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Of some I brought home Patterns; one To-night
We mean to shew—'tis true it is but flight;
But then for Summer wear, you know that's right.
A Little Weaver, whom I long have known,
Has work'd it up, and begs to have it shewn-
But pray observe, my friends--'tis not his own.
I brought it overnay, if it miscarries,
He'll cry 'tis none of mine, it came from Paris.".
But should you like it, he'll soon let you know
“ 'Twas spun and manufactur'd in Soho."
-'T had a great run abroad; which always yields
Work for our Grub.street, and our Spitalfields.
France charms our Ladies, naked Bards and Beaux,
Who smuggle thence their learning and their cloaths;
Buckles like gridirons, and wigs on springs;
Têtes built like towers, and rumps like Ostrich wings.
If this Piece please, each Summer I'll go over,
And fetch new Patterns by the Straits of Dover.

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IF
F there's a Critick here, who hates what's low,

We humbly beg the Gentleman would go ;
He's very welcome to have seen the play,
To take his money back, and walk away.
Our Poet is the fearfull'ft man on earth,
And fears too much four sense may spoil your mirth;
He wilhes plain blunt folks, that laugh and cry,
As nature prompts, and ask no reason why.
To night no Two Act Comedy you'll view,
But a mere Farce! the characters not new,
And all your old acquaintance: Tony LUMPKIN,
In town, 'tis true, but still a Country Bumpkin.

His

His friend, Tim TICKLE too, who danc'd the Bear;

3 Bruin, the Bear himself-nay never stare ! He shall not hurt you, ladies-Keep your places ! The Bear-leader has given him the Graces. This rustick groupe, Bear, Bear-leader, 'Squire, Clown, The frolick Muse of Farce now drives to town. Her elder sister, Comedy, has Wit; But Farce has Fun, and oft a lucky Hit, If the yields laugh, a laugh let none despise ; Be merry, if you can, and not too wife.

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PROLOG U E To the SUICIDE, A COMÉDY!

Spoken by Mr. PALMER,

August, 1778.

'T'S

IS now the reigning taste with Belle and

Beau Their art and skill in Coachmanship to show. Nobles contend who throws a Whip the best ; From head to foot like Hackney-coachmen dress’d: Duchess and Peerefs too discard their fear, Ponies in front, my lady in the rear. A Female Phaeton all danger mocks, Half-coat, half-petticoat, the mounts the box; Wrapt in a dusty whirlwind scours the plains, And cutting-Jehu !-whistling-holds the reins. Happy, thrice happy, Britain, is thy state, In the year seventeen hundred sev'nty eight, When each sex drives at such a furious rate. 5

The

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The modifh Artist, Playwright, or Coach-maker, In Grub-street starv’d, or thriving in Long-Acre, To suit the times, and tally with the mode, Must travel in the beaten turnpike road : Wherefore our Crane-neck'd Manager to-day Upon four acts attempts to run his Play; A fifth he fears you'd deem the Bard's reproach, A mere fifth wheel that would but stop the Coach. With Two Act Pieces what machines agree? Buggies, Tim-whiskies, or squeez'd Vis-a-vis, Where two fit face to face, and knee to knee.

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What is a piece in one short Act compress'd ? A Wheelbarrow, or Sulky at the best. A scale so small, the Bard would suffer for't; You'd say his Farce was like himself—too short; Yet anxious with your smiles his works to crown, In many a varied shape he courts the town. Sometimes he drives--if Brother Bards implore, Sometimes he in a Prologue trots before, Or in an Epilogue gets up behind Happy in all, so you appear but kind.

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