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When he, to make the strumpet willing,
Has spent his fortune—to a milling.
Each stood awhile, as 'twere suspended,
And loth to do, what—each intended.
At length with soft pathetic sighs, The matron, bent with age, replies.
'Tis vain to strive—-justice, I know,
And our ill stars will have it so—
But let my tears your wrath assuage,
And shew some deference for age!
I from a distant village came,
Am old, G— knows, and something lame;
And if we yield, as yield we must,
Dispatch my crazy body first.
Our shepherd, like the Phrygian swain,
When circled round on Ida's plain,
With goddesses he stood suspended,
And Pallas's grave speech was ended,
Own'd what she ask'd might be his duty;
But paid the compliment to beauty.
To be performed by Dr. Bsettle, and a Chorus of Hales-owen Citizens.
The Instrumental Part, a Viol d* Amour.
AIR by the Doctor.
AWAKE! I say, awake good people!
And be for once alive and gay;
Come let's be merry; stir the tipple;
How can you sleep,
Whilst I do play? how can you'sleep, Cite
CHORUS of Citizens.
Pardon, O! pardon, great musician!
On drowsy souls some pity take!
For wond'rous hard is our condition,
To drink thy beer,
Thy strains to hear;
And keep awake!
SOLO by the Doctor."
Hear but this strain—'twas made by Handel,
A wight of skill, and judgment deep!
Zoonters they're gone—Sal, bring a candle-
No, here is one, and he's asleep.
Dr. — How cou'd they go, Soft music
Whilst I do play? Sal. How cou'd they go? Warlike music.
How shou'd they stay?
EPILOGUE to the Tragedy of Cleone.
WELL, ladies—so much sor the tragic stile—
And now the custom is to make you smile.
To make us smile!—methinks I hear you say-
Why, who can help it, at so strange a play?
The captain gone three years!—and then to blame
The faultless conduct of his virtuous dame!
My stars !—what gentle belle would think it treason,
When thus provok'd, to give the brute some reason?
Out of my house !—this night, forsooth depart!
A modern wife had said—" With all my heart-
But think not, haughty Sir, I'll go alone!
Order your coach—conduct me safe to town—
Give me my jewels, wardrobe, and my maid—
And pray take care my pin-money be paid."
Such is the language of each modish fair!
Yet memoirs, not of modern growth, declare
The time has been when modesty and truth
Were deem'd additions to the charms of youth;
"When women hid their necks, and veil'd their faces,
Nor romp'd, nor rak'd, nor star'd at public places,
Nor took the airs of amazons for graces:
Then plain domestic virtues were the mode,
And wives ne'er dreamt of happiness abroad;
They lov'd their children, learnt no flaunting airs,
But with the joys of wedlock mixt the cares.
Those times are past—yet sure they merit praise,
For marriage triumph'd in those golden days:
By chaste decorum they asfection gain'd;
By faith and fondness what they won, maintain'd.
'Tis yours, ye fair, to bring those days agen,
And form anew the hearts of thoughtless men;
Make beauty's lustre amiable as bright,
And give the soul, as well as sense, delight <,
Reclaim from folly a fantastic age,
That scorns the press, the pulpit, and the stage.
Let truth and tenderness your breasts adorn,
The marriage chain with transport shall be worn;
Each blooming virgin rais'd into a bride,
Shall double all their joys, their cares divide;
Alleviate grief, compose the jars of strife,
And pour the balm that sweetens human life.