The only love that warm'd her blooming youth,
Was, husband, England, liberty, and truth.
For thefe fhe fell; while, with too weak a hand,
She strove to fave a blind ungrateful land.
What fense of such a bounty can be shown!
But heav'n must make the vast reward its own,
And ftars fhall join to form her future crown.
Your gratitude with ease may be exprefs'd;
Strive but to be, what she wou'd make you, bless'd.
Confirm but to yourselves the given good,
'Tis all she asks, for all she has bestow'd.
BY THE REV. DR. LANGHORN,
TO THE TRAGEDY OF THE INFLIXIBLE CAPTIVE, Acted at the Theatre Royal at Bath,
WRITTEN BY MISS HANNAH MOORE.
DEEP in the bofom of departed days, Where the firft gems of human glory blaze; Where, crown'd with flowers, in wreaths immortal drest, The facred fhades of ancient virtue reft;
With joy they fearch, who joy can feel, to find
Some honeft reafon still to love mankind.
There the fair foundrefs of the fcene to-night,
Explores the paths that dignify delight;
The regions of the mighty dead pervades ;
The Sybil fhe that leads us to the shades.
O may each blaft of ruder breath forbear
To wafte her light leaves on the worthless air,
Since fhe, as heedlefs, ftrives not to maintain
This tender offspring of her teeming brain:
For this poor birth was no provifion made,
A flower that sprung, and languish'd in the shade.
On Avon's banks, forfaken and forlorn,
This careless mother left her elder born ;
And tho' unlike what Avon hail'd of
yore,
Thofe giant fons that Shakespeare's banners bore,
Yet may we yield this little offspring grace,
And love the laft and leaft of fuch a race.
Shall the ftrong fcenes, where fenatorial Rome
Mourn'd o'er the rigour of her Patriot's doom;
Where melting Nature, aw'd by Virtue's eye,
Hid the big drop, and held the bursting figh;
Where all that majefty of foul can give,
Truth, honour, pity, fair affection live;
Shall fcenes like these, the glory of an age,
Gleam from the prefs, nor triumph on the stage?
Forbid it, Britons! and, as Romans brave,
Like Romans boaft one citizen to fave.
WHAT fon of Phyfic but his art extends,
As well as hands, when call'd on by his friends?
What landlord is fo weak to make you fast,
When guests like you befpeak a good repast ?
But weaker ftill were he whom fate has plac'd
To foothe your cares, and gratify your tafte,
Should he neglect to bring before your eyes
Thofe dainty Dramas which from genius rife;
Whether your luxury be to fmile or weep,
His and your profits juft proportion keep.
To-night he brought, nor fears a due reward,
A Roman Patriot by a Female Bard.
Britons who feel his flame, his worth will rate,
No common fpirit his no common fate,
Inflexible and Captive must be great.
"How," cries a fuckling fop, thus lounging ftradling, (Whofe head fhews want of ballaft by its noddling,) "A woman write? learn, madam, of your betters, "And read a noble Lord's Pothumous Letters, "There you will learn the fex may merit praise, "By making Puddings-not by making Plays :
They can make tea and mischief, dance and fing; "Their heads, though full of feathers, can't take wing." I thought they could, Sir; now and then by chance, Maids fly to Scotland, and fome wives to France. He still went noddling on-" Do all she can, "Woman's a trifle-play-thing-like her fan." Right, Sir, and when a wife the rattle of man. And fhall fuch things as thefe become the test Of female worth? the fairest and the best
Of all heaven's creatures! for fo Milton fung us,
And with fuch champions, who fhall dare to wrong us?
Come forth, proud man, in all your powers array'd;
Shine out in all your fplendor-Who's afraid ?
Who on French wit has made a glorious war,
Defended Shakespear, and fubdu'd Voltaire ?
Woman*-Who, rich in knowledge, knows no pride,
Can boast ten tongues, and yet not fatisfied:
Womant-Who lately fung the sweetest lay;
A woman, woman, woman, ‡ ftill I fay.
Well then, who dares deny our power and might?
Will any married man difpute our right?
Speak boldly, Sirs,-your wives are not in fight.
* Mrs. Montague, Author of an Effay on the Writings of Shakefpear.
Mrs, Carter, well known for her skill in ancient and modern languages.
Mifs Aikin, who lately published fome excellent Poems.
What are you filent? Then you are content;
Silence, the proverb tells us, gives confent.
Critics, will you allow our honest claim ?
Are you dumb too? This night has fix'd our fame.
Written by Mr. GARRICK, fpoken by Mrs. YATES.
EXHAUSTED quite with prifons, racks and death,
Permit me here to take a little breath!
You, who have feen my actions, know their fprings,
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 veffels or to ftronger you?
Against your conquering fwords I draw-my fan,
Come on!-now parry Margʼret if you can.
[Sets berfelf in a pofture of defence. Stand up, ye boasters! (to the Pit) don't there fneak
Are you for pleasure, politics, or wit?
The boxes fmile to fee me fcold the pit.
Their turn is next-and, tho' I will not wrong 'em
A woeful havock there will be among 'em-
You, our best friends, love, cherish, and respect us;
Not take our fortunes, marry, and neglect us.
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