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Spoken by Mrs. YATE S.

February, 1770.

HAT horrors fill the Tragick Poet's brain!

Plague, Murder, Rape and Incest, croud his train; He pants for miferies, delights in ills, The blood of Fathers, Mothers, Children, spills; Stabs, poisons, massacres, and, in his rage, With Daggers, Bowls, and Carpets, strews the Stage.

Our gentler Poet, in soft Opera bred,
Italian Crotchets singing in his head,
Winds to a prosperous end the fine-drawn tale,
And roarsbut roars like any Nightingale.

Woman, whate'er she be-Maid, Widow, Wife A quiet woman is the charm of life. And sure Cephisa was a gentle creature, Full of the milk and honey of good nature, Imported for a spouse, by spouse refus'd ! Was ever maid so shamefully abus’d?


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And yet, alas, poor Prince! I could not blame him
One wife, I knew, was full enough to tame him.
Ismena, and Timanthes, and Olynthus,
Might all be happy-for I chose Cherinthus.

But what a barb'rous law was this of Thrace!
How cruel there was each young lady's case !
A virgin, plac'd upon the dreadful roll,
A hapless virgin must have stood the poll,
But by Timanthes made a lucky bride,
Ismena prudently disqualified.

Ladies, to you alone our Author sues : 'Tis yours to cherish, or condemn his Muse. The Theatre's a Mirror, and each Play Should be a very Looking-Glass, they say ; His Looking-Glass reflects no moles or pimples, But shews you full of graces, smiles, and dimples. If you approve yourselves, resolve to spare, And, Criticks ! then attack him, if ye dare !

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Spoken by Mr. BENSLE Y.

March, 1771.

In these our moral and religious days,

Men dread the crying sin of writing Plays; While some, whose wicked wit incurs the blame, Howe'er they love the trespass, Ay the lhame.

If, a new holy war with vice to wage, Some Preacher quits the Pulpit for the Stage, The Rev’rend Bard, with much remorse and fear, Attempts to give his Evening Lecture here; The work, engender’d, to the would must rise; But yet the father may elude our eyes. The parish on this trick of youth might frown, And thus, unown'd, 'tis thrown upon the town. At our Director's door he lays the fin, Who fees the Babe, relents, and takes it in ; To swathe and dress it first unstrings his purse, Then kindly puts it out to you - to nurse.

Should some Young Counsel, thro' his luckless star, By writing Plays turn truant to the Bar.



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Call's up by you to this High Court of Wit,
With non inyentus we return the Writ.
No Latitat can force him to appear,
Whose failure and success cause equal fear;
Whatever fees his clients here bestow,
He loses double in the courts below.

Grave, solemn Doctors, whose prescribing pen
Has, in the trade of Death, kill'd many men,
With vent'rous quill here tremblingly engage
To llay Kings, Queens, and Heroes, on the stage.
The Great, if great men write, of shame afraid,
Come forth incog.—and Beaux, in masquerade.
Some Demireps in wit, of doubtful fame,
Tho' known to all the town, withhold their name.

Thus each by turns ungratefully refuse
To own the favours of their Lady Muse;
Woo'd by the Court, the College, Bar, and Church,
Court, Bar, Church, College, leave her in the lurch.

'Tis your's to night the work alone to scan:
Arraign the Bard, regardless of the Man!
If Dullness wave her Poppies o'er his play,
To Critick fury let it fall a prey;
But if his art the tears of Pity draws,
Ask not his name but crown him with applause.



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ROM Otway's and immortal Shakespear's page,

Venice is grovin familiar to our Stage.
Here the Rialto often has display'd
At once a Bridge, a Street, and Mart of Trade;
Here, Treason threat'ning to lay Venice flat,
Grave Candle-Snuffers oft in senate fat.

To night in Venice we have plac'd our scene,
Where I have been,- liv'd-diedas you have seen.
Yet that my travels I may not disgrace,
Let me, since now reviv'd-describe the place!
Nor would the Tour of Europe prove our shame,
Could every Macaroni do the same. .

The City's self—a wonder, all agreem
Appears to spring, like Venus, from the sea.
Founded on Piles it rises from the strand,
Like Trifle plac'd upon a silver stand:
While many a lesser ifle the prospect crowns,
Looking like sugar-plums, or floating towns.


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