Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge,
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, CROAKER, reading.DEAR NICK,
AN English gentleman, of large fortune, has
for some time made private, though honourable
proposals to your daughter Olivia. They love
each other tenderly, and I find she has consented,
without letting any of the family know, to crown
his addresses. As such good offers don't come
every day, your own good sense, his large fortune,
and family considerations, will induce you to for∣give
her.
Yours ever,
RACHAEL CROAKER.
My daughter, Olivia, privately
P.
There is at least a mathematical relationship, or perhaps I
ought rather to have said a metaphysical relationship between
them. Sir Isaac Newton has observed, that the breadths of the
seven primary colours in the Sun's image refracted by a prism
are proportional to the seven musical notes of the gamut, or
to the intervals of the eight sounds contained in an octave,
that is, proportional to the following numbers:
Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Bent double, like old beggars under sacks, Knock-kneed, coughing like hags, we cursed through sludge, Till on the haunting flares we turned our backs And towards our distant rest began to trudge. tread softly, for you tread on my tears
SONG.Let smiling Cupids weave a crown,Young Hymen's brows to bind;Then make this matchless maid my own,The fairest of her kind.ARABELLA.Her hateful head, let Envy hide,Whilst I my joys confess;There never sure was yet a brideFelt equal happiness.
As I have not time to copy letters, you will excuse the corrections.
P. S. I intended, had I staid in England, to have
published the Information, with my remarks upon it, before
the Trial came on; but as I am otherwise engaged, I reserve
myself till the Trial is over, when I shall reply fully to
very thing you shall advance.
T. P.SIR,
All the Women of our Stage have made a Party against me
upon the Account of this Accident in the Libertine,
and say, that ano∣ther such Instance of Chastity might ruin
them; for which Reason, and because I have no Money to make
an Interest with Mr. Lillie, t'other Gentleman's
Agent, I shall be undone, unless your Honour will pity my
Case.
EPILOGUE.
Spoken by Mrs. BARRY.
LADIES, your country's ornament and pride,Ye, whom the nuptial deity has tiedIn silken setters, will ye not impartFor pity's sake some portion of your artTo a mere novice, and prescribe some planHow you would have me live with my good man?
PROLOGUE.
Spoken by Mr. KING.To hear with candour, ere we judge a cause,Is the known Magna Charta of all laws!So says our bard!—then who would break a rule,Fram'd and established in the earliest school?Or, who so jealous of another's fame,To damp a spark, just rising to a flame?And yet,—from our reports within,—'tis said,There are—some wits amongst ye—so ill bred,They come,—unknowing,—wherefore,—or for why,—To break, on critic-wheel,—a butterfly!But sure my eyes,—and they're not bad, good folks!Can easy read—these whispers—are mere jokes!To try the hero of this night's campaign,—Who frets,—and struts,—then struts,—and frets again!Bows,—smiles,—and nods,—from heroes, kings, and queens,To him who prompts,—sweeps,—clips,—or shifts the scenes!But I—who know him best,—do know for certain,That—entre nous,—'tis all behind the curtain,Where he—poor culprit,—trembles ev'ry limb,And shadows seem—realities to him!Doubts rise on doubts!—and fears on fears await!Holding, with airy nothings,—a debate!And so suspicious,—lest you take amiss—That ev'ry cough,—he'll construe to a hiss!Or should you cry but bravo!—or encore!He'll trembling answer,—"there!—d'ye hear? no more!"Oh! could you know what authors, actors feel!When at your bar they make their first appeal!You'd think your warmest patronage their due,And own the picture—where the tints are true!To him then, conscious, that all comic wit,"As 'tis the best,—so 'tis most hard to hit!"Ye Gods
First Gallery.!—and demi-gods
Second Gallery.!—ye wits
Boxes and Pit.! be kind;Nor, in the critic, lose—the gen'rous mind!Of old rememb'ring—authors would excel,When men were prais'd—who but endeavour'd well.going, stops.Yet hold—one hint I'll drop before I go—'Tis downright Farce—not Comedy we shew—As such receive—nor mark with critic sneer—As if a bench of Stagyrites were here—But laugh—where Nature prompts—where Mirth demands—And give (in spite of trivial faults) your hands.
1 TIM. v. 6. She that liveth in Pleasure, is Dead while
She liveth.HOW hapless is th' applauded Virgin's Lot,Her GOD forgetting, by her GOD forgot!Stranger to Truth, unknowing to obey,In Error nurst, and disciplin'd to stray;Swoln with Self-will, and principled with Pride,Sense all her Good, and Passion all her Guide:Pleasure its Tide, and Flatt'ry lends its Breath,And smoothly waft her to Eternal Death!