CHORUS.

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
A brighter order of increasing years.

Portion'd out by dreaming fools.
MARS.
I see the Rhine devolve his food

Shepherds, buxom, blithe and free,
Deep-crimson’d with the Gallic blood!

Now's the time for jollity. I hear, I hear the distant roar

[A dance of shepherds, 8c. Of ruin on yon hostile shore!

SYLVIA.
I see, young prince, to thee I see
The savage Indian bend the knee!

RECITATIVE.
Lo! Afric from her sable kings

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;
Lays down her arms, and venerates thy sway. Thyrsis shall make it holiday.

Who at his name can joy suppress?
CALLIOPE,

Arcadian-born to rule and bless.
I see Bellona banish'd far!

DAMON.
I see him close the gates of War.
While purple Rage within

And hark! from rock to rock the sound
With ghastly ire shall grin,

Of winding horn, and de b-mouth'd hound,
And rolling his territic eyes,

Breaking with rapture on the ear,
Where round him heaps of arms arise, Proclaims the blithesome Phoebe near:
Bound with a hundred brazen chains,

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.
Q'er Albion's sons

PHOEBE.
She waves her dove-like wings;
Ou ev'ry plain

Hither I speed with honest glee,
The shepherd train

Such as befits the mind that's free;
Their artless loves shall sing.

Your cheerful troop, blithe youth to join,
Pale Discord shall fly

And mix my social joys with thine.
From the light of the sky,

Now may each nymph, and frolic swain,
To black Cocytus hurl'd;

O’er mountain steep, or level plain,
There, there shall feel

Court buxom Health, while jocund horn
Ixion's wheel,

Bids Echo wake the sluggard Morn,
The Furies with their serpents curl'd;

AIR.
With the unceasing toil sball

groan

When the Morning peeps forth, and the Zephyr's Of the unconquerable stone,

cool gale,

(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,

(face:

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.

DAMÆTAS,

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.

APOLLO.

AIR.

AIR.

DAMÆTAS,

fox;

SYLVIA.
Though the white locks of silver'd age,

So may all thy sylvan train,
And long experience hail thee sage;

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
DAMÆTAS.

They sport it o'er the shaven ground!
With you I joy that Thyrsis reigns
The guardian o'er his native plains:

Though thy Syrinx, like a dream,
But praise is scanty to reveal

Flying at the face of day, The speaking blessings all must feel.

Vanish'd in the limpid stream,

Bearing all thy hopes away,
DAMON.

If again thy heart should burn,
True, all must feel-but thankless too?

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.
The debt I need not blush to owe.

CHORUS.
AIR.

O mighty Pan! attend Arcadia's voice,
That I go where I list, that I sing what I please, Inspire, direct, and sanctify his choice.
That my labour's the price of contentment and

[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

DELIA. maintains.

AIR.
DAMÆTAS.

Shepherds, shepherds, come away;
RECITATIVE.

Sadness were a sin to day.
Perish my voice, if e'er I blame

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,

round.

Let the stupid be grave,
AIR.

'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.
Catch virtue at their father's name;

DELIA,
When full of glory, full of age,
The parent quits this busy stage,

Now as I trod yon verdant side,
What in the sons we most admire,

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:
SYLVIA.

Where sat a nymph, more fresh and fair
RECITATIVE.

Than blossoms which the morning air
O prudent sage, forgive the zeal

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.

RECITATIVE.

1

PRIEST

RECITATIVE.

!

DAMÆTAS.

Though I have mentioned Prior's name,
Think not I aim at Prior's fame.

'Tis the result of admiration Stop, shepherds, if aright I hear,

To spend itself in imitation;
The sounds of joy proclaim them near :

If imitation may be said,
Let's meet them, friends, I'll lead the way; Which is in me by nature bred,
Joy makes me young again to day.

Avri you have better proofs than these,

That I'm idolater of case.
SCENE III.

Who, but a madman, would engage
A view of the sea, with a vessel at a distance. A poet in the present age?
[Here follows a pastoral procession to the wedding Write what we will, our works bespeak us

Imitatores, servum pecus.
of Thyrsis.)

Tale, elegy, or lofty ode,
We travel in the beaten road:

The proverb still sticks closely by us,
Mighty Pan! with tender care,

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;
CHORUS.

So (the similitude is trite)
May their steady blooming youth,

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.
From the bridegroom and the bride.

Methinks there is no better time
To show the use I make of rhyme,
Than now, when I, who from beginning

Was always fond of couplet-sinning,
AN EPISTLE TO MR. COLMAN. Presuming on good-nature's score,
WRITTEN IN THE YEAR 1756.

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,
Of which, to give an explanation,

While they, the greater, slink away.
Take this by way of illustration:
The fam'd Mat. Prior, it is said,

This simile perhaps would strike,

If match'd with something more alike;
Oft bit his nails, and scratch'd his head,

Then take it dress'd a second time
And chang'd a thought a hundred times,
Because he did not like the rhymes.

