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Unknown, unheeded, long his offsping lay,
And want hung threat'ning o'er her flow decay.
What though she shine with no Miltonian fire,
No fav'ring Mufe her morning dreams infpire;
Yet fofter claims the melting heart engage,
Her youth laborious, and her blameless age;
Hers the mild merits of domestick life,
The patient fufferer, and the faithful wife.
Thus, grac'd with humble virtue's native charms,
Her grandfire leaves her in Britannia's arms;
Secure with peace, with competence, to dwell,
While tutelary nations guard her cell.
Yours is the charge, ye fair, ye wife, ye brave!
'Tis yours to crown defert-beyond the grave.

PROLOGUE,

TO THE COMEDY OF

THE GOOD-NATUR'D MAN. 1769.

the load of life, the weary mind

REST by
Surveys the gen'ral toil of human kind,
With cool fubmiffion joins the lab'ring train,
And focial forrow lofes half its pain;
Our anxious bard without complaint may fhare
This bustling season's epidemick care;
Like Cæsar's pilot dignify'd by fate,
Toft in one common ftorm with all the great;

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Diftreft

Diftreft alike the ftatefman and the wit,
When one a Borough courts, and one the Pit.
The busy candidates for power and fame
Have hopes, and fears, and wishes, just the same;
Difabled both to combat and to fly,

Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply.
Uncheck'd on both, loud rabbles vent their rage,
As mongrels bay the lion in a cage.
Th' offended burgefs hoards his angry tale,
For that bleft year when all that vote may rail;
Their schemes of fpite the poet's foes difmifs,
Till that glad night when all that hate may hifs.

"This day the powder'd curls and golden coat," Says fwelling Crifpin, "begg'd a cobler's vote." "This night our wit," the pert apprentice cries, "Lies at my feet; I hifs him and he dies." The great, 'tis true, can charm th' electing tribe; The bard may fupplicate, but cannot bribe. Yet, judg'd by those whose voices ne'er were fold, He feels no want of ill-perfuading gold; But, confident of praise, if praise be due, Trufts without fear to merit and to you.

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PROLOGUE

T

TO THE COMEDY OF

A WORD TO THE WISE*,

SPOKEN by Mr. HULL.

HIS night presents a play which public rage, Or right, or wrong, once hooted from the stage.

From zeal or malice, now no more we dread,
For English vengeance wars not with the dead.
A generous foe regards with pitying eye

The man whom fate has laid where all muft lic.

To wit reviving from its author's duft,
Be kind ye judges, or at least be just.
For no renew'd hoftilities invade
Th' oblivious grave's inviolable fhade.
Let one great payment every claim appease,
And him, who cannot hurt, allow to please;
To please by scenes unconscious of offence,
By harmless merriment, or useful fenfe.
Where aught of bright, or fair the piece difplays,
Approve it only-'tis to late too praise.

If want of fkill, or want of care appear,
Forbear to hifs-the poet cannot hear.
By all like him muft praife and blame be found,
At beft a fleeting gleam, or empty found.

* Performed at Covent-Garden theatre in 1777, for the benefit of Mrs. Kelly, widow of Hugh Kelly, Efq. (the author of the play), and her children.

+ Upon the first representation of this play, 1770, a party affembled to damn it, and fucceeded.

Yet

Yet then shall calm reflection bless the night,
When liberal pity dignified delight;
When Pleasure fir'd her torch at virtue's flame,
And mirth was bounty with an humbler name.

S PRIN G,

AN OD E.

TERN Winter now, by Spring reprefs'd,
the

ftrife;

And Nature on her naked breast
Delights to catch the gales of life.
Now o'er the rural kingdom roves
Soft pleasure with the laughing train,
Love warbles in the vocal groves,

*

And vegetation plants the plain.
Unhappy! whom to beds of pain,
Arthritick tyranny configns;
Whom smiling nature courts in vain,
Tho' rapture fings and beauty fhines.
Yet tho' my limbs disease invades,

Her wings Imagination tries,
And bears me to the peaceful fhades,
Where's humble turrets rife.
Here stop, my foul, thy rapid flight,

Nor from the pleafing groves depart,
Where first great nature charmed my fight,
Where wisdom first inform'd my heart.

*The author being ill of the gout.
K 4

Here

SCENE XIII.

HASAN, CARAZA, MUSTAPHA, MURZA.

MUSTAPHA TO MURZA.

What plagues, what tortures, are in store for thee,
Thou fluggish idler, dilatory flave!

Behold the model of confummate beauty,
Torn from the mourning earth by thy neglect!

MURZA.

Such was the will of Heav'n-A band of Greeks That mark'd my courfe, fufpicious of my purpose, Rufh'd out and feiz'd me, thoughtless and unarm'd, Breathlefs, amaz'd, and on the guarded beach Detain'd me tili Demetrius fet me free.

MUSTAPHA.

So fure the fall of greatnefs rais'd on crimes!
So fix'd the juftice of all-confcious Heav'n!
When haughty guilt exults with impious joy,
Mistake fhall blaft, or accident destroy;
Weak man with erring rage may throw the dart,
But Heav'n fhall guide it to the guilty heart.

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