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On a report of the king of Spain's marrying Madame Victoire, a princess of

France.

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The following epigram was made by a Heffian officer upon Marfbal Broglio's being fo near taken on the 10th of July, 1761, reconnoitring, and lofing bis fpiyng-glass, which Prince Ferdinand immediately returned. The affair of the 16th of the same month at Fellinghausen is well knowvn.

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"Advice from a Matron to a young Lady concerning wedlock.

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FRE you read this, then you'll fuppofe,

That fome new lifted lover,

Thro' means of poetry hath chofe mahusi

His paffion to difcover."

No, fair one, I'm a matron grave,

Whom time and care hath wafted,

Who would thy youth from forrow fave,

Which I in wedlock tafted.

Thy tender air, thy chearful mein,

Thy temper fo alluring,

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Thy form for conqueft well defign'd,
Gives torments past enduring;
And lovers, full of hopes, and fears,
Surround thy beauties daily,

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Whilft yet, regardless of thy cares,

Thy moments pass on gayly,
Then pafs them, charmer, gaylier on,
A maiden whilft you tarry ;

For, troth, your golden days are gone,
The moment that you marry.
In courtship we are all divine,

And vows and prayers enfnare us;
Darts, flames, and tears adorn our fhrines,
And artfully men woo us.
Then who'd the darling power forego,
Which ignorance has given;
To cafe them of eternal woe
Muft we refign our heav'n?
No, marriage lets the vizard fall,
Then ceafe they to adore us:
The goddefs finks to housewife Moll,
And they reign tyrants o'er us.
Then let no man impreffion make
Upon thy heart so tender,

Or play the fool for pity's fake,

Thy quiet to furrender.

Lead apes in hell! there's no fuch thing,

Thofe tales are made to fool us,

Though there we had better hold a firing,
Than here let monkies rule us."

The applaufe bestowed on the Rofciad, will, we imagine, render the follow ing extracts from it agreeable. They are fuch, we prefume, as betw that the author unites the judgment of a critic with the fire and fancy of a poct.

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Character of Mrs. Cibber.

ORM'D for the tragic fcene, to grace the ftage,

FWith rival exceilence of love and rage,

Miftrefs of each foft heart, with matchlets (kill,
To turn and wind the paffions as the will;
To melt the heart with fympathetic woe,
Awake the figh, and teach the tear to flow;
To put on frenzy's wild diftracted glare,
And freeze the foul with horror and defpair;
With just defert enroll'd in endless fame,
Confcious of worth fuperior, C-bb-r came.
When poor Alicia's madding brains are rack'd,
And strongly imag'd griefs her mind distract;

5

Struck

Struck with her grief, I catch the madness too!
My brain turns round, the headlefs trunk I view !

The roof cracks, fhakes, and falls !-New horrors rife,
And reafon buried in the ruin lies.

Nobly difdainful of each flavish art,
She makes her first attack upon the heart:
Pleas'd with the fummons, it receives her laws,
And all is filence, fympathy, applause.

But when, by fond ambition drawn aside,
Giddy with praife, and puff'd with female pride,
She quits the tragic fcene, and, in pretence
To comic merit, breaks down nature's fence;
I fcarcely can believe my ears or eyes,
Or find out C-bb-r through the dark disguise.

Mrs. Pritchard from the fame.

RITCHARD, by nature for the stage design'd,
In perfon graceful, and in fenfe refin'd;
Her art as much as nature's friend became,
Her voice as free from blemish as her fame.
Who knows fo well in majesty to please,
Attemper'd with the graceful charms of ease?
When Congreve's favour'd pantomime to grace,
She comes a captive queen of Moorish race;
When love, hate, jealoufy, defpair and rage,
With wildest tumults in her breaft engage;
Still equal to herself is Zara feen;

Her paffions are the paffions of a queen.

When the to murther whets the tim❜rous thane,
I feel ambition rufh through ev'ry vein ;
Perfuafion hangs upon her daring tongue,
My heart grows flint, and ev'ry nerve's new ftrung.
In comedy" Nay, there," cries critic, hold,
Pritchard's for comedy too fat and old.

Who can, with patience, bear the grey coquette,
Or force a laugh with over-grown Julett?
Her fpeech, look, action, humour, all are juft,
But then her age and figure give difguft."
Are foibles then, and graces of the mind,
In real life, to fize or age confin'd ?
Do fpirits flow, and is good-breeding placed
any fet circumference of waift?

