WRITTEN BY JOHN TAYLOR, ESQ.

SPOKEN BY MR. HOLMAN.

IN these dread times, when War's unfated rage
Crowds with difafters life's eventful stage,
When the full trumpet and embattled ire
Drown the soft warblings of the flighted Lyre,
The Mufes' lonely haunts no more display,
Among their with'ring blooms, the Poet's bay;
The partial foil, The Laurel only rears,
For martial wreaths, that vegetate in tears.
At fuch a time, fuperfluous feems the art,
To melt with fabled woes the sadden'd heart;
The forrowing Mufes need themfelves relief,
And Fancy droops in fympathetic grief.
The Tragic Maid, indeed, may footh her care,
And future scenes from paffing ills prepare;
But for the Laughing Nymph, alas! can fhe
At ease prefume with her untimely glee!
Is there a place, amidst the world's alarms,
In fafety ftill to heed her frolic charms?
Yes-in the fhades of Britain's happy Isle,
Still may the Comic Mufe fecurely fmile;
Still with her tuneful Sifters fhelter here,
Nor favage Anarchy's vain menace fear!
Here no dire ruffians, dead to gen'rous joy,
All that endears and brightens life destroy;

Or, drench'd in blood, with impious rage combine,
Trampling o'er Thrones, to crush the Hallow'd Shrine!
No Defpot here exacts a flavish awe,

The cafual impulfe of his paffions law.
Here on a rock, secure amid the storm,
Dwells Liberty, in fair monarchic form.

Around

Around her fane, with venerable grace,
Three matchless columns, fortify the place.
Enthron'd within, pre-eminently great,
Sits awful Juftice, in majestic state,
Of equal laws the animated foul,

And ftation'd highest, to survey the whole;
Her Sword by Mercy check'd, as urg'd by Might,
Her Crown the fanction of a people's right.

DRAMATIS

1.

THE

WORLD IN A VILLAGE,

ACT I

SCENE I.

A Room in JOLLYBOY'S Houfe.

MARGERY difcovered adjusting the furniture and finging.

Enter JOLLYBOY.

AH, dame! fo that Mifs Louifa's room is dizen'd out, all the rest of the houfe may go at fixes and fevens.

Marg. Hufband! How crufty you've got with our lodger Mifs Louifa, only because fhe's a lady, and you think he has a deal of money.

Foll. Why, to be fure her money did not do much mischief when it bought warm cloathing for half the poor of our village, and the fetting up a little school and paying you for teaching the children, as our rafcally rich folks here refufed to establish one; our gentry expect forfooth, 'cause I'm a miller, I must cringe and fneak; but I'll never bow to the

VOL. IV.

golden