To bring back lustre to her eyes;
In vain she tries her paste and creams
To smooth her skin, or hide its seams;
Her country beaux and city cousins,
Lovers no more, flew off by dozens;
The 'squire himself was seen to yield,
And even the captain quit the field.
Poor madam, now condemn'd to hack
The rest of life with anxious Jack,
Perceiving others fairly flown,
Attempted pleasing him alone.
Jack soon was dazzled to behold
Her present face surpass the old:
With modesty her cheeks are dyed,
Humility displaces pride;
For tawdry finery is seen
A person ever neatly clean;
No more presuming on her sway,
She learns good-nature every day;
Serenely gay, and strict in duty,
Jack finds his wife a perfect beauty.

MISCELLANEOUS.

THE CLOWN'S REPLY.

JOHN TROTT was desired by two witty peers,
To tell them the reason why asses had ears;

"An't please you," quoth John, " I'm not given to letters, Nor dare I pretend to know more than my betters; Howe'er, from this time, I shall ne'er see your graces, without thinking on asses."

Edinburgh, 1753.

PROLOGUE,

WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CÆSAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE.

Preserved by Macrobius.

WHAT! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age!
Scarce half alive, oppress'd with many a year,
What, in the name of dotage, drives me here?
A time there was, when glory was my guide,
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside;
Unawed by power, and unappall'd by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honour dear:
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honour is no more;
For, ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine:
Him I obey, whom Heaven itself obeys,
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please.
Here then at once I welcome every shame,
And cancel at threescore a life of fame:

No more my titles shall my children tell;
The old buffoon will fit my name as well:
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honour ends.

PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE,

A TRAGEDY WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADDOCK, ESQ.
Spoken by Mr Quick, in the character of a Sailor.

IN these bold times, when Learning's sons explore
The distant climate, and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter sphere;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling;
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.

With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading;
Yet e're he lands he's order'd me before,

To make an observation on the shore.

Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost,
This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast.

[Pit.

Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder: [Upper Gallery.
There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em-
Here trees of stately size-and billing turtles in 'em- [Balconies.

Here ill-conditioned oranges abound

And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground.

The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear:

I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!

[Stage.

[Tasting them.

O, there the people are-best keep my distance;

Our Captain, gentle natives! craves assistance;

Our ship's well-stored ;-in yonder creek we've laid her,
His Honour is no mercenary trader.

This is his first adventure; lend him aid,

And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.

His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far,
Equally fit for gallantry and war.

What! no reply to promises so ample?

I'd best step back-and order up a sample

THE LOGICIANS REFUTED.

IN IMITATION OF DEAN SWIFT.

LOGICIANS have but ill defined
As rational the human mind:
Reason, they say, belongs to man,
But let them prove it if they can.
Wise Aristotle and Smiglesius,

By ratiocinations specious,

Have strove to prove with great precision, With definition and division,

Homo est ratione præditum ;

But for my soul I cannot credit 'em ;
And must in spite of them maintain,
That man and all his ways are vain;
And that this boasted lord of nature
Is both a weak and erring creature.
That instinct is a surer guide

Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;

And that brute beasts are far before 'em

Deus est anima brutorum.

Who ever knew an honest brute

At law his neighbour prosecute,

Bring action for assault and battery?

Or friends beguile with lies and flattery? O'er plains they ramble unconfined,

No politics disturb their mind;

They eat their meals and take their sport Ner know who's in or out at court:

They never to the levee go

To treat as dearest friend a foe;
They never importune his Grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job;
Nor draw the quill to write for Bob.*
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folks at Paternoster Row:
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpockets or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds;
No single brute his fellow leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,

Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of Beasts, it is confess'd, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape:
Like man, he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion:
But both in malice and grimaces
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him humbly cringing wait
Upon the minister of state;
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors:
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
He in his turn finds imitators;

At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
Their master's manners still contract,
And footmen lords and dukes can act.
Thus at the court, both great and small,
Behave alike, for all ape all.

EPIGRAM

ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH, STRUCK BLIND BY LIGHTNING,

SURE 'twas by Providence design'd,

Rather in pity than in hate,
That he should be, like Cupid, blind,
To save him from Narcissus' fate.

STANZAS

ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC, AND DEATH OF GEN. WOLFE.

AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys,

Which triumph forces from the patriot heart,

Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice,

And quells the raptures which from pleasure start.

O Wolfe! to thee a streaming flood of woe,

Sighing, we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear.

Alive, the foe thy dreadful vigour fled,

And saw thee fall with joy-pronouncing eyes.
Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead!
Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise.

E