VIII.

As yet the young Willy knows nought of my fame, [blame And should I difclofe it, my conduct you'll Then altho' my fond paffion is free from all ill.

In filence I'll figh for the Youth of the Mill. PASTORELLA.

ODE for the NEW YEAR, JAN. 1, 1780. Performed before their Majefties and the Royal Family at St. James's, written by PAUL WHITEHEAD, Eg; Poet Laureat, and fet to Mufick by Mr. STANLEY, Master of the King's Band of Muficians.

A

ND dares infulting France pretend

To grafp the Trident of the Man, And hope th' aftonish'd world fhould bend To the mock pageantry affum'd in vain ? What, tho' her feets the billows load, What, tho' her mimic thunders roar, She bears the enligns of the God, But not his delegated power.

Ev'n from the birth of time 'twas Heav'n's decree,

The Queen of Ifles should reign sole Emprefs of the Sea.

United Bourbon's giant pride Strains every nerve, each effort tries, With all, but Justice on its fide, That Strength can give, or Perfidy devise. Dread they not him who rules the sky,

Whofe nod directs the whirlwind's speed, Who bares his red right arm on high,

For vengeance on the perjur'd head,
Th' Almighty Power, by whofe auguit decree
The Queen of lfles alone is Sov'reign of the
Sea?

Vain-glorious France! deluded Spain !
Whom ev'n Experience warns in vain,
Is there a fea, that dathing pours

PROLOGUE # FATAL FALSEHOOD.

A Tragedy, by the Author of PERCY.

Written by the AUTH02, Spoken by Mr. HULL

UR modern poets fearce know how to chute

OCR

A fubject worthy of the Tragic Mufe;
For bards fo well have glean'd th' hiftoric field,
That scarce one facaí th' exhausted anciepti
yield;

And thefe, our timid author leaves to men,
For claffic themes demand a claffic pen :
Yet ftill the wilds of fiction open lie,
A flow'ry profpeft, and a boundless sky:
But hard the talk the fober path to chufe,
And wand'ring fancy's treacherous baits refuse.
-She dares not touch the drama's nobler
firings,

The fate of nations, and the fall of kings;
The humbler scenes of private life the fhews,
A fimple fiory of domestic woes.

The weight of crowns, a kingdom's weal of

woe,

How few can judge, because how few can know!
But here you all may boast the critic's art,
Here all are judges-who poffefs a heart.
To govern empires is the lot of few,
But all who live have paffions to fubdue;
And even by patriots let it be confefs'd,
Thefe rebel fubjects ought to be fupprefs'd,
Thefe ravagers which spoil the human breaft.
Oh! deign to learn this obvious leffon here!
The verfe is feeble, but the moral clear.
Your candour once endur'd our author's lays;
Endure them now-that will be ample praise.

Is there a promontory's brow

That Does not Britain's vait atchievements know?

Afk Bifcay's rolling flood,
Afk the proud Celtic fleep,
How oft het navies rode
Triumphant o'er the deep?

Afk Lagos' fummits that beheld your fate, Alk Calpe's jutting front, fair caute of endless hate,

Yet, midft the loudeft blafts of fame,
When moft th' admiring nations gaze,
What to herself does Britain claim?

Not to herfelt the gives the praife,
But low in duft her heed the bows,
And proftrate pays her grateful vows
To him, th' Almighty Pow't, by whofe de-

I'll make a ghost of him who bars my way. {Bebind the scenet.

Forth let me come-a poetafter true,

As lean as Envy, and as baneful too :
On the dull audience let me vent my rage,
Or drive these female scriblers from the stage:
For fcene or hiftory, we've none but these,
The law of liberty and wit they seize,
tragic-comic-pastoral-hey dare to

In

please.

Each puny bard must furely burst with spite,
To find that women with fuch fame can write:
But, oh! your partial favour is the caufe,
Who feed their follies with fuch full applav?:
Yet ftill our tribe shall seek to blast their fame,
And ridicule each fair pretender's aim ;
Where the dull duties of domestic life
Wage with the Mufe's toils eternal sitife.

while maids and metaphors conspire to vex! What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex,

Your candour trusting, as he knows your fkill, Tho' hope and fear his breast alternate fill; Wet, Hope, fuperior, whispers in his earThe most judicious-are the least severe.

EPILOGUE,

By the AUTHOR of the Piece.

Spoken by Mrs. YATES.

ELL, thank my stars! no more an

W Eastern bride,

With joy I lay my pageantry afide,
And come, my fex's advocate, to claim
The figh of pity for each Asian dame.
Secure, and blest, in this aufpicious isle
Ye little think, in Afia's fultry foil,
Ye favour'd fair! to what a wretched state
Woman is doom'd by unrelenting fate;
Give me your ear then, while I lay before ye,
Our different lot, in plain and artless story:
For cuffom here, whofe magie fetters bind,
In every clime, the fubjugated mind,
The wrongs of beauty amply has redrefs'd,
And fix'd her empire in each willing breast.
Tho' thro' the East proud man, with lawless
fway,

Defpotic rules, while woman must obey,
Reverse the medal, and we here can fhew
More abject vafsals in each captive beau.
'Tis true, in Turkey, each three-tail'd Bashaw
Can keep a dozen mistresses in awe ;
But in our ifle a dozen Lords will find
'Tis past their pow'r to keep one true, or
kind.

With them 'tis held, our fex no foul inherit,
But British women are all foul and spirit,
Ufurp the boldness of the manly air,
Look fierce, laugh loud, affume the ftrut, the

ftare;

While effenc'd coxcombs, with unblufhing

face,

Affect the foftness of the female grace:
We cannot fight indeed, I own, but then
No more can thefe half femblances of men.
What, tho' in Afia each unhappy fair
Denied the birthright of her fex to share,
Wedded, or fingle, is a glave for life,
The palm is ours, while every modifh wife
Can laugh in England at all tyes defign'd,
In fweet reftraint, to hold the enamour'd
mind,

And rove at will, unfettered as the wind.
Let lynx-eyed Jealoufy there ceaseless wake
To trap the fair, if one falfe flep she make,
With us, thank heav's! its tyranny is o'er,
We may provide us lovers by the score;
Or if, perchance, we fail to gain our ends,
Our husbands will fupply us from their friends.
But fhould our spouse prove cruel, or the
fashion

Demand th' indulgence of a fecond paffion,
The Commons foon can rid us of a pain,
Sign our divorce, and make us maids again.

But jeft apart, tho' custom here has giv ́n
Our sex fuch pow'r as keeps the balance ev'n
One honeft truth I boldly will maintain,
And may the glory ever yours remain.
If it alone in Britain can be faid,
Such gen'rous homage to our fex is paid,
As manly dignity with pride may give,
Or free-born dames with honour can receive,
Envy herself, reluctantly must own
Whate'er our foibles, no where can be shewn
More beauty, virtue, modesty, or sense,
To merit and adorn pre-eminence.

May then that pow'r which, arm'd in Mercy's caufe,

Ever enfures obedience to its laws,

Be kindly now exerted to befriend
The Poet's labours, and his fame defend.
Our Bard, I know, will deem your fav'ring
fmile

An ample retribution for his toil,

Let but his orphan find a guardian here,
And tho' an alien, she has nought to fear;
ZORAIDA, once adopted for your own,
May scorn the fplendor of an eaftern throne.