasted,
Dinner for THREEPENCE! Boil'd and roafted!
The hungry read, and in they trip,

With eager eye and fmacking lip:
"Here, bring this boil'd and roafted, pray!"
Enter POTATOES - - - drefs'd each way.
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For Prologues are but Ghosts of wit;
Which mean to fhew their art and skill,
And scratch you to their Author's will.

In fhort, for reafons great and small,
'Tis better to have none at all:
Prologues and Ghofts-a paltry trade
So let them both at once be laid!
Say but the word---give your commands---
We'll tie our prologue-monger's hands:
Confine thefe culprits (holding up his hands) bind 'em tight,
Nor Girls can feraich nor Fools can write.

Mr. FOOTE's Addrefs the Public.

After a Projecution against him for a Libel.

HUSH! let me fearch before I fpeak aloud

Is no informer skulking in the croud?
With art laconic noting all that's faid,
Malice at heart, indictments in his head,
Prepar'd to levy all the legal war,
And roufe the clamorous legions of the bar!
Is there none fuch ?-not one ?-then entre nous,
I will a tale unfold, tho' ftrange, yet true;
The application must be made by you.

At Athens once, fair queen of arms and arts,
There dwelt a citizen of moderate parts!
Precife his manner, and demure his looks,
His mind unletter'd, tho' he dealt in books;
Amorous, tho' old; tho' dull, lov'd repartee;
And pen'd a paragraph most daintily:
He aim'd at purity in all he faid,
And never once omitted eth nor ed;
It hath, and doth, was rarely known to fail,
Himfelf the hero of each little tale:

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With wits and lords this man was much delighted,
And once (it has been faid) was near being knighted.
One Ariftophanes (a wicked wit,

Who never heeded grace in what he writ)
Had mark'd the manner of this Grecian fage,
And thinking him a fubject for the stage,
Had, from the lumber, cull'd with curious care,
His voice, his looks, his gefture, gait, and air,
His affectation, confequence and mien,
And boldly launch'd him on the comic fcene;
Loud peals of plaudits thro' the circle ran,
All felt the fatire, for all knew the man.

Then Peter-Petros was his claffic name,
Fearing the lofs of dignity and fame,
To a grave lawyer in a hurry flies,
Opens his purfe, and begs his best advice.
The fee fecur'd, the lawyer strokes his band,
"The cafe you put, I fully understand;

The thing is plain from Coco's reports,

For rules of poetry an't rules of courts:
"A libel this-I'll make the mummer know it.".
A Grecian conftable took up the poet;
Reftrain'd the fallies of his laughing mufe,
Call'd harmless humour fcandalous abuse:
The bard appeal'd from this fevere decree:
Th' indulgent public fet the pris ner free:
Greece was to him, what Dublin is to me.


to Florizel and Perdita (a dramatic paftoral altered by Mr. Garrick, from Shakespear's Winter Tale) written and Spoken by Mr. Garrick.


O various things the ftage has been compar'd,
As apt ideas ftrike each humorous Bard:
This night, for want of better fimile,
Let this our Theatre a Tavern be:

The Poets Vintners, and the Waiters we.
Lo (as the cant and cuftom of the trade is)
You're welcome Gem'men, kindly welcome Ladies.
To draw in cuftomers, our bills are spread,

[Shewing a Play Bill.

You cannotmifs the fign, 'tis Shakespear's Head.
From this fame Head, this fountain-head divine,
For different palates fprings a different wine!
In which no tricks to ftrengthen or to thin e'm.
Neat as imported-no French Brandy in 'em.

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Hence for the choiceft fpirits flows Champaign;
Whose sparkling atoms fhoot thro' every vein,
Then mount in magic vapours, to th' enraptur'd brain!
Hence flow for martial minds potations ftrong;
And sweet love potions, for the fair and young.
For you, my hearts of oak, for your regale,

[To the upper gallery.

There's good old English-Stingo, mild and ftale.
For high, luxurious touls with luscious smack
There's Sir John Falstaffe, is a butt of fack:
And if the ftronger liquors more invite ye;
Bardolph is gin, and Pifol aqua vitæ.
But fhould you call for Falstaffe, where to find him:
"He's gone-nor left one cup of fack behind him,
Sunk in his elbow chair no more to roam;


No more with merry wags, to Eaftcheap come;
He's gone-to jeft, and laugh, and give his fack at home.
As for the learned Critics, grave and deep,
Who catch at words, and catching fall afleep;
Who in the ftorms of passion--hum,--and haw!
For fuch, our mafter will no liquor draw
So blindly thoughtful.` and fo darkly read,
They take Tom Durfey's for the Shakespear's Head.
A vintner once acquir'd both praise and gain,
And fold much Perry for the beft Champaign.
Some rakes, this precious stuff did fo allure;
They drank whole nights, what's that--when wine is pure?
Come, fill a bumper, Jack-I will my Lord.
Here's cream--Damn'd fine--immenfe--upon my word!
Sir William, what fay you-The best, believe me,
In this--Eh Jack-the Devil can't deceive me.'
Thus the wife Critic too, miftakes his wine,
Cries out, with lifted eyes, 'Tis great! divine!
Then jogs his neighbour, as the wonders strike him;
This Shakespear! Shakespear!-- Oh, there's nothing like him:
In this night's various, and enchanted cup,

Some little Perry's mixt for filling up.

The five long acts, from which our three are taken,
Stretch'd out to + fixteen years, lay by, forfaken.
Left then this precious liquor run to waste,
'Tis now confin'd and bottled for
your taste.
'Tis my chief wish, my joy, my only plan,
To lote no drop of that immortal man!

Mr. Quin had then left the stage.

The action of the Winter's Tale, as written by Shakespear, comprehends

Exteen years.


ODE for the NEW YEAR 1762.

Written by William Whitehead, Efq; Poet Laureat.

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