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Still importunate and vain,
And turning all the past to pain;
Thy smiles increase the wretch's woe;
In thee must ever find a foe.
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SUNG IN THE COMEDY
OF SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.
FROM THE ORATORIO OF CAPTIVITY.
The wretch condemn’d with life to part,
Still, stiil on hope relies;
Bids expectation rife.
Adorns and cheers the way ;
Emits a brighter ray.
Weeping, murmuring, complaining,
Loft to every gay delight-
Fears th' approaching bridal night:
Or dim thy beauty with a tear ?
She long had wanted cause of fear.
THE CLOWN'S REPLY.
John Trott was desir’d 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, • As I hope to be fav’d, without thinking on asies.'
EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON*.
Who long was a bookseller's hack-
I don't think he'll wish to come back.
* Who translated Voltaire's Henriade.
TO THE TRAGEDY OF ZOBEIDE.
In these bold times, when Learning's fons explore
(Upper Gallery.) There mangroves spread, and largerthanI've seen’em
(Pit.) Here trees of stately size, and billing turtles in 'em
(Balconies.) Here ill-condition'd
abound (Stage.) And apples, bitter apples strew the ground:
(Tasting them.) The inhabitants are canibals I fear: I heard a hissing—there are serpents here! O, there the people are—best keep my distance; Our captain (gentle natives) craves assistance; Our ship’s well stor'd—in yonder creek we've laid her, His honour is no mercenary trader.
This is his first adventure-lend him aid,
A ROMAN KNIGHT,
HAT! no way left to fhun th’ inglorious stage, And fave 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 asideUnaw'd by power, and unappal'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 inclin'd 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. * Preserved by Macrobius-translated and printed in 1759.
IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN.
(Takes off his mask.)
soft-'twas but a dream. Aye-'twas buta dream, for now there's noretreatingIf I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.