The Stage fhould have 'em all-but prudent we
Join 'Squire and Fool in one-and I am he!
Our Hero in the prologue took his rank,
Don Quixote he, and I his Sancho Panc'.
If ours fhould prove a windmill scheme !——alas,
I know, and I will tell you, what will pafs;
We all-each fon of Thefpis, and each daughter,
Muft, for fweet Bristol milk, drink Bristol water;
Which, though a cure for fome, who fall away,
Yet we, poor fouls! fhall feel a quick decay;
The wifeft face amongst us will look filly;
And mine may change its rofes for the lily.
But how prevent this terrible condition?
There is one way-be you our kind phyfician:
For you, with other doctors difagree,

And, when you make your visits, give a fee.
Hold, cries a prude (thus rifing from her ftays);
I hate a play-houfe, and their wicked plays:
O'tis a fhame to fuffer fuch an evil!

For feting plays is dealing with the Devil!'
I beg your pardon, Madam- -'tis not true;
We play's are moral folks- I'll prove it too-
Man is a froward child-naughty and cross,
Without its rattle, and its hobby-horse:
We players are little mafter's bells and coral,
To keep the child from mifchief-A'nt we moral?
In fuch a happy, rich, and crowded place,
What would become of the fweet babe of grace,
Should not you act unkindly to refufe it,

This little harmless play-thing to amuse it?
Good plays are ufeful toys- -as fuch enjoy 'em-
Whene'er they make you naughty, then deftroy 'em.

A

The SHEEP and the BRAMBLE-BUSH.

From Mr. CUNNINGHAM'S POEMS.

Thick-twifted brake, in the time of a storm,
Seem'd kindly to cover a theep;

So fnug, for a while, he lay thelter'd and warm,

It quietly footh'd him afleep.

The clouds are now featter'd-the winds are at peace,
The feep to his pafture in m'd ;

But ah! the tell thicket lays hold of his fleece,

His coat is left forfeit behind.

A wine fo called:

My

My friend, who the thicket of law never try'd,

Confider before you get in;

Tho' judgment and fentence are pafs'd on your fide,
By Jove, you'll be fleec'd to your skin.

7 RECEIPT how to make L'eau de Vie. By the late Mr. CHARLES KING.

G

Written at the defire of a Lady.

ROWN old, and grown ftupid, you just think me fit,
To transcribe from my grandmother's book a receipt;

And a comfort it is to a wight in distress,

He's of fome little ufe

-but he can't be of lefs.

Were greater his talents,you might ever command
His head," that's worth nought")-then, his heart and
his hand.

So your mandate obeying, he fends you, d'ye fee,
The genuine receipt to make L'eau de la vie.

Take feven large lemons, and pare them as thin
As a wafer, or, what is yet thinner, your skin;
A quart of French brandy, or rum is ftill better;
(For you ne'er in receipts should stick close to the letter);
Six ounces of fugar next take, and pray mind

The fugar must be the best double refin'd;

Boil the fugar in near half a pint of spring-water,

In the neat filver fauce-pan you bought for your daughter;
But be fure that the fyrup you carefully fkim,

While the fcum, as 'tis call'd, rifes up to the brim;
The fourth part of a pint you next must allow

Of new milk, made as warm as it comes from the cow.
Put the rinds of the lemons, the milk and the fyrup,
With the rum, in a jar, and give 'em a ftir up:
And, if you approve it, you may add fome perfume;
Goa-flone, or whatever you like in its room.

Let it ftand thus three days,-but remember to shake it;
And the clofer you ftop it, the richer you make it.
Then filter'd through paper, 'twill fparkle and rife,
Be as foft as your lips, and as bright as your eyes.
Laft, bottle it up; and believe me the vicar
Of E himself ne'er drank better liquor;
In a word, it excels, by a million of odds,
The nectar your fifter prefents to the gods.

PROLOGUE to the EARL of WARWICK..

Written by Mr. COLMAN. Spoken by Mr. BENSLY.

EVERE each poet's lot: but fure most hard

SE

Is the condition of the Play-houf bard:
Doom'd to hear all that wou'd-be crities talk,
Ang in the go-cart of dull rules to walk'
"Yet authors multiply," you fav. 'Tis true,
B what a numerous crop of Critics too!
Scholars alone of old durft judge and write;
But now each Jurnalist turns ftagyrite.
Quintilians in each coffee-house you meet,
And many a Longinas w.lks the firect.