In Prior's ease, and my sublime.
To make my meaning clear, and please ye,

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,
His poems into labour'd lines.
I have a simile will hit him;

While the sly rogue, who filch'd the prey,

Too close beset to run away,
His like clothes, was made to fit him,
Which (as no taylor e'er denied)

“ Stop thief! stop thief!" exclaims aloud, The better fit, the more they're tried.

And so escapes among the crowd?
So ministers, &c.

verse,

O England, how I mourn thy fate!

Suppose we said, by Mr. Lloyd?
For sure thy losses now are great;

AUTHOR.
Two such, what Briton can endure,
Minorca and the Connoisseur!

The very thing I would avoid;
To day, before the sun goes down,

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,

BOOKSELLER.
He's only going out of Town.

True-but a name will always bring
A better sanction to the thing:
And all your scribbling fves are such,

Their censure cannot hurt you much;
THE PUFF.

And, take the matter ne'er so ill,

If you don't print it, sir, they will.
A DIALOGUE BETWEEN THE BOOKSELLER AND
AUTHOR.

AUTHOR.
PREFIXED TO TAE ST. JAMES'S MAGAZINE, Well, be it so that struggle's o'er
SEPTEMBER, 1762.

Nay,—this shall prove one spur the more.

Pleas'd if success attends, if not,
BOOKSELLER.

I've writ my name,

and made a blot. MUSEUM, sir! that's not enough.

BOOKSELLER.
New works, we know, require a puff;

But a good print.
A title to entrap the eyes,
And catch the reader by surprise:

AUTHOR.
As gaudy signs, which hang before

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.
Man, women, houses, horses, books,

BOOKSELLER.
All borrow credit from their looks,
Extrrnals haye the gift of striking,

You quite mistake the thing I mean,
And lure the fancy into liking.

-I'll fetch you, sir, a magazine;

You see that picture there—the queen.
AUTHOR.

AUTHOR.
Oh! I perceive the thing you mean-
Call it St. James's Magazine.

A dedication to her too!

What will not folly dare to do?
BOOKSELLER.

O days of art! when happy skill
Or the New British

Can raise a likeness whence it will;
AUTHOR.

When portraits ask no Reynolds' aid,
Oh! no more.

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;
Not on the seems, that bully sin;

Where gossip A, and neighbour B,
But that which passeth show within:
Which bids the warmth of friendship glow,

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,
Not steal a passage into fame.

Just like a sister and a brother.
BOOKSELLER.

Ye tiny poets, tiny wits,
Your method, sir, will never do;

Who frisk about on tiny tits,
You're right in theory, it's true.
But then, experience in our trade

1 Dryden Leach, a printer of note at that Says, there's no harm in some parade.

BOOKSELLER.

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,
Some lady's or some city's name,

And I with pleasure drive to town.
Enjoy your own, your proper Phoebus;
We neither make, nor print a rebus.

BOOKSELLER.
No crambo, no acrostic fine,

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,
Beyond the reach of comprehension,

To join their social hands with yours.
No riddle, which whoe'er unties,
Claims twelve Museums for the prize,

AUTHOR.
Shall strive to please you, at th' expense

What! must I huge proposals print, Of simple taste, and common sense.

Merely to drop some saucy hint,

That real folks of real fame
BOOKSELLER.

Will give their works, and not their name?
But would not ornament produce

- 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.
A frontispiece would have its weight,
Neatly engrav'd on copper-plate.

BOOKSELLER.

Get it! Ay, sir, you do but jest,
AUTHOR.

You'll have assistance, and the best.
Plain letter-press shall do the feat,

There's Churchill—will not Churchill lend What need of foppery to be neat?

Assistance?
The paste-board Guard delights me more,

AUTHOR.
That stands to watch a bun-house door?,
Than such a mockery of grace,

Surely—to his friend.
And ornament so out of place.

BOOKSELLER.

And then your interest might procure But one word more, and I have done

Something from either Connoisseur.

Colman and Thornton, both will join
A patent might ensure its run.

Their social hand to strengthen thine:
AUTHOR.

And when your name appears in print,

Will Garrick never drop a hint?
Patent! for what! can patents give
A genius? or make blockheads live?

AUTHOR.
If so, O hail the glorious plan!
And buy it at what price you can.

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.
À property of little worth,

Bold is the task we undertake,
If weak our produce at its birth.
For fame, for honest fame we strive,

The friends we wish, the work must make:
But not to struggle half alive,

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.
But should not something, sir, be said,

AUTHOR.
Particular on ev'ry head?
What yovr originals will be,

Take back your newsman whence he came, What infinite variety,

Carry your crutches to the lame. Multum in parvo, as they say,

BOOKSELLER.
And something neat in every way?

You must enrich your book, indeed!
AUTHOR.

Bare merit never will succeed;
I wish there could but that depends

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,
With harness tight, and furnish'd clean;

Which tickles authors to their ruin.
Books shift about like ladies' dress,

And there's a fashion in success.
This paste-board Guard might have been seen, But could not we, like little Bayes,
until within these few years, at various bun-houses Armies imaginary raise?
and tea-gardens in the vicinity of the metropolis. And bid our generals take the field,

C.

To head the troops that lie conceald?