In

As we grow old, doth affectation' ceafe,
Or gives not age new vigour to caprice ?
If in originals these things appear,
Why should we bar them in the copy here?

The

The nice punctilio-mongers of this age,
The grand minute reformers of the ftage,
Slaves to propriety of ev'ry kind,

Some ftandard-measure for each part should find;
Which, when the best of actors fhall exceed,
Let it devolve to one of fmaller breed.

All actors too upon the back fhould bear
Certificate of birth ;-time, when ;-place, where,
For how can critics rightly fix their worth,
Unless they know the minute of their birth ?
An audience too, deceiv'd, may find, too late,
That they have clapp'd an actor out of date.
Figure, I own, at firft may give offence,
And harfhly ftrike the eye's too curious fenfe:
But when perfections of the mind break forth,
Humour's chafte fallies, judgment's folid worth;
When the pure genuine flame, by nature taught,
Springs into fenfe, and ev'ry action's thought;
Before fuch merit, all objections fly;
Pritchard's genteel, and Garrick fix feet high,

Oft have I, Pritchard, feen thy wondrous fkill,
Confefs'd thee great, but find thee greater still...
That worth, which fhone in fcatter'd rays before,
Collected now breaks forth with double pow'r.
The Jealous WifeOn that thy trophies raife,
Inferior only to the author's praife.

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Mr. Q-n, from the fame.

-N, from afar, lur'd by the fcent of fame,
A ftage Leviathan put in his claim.

Pupil of Betterton and Booth. Alone,
Sullen he walk'd, and deem'd the chair his own.
For how fhould moderns, mushrooms of the day,
Who ne'er those masters knew, know how to play?

Grey-bearded vet'rans, who, with partial tongue,
Extol the times when they themfelves were young
Who, having loft all relish for the ftage,
See not their own defects, but lafh the age,
Receiv'd with joyful murmurs of applaufe,
Their darling chief, and lin'd his fav'rite caufe.
Far be it from the candid Mufe to tread

Infulting o'er the afhes of the dead.
But just to living merit, the maintains,

And dares the teft, whilft Garrick's genius reigns:
Ancients, in vain, endeavour to excel,
Happily prais'd if they could act as well.

But,

But, though prescription's force we difallow,
Nor to antiquity fubmiffive bow;
Though we deny imaginary grace,

Founded on accidents of time and place;

Yet real worth of ev'ry growth shall bear

Due praife, nor muft we, Q-n, forget thee there.
His words bore fterling weight, nervous and strong;
In manly tides of sense they roll'd along.
Happy in art, he chiefly had pretence
To keep up numbers, yet not forfeit sense.
No actor ever greater heights could reach
In all the labour'd artifice of speech.

Speech! Is that all? And shall an actor found
An univerfal fame on partial ground?
Parrots themselves fpeak properly by rote,
And, in fix months, my dog shall howl by note.
I laugh at those who, when the stage they tread,
Neglect the heart to compliment the head;
With ftrict propriety their care's confin`d
To weigh out words, while paffion halts behind,
To fyllable-diffectors they appeal,

Allow them accent, cadence-fools may feel;
But fpite of all the criticifing elves,

Those who would make us feel, must feel themselves.
His eyes, in gloomy focket taught to roll,
Proclaim'd the fullen habit of his foul.
Heavy and phlegmatic he trod the ftage,
Too proud for tenderness, too dull for rage.
When Hector's lovely window shines in tears,
Or Rowe's gay rake dependent virtue jeers;
With the fame caft of features he is feen
To chide the libertine and court the queen.

From the tame scene which without paffion flows,

With juft defert his reputation rose.

Nor lefs he pleas'd, when, on fome furly plan,
He was, at once, the actor, and the man.
In Brute he fhone unequall'd: all agree
Garrick's not half fo great a brute as he.
When Cato's labour'd fcenes are brought to view,
With equal praise the actor labour'd too,
For ftill you'll find, trace paffions to their root,
Small diff'rence 'twixt the Stoic and the Brute.
In fancied fcenes, as in life's real plan,
He could not, for a moment, fink the man.
In whate'er caft his character was laid,
Self ftill, like oil, upon the furface play'd.
Nature, in fpite of all his skill, crept in:
Horatio, Dorax, Falftaff, ftill was Q-n.

Mr.

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