In Shakelpeare's days, when his advent'rous mufe,
A mufe of fire! durft each bold lincence ule,
Her noble ardoor met no critic's phlegm,

To check wild fancy, or her flights condemn:
Ariels and Canibals unblam'd the drew,

Or goblins, ghofts, and witches, brought to view.
If to hiftoric truth the fhap'd her verfe,
A nation's annals freely he'd rehearse;
Bring Rome's or England's ftory on the flage,
And run, in three thort hours, thro' h If an age.
Our Bard, all terror-ftruck, and fii'd with dread,
In Shakespeare's awful foot fteps dares not tread;
Thro' the wide field of hiftry fears to ftrav,
And builds, upon one narrow fpot, his play:
Steps not from realm to realm, whole feas between,
But barely changes twice or thrice his feene.
While Shakespeare vaults on the poetic wire,
And pleas'd fpectators fearfully admire,
Our bard, a critic pole between his hands,

On the tight rope, foarce balane'd, trembling ftands;
Slowly and cautiously his way he makes,

And fears to fall at ev'ry flep he takes:

While then fierce Warwick he before you brings,

That fuer-up and puller-down of Kings,

With Brith candour diffip te his fear!

An English Cory fits an Englith ear.

Though harth and crude you deem his firft effay,
A fecond may your favours well repay:

Applaufe may nerve his erfe, and cheer his heart,
And teach the practice of this dangerous art.

EPILOGUE.

EPILOGUE. Written by Mr. GARRICK.

Spoken by Mrs. YATES.

Exhaufted quite with prifons, racks, and death,

Permit me here to take a little breath!

You who have feen my actions, known their springs,
Say, are we women fuch infipid things?

Say, lords of the creation, mighty men!

In what have you furpafs'd us, where? and when?
I come to know to whom the palm is due;
To us weak vessels, or to ftronger you?
Against your conqu'ring fwords I draw-my fan,
Come on! now parry Margret, if you can.

[Sets herself in a pofture of defence. Stand up ye boafters! [to the Pit] don't there fneaking fit:

Are you for pleasure, politics, or wit?

The boxes fmile to fee me fcold the pit.

Their turns next-and tho' I will not wrong 'em,

A woful havoc there will be among 'em.

You, our best friends, love, cherifh, and refpe&t us,
Not take our fortunes, marry, and neglect us.
You think indeed, that as you please, you rule us,
And with a strange importance often school us!
Yet let each Citizen defcribe a brother,
I'll tell you what you say of one another.
My neighbour leads, poor foul, a woeful life,
A worthy man, -but govern'd by his wife!
How fay you!-what, all filent! then 'tis true,
We rule the City-Now, great Sirs, to You

[To the Boxes:
What is your boast? Wou'd you like me have done,
To free a captive wife, or fave a fon?
Rather than run fuch dangers of your lives,
You'd leave your children, and lock up your wives:
When with your nobleft deeds a nation rings,
You are but puppets, and we play the strings
We plan no battles-true,-but out of fight,
Crack goes the fan, and armies halt or fight!
You have the advantage, Ladies! wifely reap it;
And let me hint the only way to keep it.
Let men of vain ideas have their fill,

Frown, bounce, ftride, ftrut, while you with happy fkill,
Like anglers, use the finest silken thread;

Give line enough, nor check a tugging head;

The

VERSES on a PEN; from a Poeм lately published.

L'

IGHT toy!-but in a skilful hand,
More potent than a forc'rer's wand!
Nor talifman, nor charm, nor fpell,
Nor all the witching tricks of hell,
Can with fuch potency controul,
And in enchantment hold the foul!
Its touches can create, transform,
Roufe fleeping Neptune with a ftorm:
Or bid the howling tempeft cease,
And rock old Ocean into peace:
Can fnatch from Time his fcythe at will,
And make his glowing wheels stand still;
Pluck from Decay its cank'ring tooth,
And give to Nature conftant youth.
Drawn by old Homer's hand, the rose
Still on the cheek of Helen blows,
Her beauty fuffers no decay,
Nor moulders for the worm a prey;
Time's chiffel cuts no wrinkles in
The velvet-fmoothness of her fkin;
Nor can the thirst of old age fip
The dewy moisture of her lip;
And now her eyes as brilliant fhew,
As Paris faw them long ago.
For tho' her beauteous body must
Have crumbled into native dust,
Yet ftill her features live in fong,
Like Hebe, ever fair and young.
Fades the thick leafy grove; the Pen
Can bid its verdure live again,

Can with imagination's dew,
Cherifh each leaf to bloom anew,

And call forth greenest wreaths t'endow
The Patriot's and the Poet's brow.
In a fine phrenfy of the foul
When Poets glance from pole to pole,

Bearing