All that FANCY's felf has feign'd,.
In a band-box is contain’d.

Painted lawns, and chequer'd fhades,
Crape that's worn by love lorn maids,
Water'd tabbies, flower'd brocades;
Vi'lets, pinks, Italian pofies,
Myrtles, jellamine, and rofes,
Aprons, caps, and 'kerchiefs clean,
Straw-built hats, and bonnets green,
Catgut gauzes, tippets, ruffs,
Fans and hoods and feather'd muffs,
Stomachers and Paris nets,
Ear-rings, necklaces, aigrets,
Fringes, blonds, and mignionets,
Fine vermillion for the cheek,
Velvet patches á la Grecque,
Come, but don't forget the gloves,
Which, with all the fmiling loves,
VENUS caught young CUPID picking
From the tender breast of chicken;
Little chicken, worthier far
Than the birds of Juno's car,
Soft as CYTHEREA's dove,

Let thy fkin my skin improve;

Thou by night shall grace my arm,

And by day halt teach to charm.

}

}

}

PROLOGUE to the CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE.

Written by Mr. GARRICK, and Spoken by Mr. HOLLAND.

OETS and painters, who from nature draw

this law;

Το

To night your matchlefs Hogarth gives the thought,
Which from his canvass to the ftage is brought,
And who fo fit to warm the poet's mind,
As he who pictur'd morals and mankind?
But not the fame the characters and fcenes;
Both labour for one end by different means:
Each, as it fuits him, take a feparate road,
Their one great object, Marriage-alamode :
Where titles deign with cits to have and hold,
And change their blood for more substantial gold!
And honour'd trade from interest turns afide,
To hazard happiness for titled pride.

The painter's dead, yet ftill he charms the eye;
While England lives, his fame can never die:
But he who ftruts his hour upon the stage,
Can fcarce extend his fame for half an age;
Nor pen nor pencil can the actor fave,
The art, and artift, fhare one common grave.
O let me drop one tributary tear

On poor Jack Falfiaff's grave, and Juliet's bier!
You to their worth muft teftimony give;
'Tis in your hearts alone their fame can live.
Still as the fcenes of life will shift away,
The ftrong impreffions of their heart decay.
Your children cannot feel what you have known,
They'll boaft of Quin's and Cibber's of their own:
The greatest glory of our happy few,
Is to be felt, and be approv'd by you

SCENE, an Affembly..

Several perfons at cards, at different tables; among the rest Col. Trill, Lord Minum, Mrs. Quaver, Sir Patrick Mahony.

At the Whift-table.

Ld. Min. I hate a play-house-trump-It makes me fick.
If Lady. We're two by honours, Ma'am.

Ld. Min. And we the odd trick.

Pray do you know the author, Colonel Trill?

Col. T, I know no poets, heaven be prais'd-Spadille! 1 Lady. I'll tell you who, my Lord!

Ld. Min. What, he again?

(whispers my Lord)

"And dwell fuch daring fouls in little men!"

Be whofe it will, they down our throats will cram it!

Col. T. O, no.-I have a club-the beft.-We'll damn it.
Mrs. Qu. O bravo, Colonel!-Mufic is my flame.

Ld. Min. And mine, by Jupiter-We've won the game,
Col. T. What, do you all love mufic?

Mrs. Qu. No, not Handel's.

And nafty plays

Ld. Min. Are fit for Goths and Vandals.

(Rife from the table, and pay.)

From the Picquett-table.

Sir Pat. Well, faith and troth!-that Shakespeare was no fool.
Col. T. I'm glad you like him, Sir!-fo ends the pool!

(Pay and rife from table.}

SONG by the Colonel

I hate all their nonfenfe,

Their Shakespeares and Johnsons,

Their plays, and their playhouse, and bards:

'Tis finging, not faying,
A fig for all playing.

But playing as we do at cards!
I love to fee Jonas,

Am pleas'd too with Comus;
Each well the fpectator rewards,

So clever, so neat in

Their tricks, and their cheating!

Like them we would fain deal our cards.

