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Thus reign'd our fathers o'er the rural fold,
Wife, hale, and honeft, in the days of old;
Till courts arofe, where fubftance pays for fhow,
And fpecious joys are bought with real woe.
See Flavia's pendants, large, well spread, and right,
The ear that wears them hears a fool each night:
Mark how th' embroider'd col'nel fneaks away,
To fhun the with'ring dame that made him gay;
That knave, to gain a title, loft his fame;
That rais'd his credit by a daughter's fhame;
This coxcomb's riband coft him half his land,
And oaks, unumber'd, bought that fool a wand.
Fond man, as all his forrows were too few,
Acquires range wants that nature never new.
By midnight lamps he emulates the day,
And fleeps perverfe the chearful funs away;
From goblets, high emboís'd, his wine must glide,
Round his clos'd fight the gorgeous curtain slide;
Fruits, ere their time, to grace his pomp must rife,
And three untafted courfes glut his eyes.

For this are nature's gentle calls withstood,
The voice of confcience, and the bonds of blood;
This wisdom thy reward for ev'ry pain,

And this gay glory all thy mighty gain.

Fair phantoms woo'd and fcorn'd from age to age,
Since bards began to laugh, or priests to rage.
And yet, juft curse on man's aspiring kind,
Prone to ambition, to example blind,
Our children's children shall our steps pursue,
And the fame errors be for ever new.

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Mean while, in hope a guiltless country fwain,
My reed with warblings chears th' imagin'd plain.
Hail, humble fhades, where truth and filence dwell!
Thou noify town, and faithlefs court farewel!
Farewell ambition, once my darling flame!

The thirft of lucre, and the charm of fame!

In life's by-road, that winds thro' paths unknown,

My days, tho' number'd, fhall be all my own.
Here fhall they end (O might they twice begin !)
And all be white the fates intend to spin.

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N old trite proverb let me quote!

As is your cloth, fo cut your coat.

To fuit our author and his farce,
Short let me be! for wit is scarce.
Nor would I fhew it, had I any,
The reafons why are ftrong and many.
Should I have wit, the piece have none,
A flash in pan with empty gun,
The piece is fure to be undone.
A tavern with a gaudy fign,

Whofe bufh is better than the wine,

May cheat you once.-Will that device,
Neat as imported, cheat you twice?

"Tis

"Tis wrong to raise your expectations: Poets be dull in dedications!

Dulness in these to wit prefer
But there indeed you seldom err.
In prologues, prefaces, be flat!
A filver button fpoils your hat.

A thread-bare coat might jokes escape,
Did not the blockheads lace the cape.
A cafe in point to this before ye,
Allow me, pray, to tell a ftory!
To turn the penny, once, a wit
Upon a curious fancy hit;

Hung out a board on which he boasted,

Dinner for THREEPENCE! Boil'd and roafted!
The hungry read, and in they trip,
With eager eye and fmacking lip:
"Here, bring this boil'd and roasted, pray !"
Enter POTATOES-drefs'd each way.
All star'd and rofe, the house forfook,
And damn'd the dinner-kick'd the cook.
My landlord found (poor Patrick Kelly)
There was no joking with the belly.

Thefe facts laid down, then thus I reafon :

-Wit in a prologue's out of season-
Yet ftill will you for jokes fit watching,
Like Cock-lane folks for Fanny's fcratching?
And here my fimile's fo fit,

For Prologues are but Ghofts of wit,

Which mean to fhew their art and skill,
And scratch you to their Author's will.

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In short, for reafons great and fmall,
'Tis better to have none at all:
Prologues and Ghofts-a paltry trade,
So let them both at once be laid!
Say but the word-give your commands-
We'll tie our prologue-monger's hands:

Confine these culprits (holding up his hands) bind 'em tight,
Nor Girls can fcratch nor Fools can write.

MR. FOOTE'S ADDRESS TO THE PUBLIC,

AFTER A PROSECUTION AGAINST HIM FOR A LIBEL.

H

USH! let me fearch before I fpeak aloud—

Is no informer skulking in the croud!

With art laconic noting all that's faid,
Malice at heart, indictments in his head,
Prepar'd to levy all the legal war,

And roufe the clamorous legions of the bar!
Is there none fuch ?-not one?-then entre nous,
I will a tale unfold, tho' ftrange, yet true;
The application must be made by you.

At Athens once, fair queen of arms and arts,
There dwelt a citizen of moderate parts!
Precife his manner, and demure his looks,
His mind unletter'd, tho' he dealt in books;
Amorous, tho' old; tho' dull, lov'd repartee;
And penn'd a paragraph moft daintily:

He

He aim'd at purity in all he faid,
And never once admitted eth nor ed;

It hath, and doth, was rarely known to fail,

Himfelf the hero of each little tale:

With wits and lords this man was much delighted,

And once (it has been faid) was near being knighted.
One Ariftophanes (a wicked wit,

Who never heeded grace in what he writ)
Had mark'd the manner of this Grecian sage,
And thinking him a subject for the stage,
Had, from the lumber, cull'd with curious care,
His voice, his looks, his gefture, gait, and air,
His affectation, confequence, and mien,
And boldly launch'd him on the comic fcene;
Loud peals of plaudits thro' the cirele ran,
All felt the fatire, for all knew the man.
Then Peter-Petros was his claffic name,
Fearing the lofs of dignity and fame,
To a grave lawyer in a hurry flies,

Opens his purfe, and begs his best advice.
The fee fecur'd, the lawyer ftrokes his band,
"The cafe you put, I fully understand;
"The thing is plain from Cocus's reports,
"For rules of poetry an't rules of courts:
"A libel this-I'll make the mummer know it."
A Grecian conftable took up the poet;
Reftrain'd the fallies of his laughing mufe,
Call'd harmless humour fcandalous abufe:
The bard appeal'd from this fevere decree :
Th' indulgent public fet the pris'ner free;
Greece was to him, what Dublin is to me.

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PROLOGUE

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