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Bafely allur'd her into Folly's course,

Then curs'd his fate, and fued out a divorce.
Unjuft at Fortune's cruelty to rail,

When we make all the miseries we bewail.

Ah! generous patrons, on whose breath depends
The fortune of the mufe, and us her friends;
If, in your grace, this night you shall beftow,
One fprig of laurel for your poet's brow,
Impart to me your flattering commands,
And fign them with the plaudit of your hands.

ADDRESS Spoken by MRS. SIDDONS, at her Benefit, and written by Sam. Rogers, Efq. Author of the Pleasures of Memory.

YI wake, I breathe, and am myself again,

ES, 'tis the pulfe of life! my fears were vain!

Still in this nether world! no feraph yet!
Nor walks my fpirit when the fun is fet,
With troubled ftep to haunt the fatal board,
Where I died laft-by poifon or the fword;
And blanch each honeft cheek with deeds of night,
Done here fo oft by dim and doubtful light.

-To drop all metaphor, that little bell
Call'd back reality and broke the fpell.
No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone;
A very woman-scarce restrains her own!
Can fhe, with fiction, clarm the cheated mind,
When to be grateful is the part affign'd?
Ah, No! fhe fcorns the trappings of her art;
No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart.

But, Ladies, fay, muft I alone unmask,
Is here no other actress? let me ask.
Believe me, those who beft the heart dissect,
Know every woman studies stage-effect.
She moulds her manners to the parts fhe fills,
As inftinct teaches, or as humour wills;
And, as the grave or gay her talent calls,
Acts in the drama till the curtain falls.

First, how her little breaft with triumph fwells,
When the red coral rings it filver bells!
To play in pantomime is then the rage
Along the carpet's many colour'd ftage;

Or lifp her merry thoughts with loud endeavour,

Now here, now there,-in noife and mischief ever!

A fchool

A fchool girl next, the curls her hair in papers,
And mimics father's gout and mother's vapours;
Difcards her doll, bribes Betty for romances;
Playful at church, and serious when she dances;
Tramples alike on cuftoms and on toes,
And whispers all the hears to all the knows;
Terror of caps and wigs and fober notions!
A romp! that longest of perpetual motions!
-Till tam'd and tortur'd into foreign graces,
She sports her lovely face at public places;
And with blue, laughing eyes, behind her fan,
Firft acts her part with that great actor, Man.

Too foon a flurt, approach her and the flies,
Frowns when purfu'd, and, when intreated, fighs!
Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice;
Till fading beauty hints the late advice.

Her prudence dictates what her pride difdain'd,
And now the fues to flaves herself had chain'd.

Then comes that good old character a wife,
With all the dear, diftracting cares of life ;
A thousand cards a-day at doors to leave,
And in return, a thousand cards receive.
Rouge high, play deep, to lead the ton aspire,
With nightly blaze fet Portland-place on fire;
Snatch half a glimpfe at Concert, Opera, Ball,
A Meteor trac'd by none, tho' seen by all;
And when her fhatter'd nerves forbid to roam,
In very spleen-rehearse the girl at home.

Laft the grey dowager, in ancient flounces,
With fnuff and fpectacles the age denounces;
Boafts how the Sires of this degenerate Isle
Knelt for a look and duel'd for a fmile;

The fcourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal,
Her tea fhe sweetens, as fhe fips, with fcandal;
With modern belles eternal warfare wages,
Like her own birds that clamour from their cages;
And fhuffles round to bear her tale to all,
Like fome old ruin, "nodding to its fall "

Thus woman makes her entrance and her exit,
Then most an actress when the leaft fufpects it.
Each leffon loft, each poor pretence forgot;
Yet nature oft peeps out and marks the plot;
Full oft, with energy that fcorns controul,
At once lights up the features of the foul;
Unlocks each thought chain'd down by coward art,
And to full day the latent paffions start!


But the, whofe firft beft wifh is your applaufe,
Herfelf exemplifies the truth fhe draws.
Born on the stage-thro' every fhifting feene,
Obfcure or bright, tempeftuous or ferene,
Still has your fmile her trembling fpirit fir'd!
And can the act, with thoughts like these inspir'd?
Thus from her mind all artifice the flings,
All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things;
To you, uncheck'd, each genuine feeling flows,
For all that life endears to you the owes.


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And waits for you in yonder grove?

Hark! you may hear her cherub voice:
The voice of health is sweet and clear;
Yes, you may hear the birds rejoice
In fymphony her arbour near.'

I rofe, and haften'd to the grove,
With eager fteps and anxious mind;

I rofe the elfin's truth to prove,

And hop'd the promis'd nymph to find,

My fairy took me by the hand,

And chearfully we stepp'd along;
She ftopp'd but on the new-plough'd land,
To hear the ruffet woodlark's fong.

We reach'd the grove-I look'd around,
My fairy was no longer near;

But of her voice I knew the found,
As thus fhe whifper'd in my ear:

The nymph, fair health, you came to find,
Within thefe precincts loves to dwell;

Her breath now fills the balmy wind;
This path will lead you to her cell,'

fr I bended

I bended to the primrose low,

And afk'd, if health might there refide?
She left me, faid the flower,' but now,
For yonder violet's purple pride.'

'I queftion'd next the violet queen,
Where buxom health was to be found?
She told me, that the late was feen
With cowflips toying on the ground.

Then thrice I kifs'd the cowflips, pałe,
And in their dew-drops bath'd my face;
I told them all my tender tale,

And begg'd their aid coy health to trace.

From us,' exclaim'd a lowly flower,

The nymph has many a day been gone;
But now the refts within the bower
Where yonder hawthorn blooms alone.'

Quick to that bower I ran, I flew,

And yet no nymph I there could find; But fresh the breeze of morning blew, And Spring was gay, and Flora kind.

If I return'd fedate and flow,

What if the nymph I could not fee? The blufh that pafs'd along my brow Was proof of her divinity.

And fill her votary to prove,

And ftill her dulcet fmiles to share, I'll tread the fields, I'll haunt the grove, With untir'd steps and fondeft care.

O fprite belov'd! vouchfafe to give
A boon, a precious boon to me;
Within thy influence let me live,
And fometimes too thy beauties fee.

So fhall the mufe; in nobler verse,

And ftrength renew'd, exulting fing;
Thy praife, thy charms, thy power rehearse,
And fweep, with bolder hand, the string.


A TALE; by the Rev. Mr. BISHOP.

Quod petis hic eft.

No plate had John and Joan to hoard,

Plain folk, in humble plight;

One only tankard crown'd their board,
And that was fill'd each night,

Along whofe inner bottom sketch'd,
In pride of chubby grace,
Some rude engraver's hand had etch'd
A baby Angel's face.

John swallow'd first a mod'rate sup;
But Joan was not like John;
For, when her lips once touch'd the cup,
She fwill'd till all was gone.

John often urg'd her to drink fair,
But the ne'er changed a jot;
She lov'd to fee the Angel there,
And therefore drain'd the pot.

When John found all remonftrance vain,
Another card he play'd;
And, where the angel food fo plain,

He got a devil portray'd.

Joan faw the horns, Joan faw the tail,
Yet Joan as ftoutly quaff'd;
And ever, when the feized her ale,
She cleared it at a draught,

John ftar'd, with wonder petrify'd,
His hairs rofe on his pate;
And "why doft guzzle now" he cry'd,
"At this enormous rate?"

"O John," faid fhe "am I to blame?
I can't in confcience ftop;

For fure 'twould be a burning fhame
To leave the Devil a drop!”


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