Sir Pat. King Lear is touching!-And how fine to fee
Ould Hamlet's ghost!" To be or not to be."
What are your op'ras to Othello's roar!

Oh, he's an angel of a blackamoor!

Ld. Min. What, when he chokes his wife?

Col. T. And calls her whore?

Sir Pat. King Richard calls his horfe and then Macbeth,
Whene'er he murders-takes away the breath.
My blood runs cold at ev'ry fyllable,

To fee the dagger-that's invifible.

Sir Pat. Laugh if you pleafe, a pretty play—

Ld. Min. Is pretty

Sir Pat. And when there's wit in't

Col. T. To be fure 'tis witty.

(All laugh.)

Sir Pat. I love the playhoufe-now to light and gay,
With all thefe candles they have la'en away! (All laugh.)
For all your game, what makes it fo much brighter? .

Col. T. Put out the light, and then

Ld. Min. 'Tis fo much lighter.

Sir Pat. Pray do you mane, Sirs, more than you exprefs?
Col. T. Juft as it happens.

Mrs. Qu.

An't

Ld. Min.

Either more or lefs.

afham'd, Sir?

(To Sir Pat.)

you
Sir Pat. Me!-I feldom blush-

For little Shake peare, faith! I'll take a push.

Ld. Min. News! news!-here comes Mifs Crotchet from the play.

Mrs. Qu.

Enter Mifs Crotchet.

Well, Crotchet, what's the news?

Mifs Cro. We have loft the day.

Col. T. Tell us, dear Mils, all you have heard and seen.

Mifs Cro.

I'm tir'd-a chair-here, take my capuchin!

Ld. Min. And is'nt damn'd, Mils?

Mijs Cro. No, my Lord, not quite:

But we fall damn it.

Col. T. When?

Miss Cro. To-morrow night.

There is a party of us, all of fathion,

Refolv'd t'exterminate this vulgar paflion:

A play.

A playhouse, what a place!-I must forfwear it;
A little mifchief only makes one bear it.

Such crouds of city folks! fo rude and preffing;
And their horfe-laugh! fo hideoufly diftreffing.
Whene'er we hifs'd, they frown'd and fell a swearing,
Like their own guildhall giants-fierce and staring!
Col T. What faid the folks of fashion? were they crofs?
Ld. Min. The reft have no more judgment than
my horse.
Mifs Cro. Lord Grimly fwore 'twas execrable stuff.
Says one, why fo, my Lord!-My Lord took fnuff.
In the first act Lord George began to doze,
And criticiz'd the author-through his nose;
So loud, indeed, that, as his lordfhip fuor'd,
The pit turn'd round, and all the brutes encor❜d.

Ld Min. We have among us, Mifs, fome foolish folks.
Mifs Cro Says poor Lord Simper-Well, now to my mind
The piece is good; but he's both deaf and blind.
Sir Pat. Upon my foul, a very pretty ftory!
And quality appears in all its glory!

There was fome merit in the piece no doubt.
Mifs Cro. O, to be fure! if one could find it out.
Col T. But tell us, Mifs, the fubje& of the play.
Mifi Cro. It was a marriage-yes, a marriage-ftay!
A Lord, an aunt, two fifters, and a merchant,
A baronet-ten lawyers-a fat ferjeant-
All are produc'd-to talk with one another;
And about fomething make a mighty pother.
They all go in and out, and to and fro;

And talk, and quarrel-as they come and go-
Then go to bed, and then get up-and then-

Scream, faint, fcold, kifs-and go to bed again. (All laugh}
Such is the play-your judgment! never sham it.
Col. T.

Oh, damn it!

Mrs. Qu.

Damn it!

1ft Lady.

Damn it!

Mij Cro

Ld. Min.

Danin it!

Damn it!

Sir Pat. Well faith, you speak your minds, and I'll be free~ `
Good night; this company's too good for me. [Going.
Col T. Your judgment, dear Sir Patrick, makes us proud.
Sir Pat. Laugn you peale, but pray don't laugh too loud.
[Exit.

RECITATIVE..

Col. T. Now the barbarian's gone, Mifs, tune your tongue, And let us raife our Ipirits high with long.

RE