My pride forbids it ever should be said
My heels eclipsed the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a piebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.
Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns, thy mirth;
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursued!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities.
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?
May rosin'd lightning blast me if I do!
No-I will act-I'll vindicate the stage:
Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns:
The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins.
Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme,-

[Takes off his mask.

[a dream."

"Give me another horse! bind up my wounds!-soft-'twas but

Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating,

If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.

'Twas thus that sop's stag, a creature blameless,

Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless,

Once on the margin of a fountain stood,

And cavill'd at his image in the flood.

"The deuce confound," he cries, "these drumstick shanks,

They never have my gratitude nor thanks;

They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead;

But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head :

How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow!
My horns! I'm told horns are the fashion now."
Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to his view,
Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew;
Hoicks! hark forward! came thundering from behind,
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind:
He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze:
At length, his silly head, so prized before,
Is taught his former folly to deplore;
Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,
And at one bound he saves himself-like me.

[Taking a jump through the stage door.

Who never wanted a good word-
From those who spoke her praise.

The needy seldom pass'd her door,
And always found her kind;
She freely lent to all the poor-
Who left a pledge behind.

She strove the neighbourhood to please
With manners wond'rous winning;
And never follow'd wicked ways-
Unless when she was sinning.

At church, in silks and satins new,
With hoop of monstrous size,
She never slumber'd in her pew-
But when she shut her eyes.

Her love was sought, I do aver,
By twenty beaux and more;
The king himself has follow'd her—
When she has walk'd before.

But now, her wealth and finery fled,
Her hangers-on cut short all;

The doctors found, when she was dead

Her last disorder mortal.

Let us lament in sorrow sore,

For Kent Street well may say,

That had she liv'd a twelvemonth more-
She had not died to-day.

EPIGRAM,

ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING.

SURE 't was by Providence design'd,
Rather in pity than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.

EPILOGUE

TO "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER."

SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY, IN THE CHARACTER OF MISS HARDCASTLE.

WELL, having stoop'd to conquer with success,
And gain'd a husband without aid from dress,
Still, as a bar-maid, I could wish it too,
As I have conquer'd him to conquer you:
And let me say, for all your resolution,
That pretty bar-maids have done execution.
Our life is all a play,
play, composed to please;
"We have our exits and our entrances."

The first act shows the simple country maid,
Harmless and young, of everything afraid;
Blushes when hired, and, with unmeaning action,
"I hopes as how to give you satisfaction.
Her second act displays a livelier scene,-
The unblushing bar-maid of a country inn,
Who whisks about the house, at market caters,

Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scold's the waiters.
Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars,
The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs :
On 'squires and cits she there displays her arts,
And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts;
And, as she smiles, her triumphs to complete,
E'en common-councilmen forget to eat.
The fourth act shows her wedded to the 'squire,
And madam now begins to hold it higher;
Pretends to taste, at operas cries caro!

And quits her Nancy Dawson for Che Faro:
Doats upon dancing, and, in all her pride,

Swims round the room, the Heinelle of Cheapside:
Ogles and leers with artificial skill,

Till, having lost in age the power to kill,

She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille.
Such through our lives the eventful history-
The fifth and last act still remains for me:
The bar-maid now for your protection prays,
Turns female barrister, and pleads for bays.

EPILOGUE

TO "THE GOOD-NATURED MAN."

SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY,

As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure; Thus, on the stage, our play-wrights still depend For epilogues and prologues on some friend, Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, And make full many a bitter pill go down : Conscious of this, our bard has gone about, And teased each rhyming friend to help him out. An epilogue! things can't go on without it; It could not fail, would you but set about it : "Young man," cries one, (a bard laid up in clover,) Alas! young man, my writing days are over; Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I; Your brother doctor there, perhaps, may try," What I dear Sir," the doctor interposes; "What, plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses! No, no, I've other contests to maintain; To-night I heard our troops at Warwick-lane. Go ask your manager "—" Who, me! Your pardon, Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden." Our author's friends, thus placed at happy distance, Give him good words, indeed, but no assistance. As some unhappy wight, at some new play, At the pit door stands elbowing a way, While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug; His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes, Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise: He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace; But not a soul will budge to give him place. Since, then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform "To 'bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,' Blame where you must, be candid where you can, And be each critic the Good-natured Man.