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With rage possest
Ev'ry gift of time employ; Big swells my breast!
Make the most of proffer'd joy, In visions rapt, before my sight appears
Pleasure hates the scanty rules
Portion'd out by dreaming fools.
Shepherds, buxom, blithe and free,
Now's the time for jollity. I hear, I hear the distant roar
[A dance of shepherds, 8c. Of ruin on yon hostile shore!
Rejoice, ye happy swains, rejoice; Her richest stores in tribute brings!
It is the heart that prompts the voice. And farthest Ind, beneath the rising day
Be sorrow banish'd far away;
Who at his name can joy suppress?
Arcadian-born to rule and bless.
And hark! from rock to rock the sound
Of winding horn, and de b-mouth'd hound,
Breaking with rapture on the ear,
See where she hastes with eager pace, In vain shall foam, and thirst for sanguine plains. To speak the joys that paint her face. CLIO.
SCENE 11. Opens to a prospect of rocks. Sweet Peace returns;
Huntsmen, huntresses, &c. coming down from them.
Hither I speed with honest glee,
Such as befits the mind that's free;
Your cheerful troop, blithe youth to join,
And mix my social joys with thine.
Now may each nymph, and frolic swain,
O’er mountain steep, or level plain,
Court buxom Health, while jocund horn
Bids Echo wake the sluggard Morn,
When the Morning peeps forth, and the Zephyr's Of the unconquerable stone,
(dale; And leave in harmony the British world.
Carries fragrance and health over mountain and
Up, ye nymphs, and ye swains, and together we'll Proceed great days; lead on th' auspicious years;
rove, Such years (-for lo! the scene of fate appears!)
Up hill, down the valley, by thicket or grove: Such years, the Destinies have said, shall roll:
Then follow with me, where the welkin resounds Jove nods consent, and thunder shakes the pole.
With the notes of the horns, and the cry of the
hounds. Let the wretched be slaves to ambition and wealth;
All the blessing we ask is the blessing of health. ARCADIA. A DRAMATIC PASTORAL'. So shall innocence self give a warrant to joys
No envy disturbs, no dependance destroys: SCENE I. A view of the country.
Then follow with me, where the welkin resounds Shepherds and Shepherdesses.
With the notes of the born, and the cry of the
hounds. CHORUS Shepherds, buxom, blithe and free,
O'er hill, dale, and woodland, with rapture we
roam; Now's the time for jollity.
Yet returning, still find the dear pleasures at home; SYLVIA.
Where the cheerful good humour gives honesty grace,
And the heart speaks content in the smiles of the Hither haste, and bring along
Then follow with me, where the welkin resounds Merry tale and jocund song,
With the notes of the horn, and the cry of the To the pipe and tabor beat
hounds. Frolic measures with your feet.
RECITATIVE. 1 Performed at Drury-lane theatre, in honour of their present majesties' marriage. The music Small care, my friends, your youth annoys, was composed by Stanley. C.
Which only looks to present joys.
So may all thy sylvan train,
Dryad, nymph, and rustic faun, Ill suits it in this joy, to wear
To the pipe and merry strain, A brow so over-hung with care.
Trip it o'er the russet lawn! Better with us thy voice to raise,
May no thorn or bearded
grass And join a whole Arcadia's praise.
Hurt their footsteps as they pass,
Whilst in gambols round and round
They sport it o'er the shaven ground!
Though thy Syrinx, like a dream,
Flying at the face of day, The speaking blessings all must feel.
Vanish'd in the limpid stream,
Bearing all thy hopes away,
If again thy heart should burn,
In caressing, Nor gire to virtue, virtue's due?
Blest, and blessing, My grateful heart shall ever show
May'st thou find a wish'd return.
O mighty Pan! attend Arcadia's voice,
[A dance of huntsmen and huntresses. case, That no care from abroad my retirement annoys, That at home I car. taste the true family joys,
RECITATIVE. That my kids wanton safely o'er meadows and Peace, shepherds, peace, with jocund air, rocks,
Which speaks a heart unknown to care, That my sheep graze secure from the robber or Young Delia hastes. The glad surprise
Of rapture flashing from her eyes. These are blessings I share with the rest of the swains,
Enter Delia, For it's Thyrsis who gave them, and Thyrsis
Shepherds, shepherds, come away;
Sadness were a sin to day.
