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When he, to make the strumpet willing,
Has spent his fortune-to a fhilling.

Each stood awhile, as 'twere fufpended,
And loth to do, what-each intended.
At length with soft pathetic fighs,
The matron, bent with age, replies.
'Tis vain to strive-juftice, I know,
And our ill ftars will have it fo-
But let my tears your wrath affuage,
And fhew fome deference for age!
I from a diftant village came,

Am old, G- knows, and fomething lame;
And if we yield, as yield we must,
Dispatch my crazy body first.

Our fhepherd, like the Phrygian fwain,
When circled round on IDA's plain,
With goddeffes he stood fufpended,
And PALLAS's grave speech was ended,
Own'd what she ask'd might be his duty;
But paid the compliment to beauty.

ODE

O DE

To be performed by Dr. BRETTLE, and a Chorus of HALES-OWEN CITIZENS.

The Inftrumental Part, a Viol d' Amour.

A

AIR by the DOCTOR.

WAKE! I fay, awake good people!
And be for once alive and gay;

Come let's be merry; ftir the tipple;

How can you fleep,

Whilft I do play? how can you'fleep, &c.

CHORUS of CITIZENS.

Pardon, O! pardon, great musician!
On drowsy fouls fome pity take!
For wond'rous hard is our condition,

To drink thy beer,

Thy ftrains to hear;

To drink,

To hear,

And keep awake!

SOLO

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 afleep.

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EPILOGUE to the Tragedy of CLEONE.

WELL, ladies-fo much for the tragic stile

And now the custom is to make you fmile.

To make us fmile!-methinks I hear you fay
Why, who can help it, at fo ftrange a play?
The captain gone three years!—and then to blame
The faultlefs conduct of his virtuous dame!

My ftars!-what gentle belle would think it treason,
When thus provok'd, to give the brute some reason?
Out of my house! this night, forfooth depart!
A modern wife had faid-" With all my.
But think not, haughty Sir, I'll go alone!
Order your coach-conduct me fafe to town-

heart

Give

Give me my jewels, wardrobe, and
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 charnis 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 paft-yet fure they merit praise,
For marriage triumph'd in those golden days:
By chafte decorum they affection 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 foul, as well as fenfe, delight,
Reclaim from folly a fantastic age,

That scorns the prefs, 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,
the balm that sweetens human life.

And pour

MORAL.

MORAL PIECES.

VOL. I.

R

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