ERE they are ladies! Should these charming packs
Be doubly loaded with a filthy tax?

HBR

My card to your's, my lord, a thousand pound;"

Oh! charming fport!-Oh! might I deal 'em round?
Yet will I use 'em, and, Oh! deign to lift,
Tho' 'tis no lecture on the game of whift.

The future doom of gamelters to explore
I, like the Sibyl's leaves, the cards turn o'er;
Nor think, ye fair, these books of fate deceive;
Thefe only books 'tis modifh to believe.

First with long staff, short coat, a fwagg'ring fpark,
Some gambler, prentice, or attorney's clerk,
His fortune afks-What card defcribes thefe cubs ?
Oh! here I have him in the knave of clubs.
By clear construction of these pips I read,
Thus he will play his cards, and thus facceed :
At hazard, faro, brag, he joins the groupe,
And ends a knave, as he commenc'd a dupe.
And thence, his broken fortunes to repair,
At Hounslow first, then Tyburn, takes the air.
Here, in the king of diamonds, pictur'd stands
An heir, just warm in his dead father's lands.
Now hey for cards and dice, his elbows hake;
The fympathizing trees and acres quake!
His cooks lament, dogs howl, and grooms regret.
Their fate depending on each defperate bett.
Now dup'd, the bullet whizzes thro' his head,
And shatters duft to duft, by lead to lead.

Lo! next to my prophetic eye there starts
A beauteous gamefter, in the queen of hearts!
The cards are dealt, the fatal pool is lost,
And all her golden hopes for ever croft.
VOL. X.

་

Yet ftill this card devoted fair I view,
Whate'er her luck, to Honour ever true.
So tender there, if debts crowd faft upon her,
She'll pawn her Virtue-to preserve her Honour.
Thrice happy were my art, could I foretell,
Cards would be soon abjur'd by each fond belle :
Yet I pronounce, who cherish ftill this vice,
And the pale vigils keep of cards and dice,

'Twill in their charms ftrange havock make, ye fair!
Which rouge in vain fhall labour to repair:

Beauties fhall grow mere hags; toafts wither'd jades ;
Frightful, and ugly, as the Queen of Spades.

PROLOGUE

To a PEEP BEHIND THE CURTAIN

Or, THE NEW REHEARSAL.

OLD is the man, and compos mentis fcarce

B Who, in thefe nicer times, dares write a farce;

A vulgar, long-forgotten tafte renew;

All now are comedies, five acts, or two.
Authors have ever in a canting ftrain,

Begg'd mercy for the bantlings of their brain:

That you, kind nurfe, wou'd fondle 't on your lap,
And rear it with applaufe, that best of pap-
Thus babes have in their cradles 'fcap'd a blow,
Tho' lame and rickety from top to toe :

Our bard, with prologue-outworks has not fenc'd him,
For all that I fhall fay, will make against him.
Imprimis, this his piece-a Farce we call it
Ergo 'tis low-and ten to one you maul it!
Wou'd you, becaufe tis low, no quarter give?
Blackguards as well as gentlemen, fhou'd live;
'Tis downright English too-Nothing from France,
Except fome beafts, which treat you with a dance.
With a burletta too we shall present you.
And, not Italian-that will difcontent you.
Nay, what is worse--you'll fee it, and must know it
I Thomas King, of King-freet, am the poet :
The murder's out- -the murderer, detected,
May in one night, be try'd, condemn'd, diffected.
'Tis faid, for fcandal's tongue will never ceafé ;
That mifchief's meant against our little piece:
Let me look round, I'll tell you how the cafe is
There's not one frown a fingle brow disgraces;
1 never faw a fweeter fet of faces!

}

Suppofe

Suppofe Old Nick, before you righteous folk,
Produce a farce, brimfull of mirth and joke;
Tho' he, at other times, wou'd fire your blood;
You'd clap his piece, and fwear, 'twas devilish good!
Malice propenfe! 'tis falfe! it cannot be

Light is my heart, from apprehenfions free

-

If you would fave Old Nick, you'll never damn poor me.

A

EPILOGUE.

LL fable is figure-I your bard will maintain it,
And leaft you don't know it, 'tis fit I explain it :
The Lyre of our Orpheus, means your approbation;
Which frees the poor poet from care and vexation :
Shou'd want make his mistrefs too keen to difpute,
Your fmiles fill his pockets and Madam is mute :
Shou'd his wife, that's himfelf, for they two, are but one;
Be in hell, that's in debt, and the money all gone;
Your favour brings comfort, at once cures the evil,
For 'fcaping bumbailiffs, is 'fcaping the devil.
Nay, Cerberus Critics their fury will drop,

For fuch barking monfters, your fmiles are a fop:
But how to explain what you most will require,

}

That Cows, Sheep, and Calves, fhou'd dance after the lyre,
Without your kind favour, how fcanty each meal!