Let the pipe's merry notes aid the skill of the Thy duty to our guardian's name!
voice; His active talents I revere,
For our wishes are crown'd, and our hearts shall But eye them with a jealous fear.
rejoice. Intent to form our bliss alone,
Rejoice, and be glad; The generous youth forgets his own;
For sure he is mad Nor e'er his busy mind employs
Who, where mirth and good humour, and harTo find a partner of his joys.
mony's found, So mi:ht his happy offspring own
Never catches the smile, nor lets pleasure go The.virtue which their sire hath shown,
Let the stupid be grave,
'Tis the vice of the slave; With joy the parent loves to trace
But can never agree Resemblance in his children's face:
With a maiden like me, And as he forms their docile youth
Who is born in a country that's happy and free. To walk the steady paths of truth,
DAMÆTAS, Observes them shooting into men,
RECITATIVE. And lives in them life o'er again.
What means this rapture, Delia ? Show While active sons, with eager flame,
Th' event our bosoms burn to know.
Now as I trod yon verdant side,
Where Ladon rolls its silver tide, Calls to new life the honour'd sire,
All gayly deck'd in gorgeous state,
Sail'd a proud barge of richest freight:
Where sat a nymph, more fresh and fair
Than blossoms which the morning air
Steals perfume from; the modest grace Of thoughtless youth. With thee I feel,
Of maiden blush bespread her face. The glories now Arcadia shares
Hither it made, and on this strand May but embitter future cares.
Pour'd its rich freight for shepherds' land, Oh mighty Pan! attend Arcadia's voice, Ladon, for this, smooth flow thy tide! Inspire, direct, and sanctify his choice.
The precious freight was Thyrsis' bride.
Though I have mentioned Prior's name,
'Tis the result of admiration Stop, shepherds, if aright I hear,
To spend itself in imitation;
If imitation may be said,
Avri you have better proofs than these,
That I'm idolater of case.
Who, but a madman, would engage
Imitatores, servum pecus.
Tale, elegy, or lofty ode,
The proverb still sticks closely by us,
Nil dictum, quod non dictum prius. View this swain and virgin fair;
The only comfort that I know May they ever thus impart
Is, that 't was said an age ago, Just return of heart for heart.
Ere Milton soard in thought sublime, May the pledges of their bliss
Ere Pope refind the chink of rhyme, Climb their knees to share the kiss.
Ere Colman wrote in style so pure, May their steady blooming youth,
Or the great Two the Connoisseur; While they tread the paths of truth,
Ere I burlesqu'd the rural cit, Virtues catch from either side,
Proud to hedge in my scraps of wit, From the bridegroom and the bride.
And happy in the close connection,
T'acquire some name from their reflection;
So (the similitude is trite)
The Moon still shines with borrow'd light, While they tread the paths of truth,
And, like the race of modern beaux, Virtues catch from either side,
Ticks with the Sun for her lac'd clothes.
Methinks there is no better time
Was always fond of couplet-sinning,
Thus lay my bantling at your door.
The first advantage which I see, You know, dear George, I'n+ none of those Is, that I ramble loose and free: That condescend to write in prose;
The bard indeed full oft complains, Inspir'd with pathos and sublime,
That rhymes are fetters, links, and chains, I always soar-in doggrel rhyme,
And when he wants to leap the fence, And scarce can ask you how you do,
Still keep him pris'ner to the sense. Without a jingling line or two.
Howe'er in common-place he rage, Besides, I always took delight in
Rhyme's like your fetters on the stage, Wbat bears the name of easy writing:
Which when the player once hath wore, Perhaps the reason makes it please
It makes him only strut the more, Is, that I find it's writ with ease.
While, raving in pathetic strains, I vent a notion here in private,
He shakes his legs to clank his chains. Which public taste can ne'er connive at,
From rhyme, as from a handsome face, Which thinks no wit or judgment greater
Nonsense acquires a kind of grace; Than Addison and bis Spectator,
I therefore give it all its scope, Who says (it is no matter where,
That sense may unperceiv'd elope: But that he says it, I can swear)
So ministers of basest tricks With easy verse most bards are smitten,
(I love a fling at politics) Because they think it's easy written; Whereas the easier it appears,
Amuse the nation, court, and king, The greater marks of care it wears;
With breaking Fowke, and hanging Byng;
And make each puny rogue a prey,
While they, the greater, slink away.
This simile perhaps would strike,
If match'd with something more alike;
Then take it dress'd a second time
In Prior's ease, and my sublime.
Say, did you never chance to meet In short, be labour'd to write easy.
A mob of people in the street, And yet no critic e'er defines
Ready to give the robb’d relief,
And all in haste to catch a thief,
While the sly rogue, who filch'd the prey,
Too close beset to run away,
“ Stop thief! stop thief!" exclaims aloud, The better fit, the more they're tried.
And so escapes among the crowd?
O England, how I mourn thy fate!
Suppose we said, by Mr. Lloyd?
The very thing I would avoid;
And would be rather pleas'd to own Will die the censor, Mr. Town!
