Basely allur'd her into Folly's course,
Then curs'd his fate, and sued out a divorce.
Unjust 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 muse, and us her friends;
If, in your grace, this night you shall bestow,
One fprig of laurel for your poet's brow,
Impart to me your flattering commands,
And sign 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.
'ES, 'tis the pulse of life! my fears were vain!
I wake, I breathe, and am myself again,
Still in this nether world! no seraph yet!
Nor walks my fpirit when the fun is set,
With troubled step to haunt the fatal board,
Where I died last-by poifon or the sword;
And blanch each honeft cheek with deeds of night,
Done here so oft by dim and doubtful light.
-To drop all metaphor, that little bell
Call'd back reality and broke the spell.
No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone;
A very woman-scarce restrains her own!
Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind,
When to be grateful is the part affign'd?
Ah, No! she scorns the trappings of her art;
No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart.
But, Ladies, say, must I alone unmask,
Is here no other actress? let me ask.
Believe me, those who best the heart dissect,
Know every woman studies stage-effect.
She moulds her manners to the parts she 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 breast with triumph swells,
When the red coral rings it silver bells!
To play in pantomime is then the rage
Along the carpet's many colour'd stage;
Or lifp her merry thoughts with loud endeavour,
Now here, now there, -in noise and mischief ever!
A fchool girl next, she 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 the dances;
Tramples alike on customs 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,
First acts her part with that great actor, Man.
Too foon a flurt, approach her and the flies,
Frowns when pursu'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 disdain'd,
And now she sues to slaves herself had chain'd.
Then comes that good old character a wife,
With all the dear, distracting 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 set Portland-place on fire;
Snatch half a glimpse at Concert, Opera, Ball,
A Meteor trac'd by none, tho' seen by all;
And when her shatter'd nerves forbid to roam,
In very spleen-rehearse the girl at home.
Last the grey dowager, in ancient flounces,
With snuff and spectacles the age denounces;
Boafts how the Sires of this degenerate Isle
Knelt for a look and duel'd for a smile;
The scourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal,
Her tea she sweetens, as she sips, with scandal;
With modern belles eternal warfare wages,
Like her own birds that clamour from their cages;
And shuffles 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 least suspects it.
Each lesson loft, each poor pretence forgot;
Yet nature oft peeps out and marks the plot;
Full oft, with energy that scorns 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 passions start!
But she, whose first best with is your applaufe,
• Herself exemplifies the truth she draws.
Born on the stage-thro' every shifting scene,
Obscure or bright, tempestuous or ferene,
Still has your smile her trembling spirit fir'd!
And can she 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 she owes.
THE PURSUIT OF HEALTH. From BELOE'S Mifcellanies.
NE April morn, reclin'd in bed,
Just at the hour when dreams are true,
A fairy form approach'd my head,
Smiling beneath her mantle blue.
• Fie, fie,' the cried, why fleep so long,
When she, the nymph you dearly love,
Now roves the vernal flowers among,
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 hasten'd to the grove,
With eager steps and anxious mind;
I rose 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 stopp'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 the whisper'd in my ear:
The nymph, fair health, you came to find,
Within these 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 ask'd, if health might there refide?
She left me, said the flower, 'but now,
For yonder violet's purple pride.'
I question'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 kiss'd the cowflips, pale,
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 rests 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 sedate and flow,
What if the nymph I could not fee?
The blush that pass'd along my brow
Was proof of her divinity.
And still her votary to prove,
And still her dulcet smiles to share,
I'll tread the fields, I'll haunt the grove,
With untir'd steps and fondest care.
O fprite belov'd! vouchsafe to give
A boon, a precious boon to me;
Within thy influence let me live,
And fometimes too thy beauties see.
So shall the muse, in nobler verse,
And strength renew'd, exulting sing; Thy praise, thy charms, thy power rehearse, And sweep, with bolder hand, the string.
A TALE; by the Rev. Mr. BISHOP.
O 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 whose 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 swill'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 stood fo plain,
He got a devil portray'd.
Joan faw the horns, Joan faw the tail,
Yet Joan as stoutly quaff'd;
And ever, when she seized her ale,
She cleared it at a draught.
John star'd, with wonder petrify'd,
His hairs rose on his pate;
And " why dost guzzle now" he cry'd,
"At this enormous rate?"
" O John," said the " am I to blame?
I can't in confcience stop;
For fure 'twould be a burning shame
To leave the Devil a drop!"
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