But with it comes dancing, Beef, Mutton, and Veal.
For fing it, or fay it, this truth we all fee,
Your applause will be ever the true Beaume de Vie.

PROLOGUE to the New Comedy of The WIDOW'D WIFE.

T

Spoken by Mr. HOLLAND.

O gain the public ear, the man of rhimes
Should always fpeak the language of the times

And little else hath been of late in hearing,
Than terms and phrafes of electioneering.
Our author therefore fends me to affure ye,

Worthy, and free electors of old Drury,
How happy he fhould prove, if it content you,
That he be one of thofe who reprefent you;
The state poetic, laws and legiflature,
Like the political, in form and nature;
Phoebus, the nine, and bards of reputation,

King, peerage, commons, of the fcribbling nation.

Nów,

Now, from Parnaffus' throne, the prinee of wit,
It seems, hath iffued out his royal writ
For a new member-no offence to give
To a late worthy reprefentative;

Who, ris'n to favour, hath from us retreated,
And 'midft the lords of t'other house is feated-
His fervice loft, prefuming you may need him,
The prefent candidate would fain fucceed him.
Not that he vainly boafts, on this occafion,
He met encouragement from your perfuafion;
Or that both friends, who love, and foes, who hate him,
Have been unanimous to nominate him.

'Tis for this loyal borough, his affection
And patriot zeal, that make him risk th' election:
To his conftituents fubject to controul,

With whofe good leave he means to ftand the poll;
Trufting secure to their impartial choice,
The town uncanvass'd for a single voice :
Nay, brib'd no brother burgess-bard of note,
Nor by corruption gain'd one critic's vote.
Too proud to beg, too modeft to demand,
By merit only would he fall or stand:
Nor enmity nor friendship interfering,
He only afks a fair and candid hearing.
If, after that, you should with fcorn reject him,
Or make one honeft fcruple to elect him,
He'll lay his unadvised scheme afide,
And frankly own himself not qualified.

EPILOGUE, Spoken by Mrs. CLIVE.

HATEVER difcord and disorder reign,
Among the learned fons of Warwick-lane,
Should they throw fquibs made up of latin fcraps,
And come to pulling wigs, as women caps,
The fick escape-death will not lay about him,
He has more honour, than to work without 'em.

Should you (to the pit) whose skill and wisdom we acknow

ledge,

The fellows of this old dramatic college,

(No matter what the caufe of altercation)
Croud hither ev'ry night for difputation;
The bard, half dead before, enjoys the fport,
Gets ftrength each day, and is the better for't.
Warm'd with this fubject, let your fancies play,
And me, by licence, make a doctor, pray.

Sup.

Suppofe this gown a fuit of velvet, plain,
With a gold button, and this fan-a cane;
My cap becomes a tye, moft wifely big;
Oh! no I had forgot-a fmart bag wig,
No phyfic bushes now are seen in town;
For all the figns, you know, are taken down.
Call me licenciate-fellow-what you will-
I'll feel your pulfes all, and prove my skill.
The pulfes of the boxes first I'll feel,
And by their beating will their thoughts reveal.

(he acts the doctor feeling a pulse.) Languid, and low-Wildman's old-fashion'd story Was much too nervous, to be fet before ye:

For twelve long years a tender wife forfaking,

Worn out with wand'ring, and, what's worse, with raking,
And then return he was not worth the taking.

As for the pulfes of my friends above,

They thump for joy- when spouses kifs and love.
Blefs their young hearts-what means this palpitation ?
Each mifs's blood is now in agitation!

Each quick pulfation for Narciffa beats;
When she went off-they scarce could keep their seats.
When Lombard talk'd of bribes-how lik'd you that?
(to the pit.)

Some pulfes in this houfe went-pat, pat, pat.
If this our night's prescription you have taken,
Without wry faces, or your heads much shaken ;
If you perceive fome character, and wit,
With plot and humour-quantum fufficit;
Mixt up with fal volatile of fatire:
Let it-quotidie no&te repetatur ;
'Tis by our noftrums you are kept alive;
Purfue the regimen of doctor Clive.

A PASTORAL. In the Modern Style.

BE

PASTORA and GALATEA.

Eneath the umbrageous fhadow of a shade,
Where glowing foliage on the furface play'd,

And golden rofes fann'd the filver breeze,
In many a maze light echoing through the trees,
Paftora tun'd the fweetly-panting ftring,

And ruddy notes thus wak'd the flattering fpring,
While from th' alternate margin of an oak,
A woodland Naiad thus meandring spoke.

$ 3

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PAS