Myself unknowing, and unknown: He dies, whoe'er takes pains to con him,
What could th' unknowing Muse expect, With blushing honours thick upon himn;
But information or neglect? O may his name these verses save,
Unknown-perhaps her reputation Be these inscrib'd upon his grave!
Escapes the tax of defamation, Know, reader, that on Thursday died
And wrapt in darkness, laughs unhurt, The Connoisseur, a suicide!
While critic blockheads throw their dirt: Yet think not that his soul is fled,
But he who madly prints his name, Nor rank him 'mongst the vulgar dead.
Invites his foe to take sure aim. Howe'er defunct you set him down,
True-but a name will always bring
Their censure cannot hurt you much;
And, take the matter ne'er so ill,
If you don't print it, sir, they will.
Nay,—this shall prove one spur the more.
Pleas'd if success attends, if not,
I've writ my name,
and made a blot. MUSEUM, sir! that's not enough.
But a good print.
The print? why there The tavern or the alebouse door,
I trust to honest Leach's' care. Hitch every passer's observation,
What is't to me? in verse or prose, Maznetic in their invitation.
I find the stuff, you make the clothes : -That Shakspeare is prodigious fine!
Add paper, print, and all such dress, Shall we step in, and taste the wine?
Will lose no credit from his press.
You quite mistake the thing I mean,
-I'll fetch you, sir, a magazine;
You see that picture there—the queen.
A dedication to her too!
What will not folly dare to do?
O days of art! when happy skill
Can raise a likeness whence it will;
When portraits ask no Reynolds' aid,
And queens and kings are ready made.
No, no, my friend, by helps like these, One pame's as good as half a score.
I cannot wish my work should please; And titles oft give nothing less
No pictures taken from the life, Than what they staringly profess.
Where all proportions are at strife; Puffing, 1 grant, is all the mode;
No bumming-bird, no painted flower, The common hackney turnpike road:
No beast just landed in the Tower, But custom is the blockhead's guide,
No wooden notes, no colour'd map, And such low arts disgust my pride.
No country-dance shall stop a gap; Success on merit's force depends,
O Pbilomath, be not severe, Not on the partial voice of friends;
If not one problem meets you here;
Where gossip A, and neighbour B,
Pair, like good friends with C and D;
And E F G H I K join; And wrings conviction from a foe.
And curve and incidental line Deserve success, and proudiy claim,
Fall out, fall in, and cross each other,
Just like a sister and a brother.
Ye tiny poets, tiny wits,
Who frisk about on tiny tits,
1 Dryden Leach, a printer of note at that Says, there's no harm in some parade.
Who words disjoin, and sweetly sing,
Where such, who think it no disgrace, Take one third part, and take the thing;
To send in time, and take a place, Then close the joints again, to frame
The book-keeper shall minute down,
And I with pleasure drive to town.
Ay, tell them that, sir, and then say, Great letters lacing down each line;
What letters come in every day; No strange conundrum, no invention
Aud what great wits your care procures,
To join their social hands with yours.
What! must I huge proposals print, Of simple taste, and common sense.
Merely to drop some saucy hint,
That real folks of real fame
Will give their works, and not their name?
- This puff's of use, you say—why let it, Some real grace and proper use?
We'll boast such friendship when we get it.
Get it! Ay, sir, you do but jest,
You'll have assistance, and the best.
There's Churchill—will not Churchill lend What need of foppery to be neat?
Surely—to his friend.
And then your interest might procure But one word more, and I have done
Something from either Connoisseur.
Colman and Thornton, both will join
Their social hand to strengthen thine:
And when your name appears in print,
Will Garrick never drop a hint?
True, I've indulg'd such hopes before,
From those you name, and many more; But what, alas! will that avail,
And they, perhaps, again will join Beyond the property of sale ?
Their hand, if not asbam'd of mine.
Bold is the task we undertake,
The friends we wish, the work must make:
For wits, like adjectives, are known And drag a miserable being,
To cling to that which stands alone. Its end still fearing and foreseeing.
BOOKSELLER. Oh! may the flame of genius blaze,
Perhaps, too, in our way of trade, Enkindled with the breath of praise !
We might procure some useful aid: But far be ev'ry fruitless puff,
Could we engage some able pen, To blow to light a dying snuff.
To furnish matter now and then;
There's what's his name, sir? would compile, BOOKSELLER.
And methodize the news in style.
Take back your newsman whence he came, What infinite variety,
Carry your crutches to the lame. Multum in parvo, as they say,
You must enrich your book, indeed!
Bare merit never will succeed;
Which readers are not now a-days, Not on myself, so much as friends.
By half so apt to buy, as praise; I but set up a new machine,
And praise is hardly worth pursuing,
Which tickles authors to their ruin.
And there's a fashion in success.
To head the troops that lie conceald?