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The shepherd now moves faint with languid flock
To riv❜let fresh and bow'ry grove,
To cool retirements of high-arching rock,
O'er the mute stream no zephyrs move..

Yet weighing subsidies and England's weal,
You still in anxious thought call forth
Dark ills, which Gaul and Prussia deep conceal,
Or fierce may burst from towering North.

All-seeing Wisdom, kind to mortals, hides
Time's future births in gloomy night;
Too busy care, with pity, Heaven derides,
Man's fond, officious, feeble might.

Use then aright the present. Things to be,
Uncertain flow, like Thames; now peaceful borne

In even bed, soft-gliding down to sea;

Now mould'ring shores, and oaks uptorn,

Herds, cottages, together swept away,

Headlong he rolls; the pedant woods

And bellowing cliffs proclaim the dire dismay,

When the fierce torrents rouse the tranquil floods,

They, masters of themselves, they happy live,
Whose hearts at ease can say secure,

"This day rose not in vain : let Heav'n next give
"Or clouded skies, or sunshine pure."

Yet never what swift Time behind has cast
Shall back return; no pow'r the thing
That was bid not have been; for ever past,
It flies on unrelenting wing.

Fortune, who joys perverse in mortal woe,
Still frolicking with cruel play,
Now may on me her giddy smile bestow,
Now wanton to another stray.

If constant, I caress her; if she flies

On fickle plumes, farewel her charms!

All dower I wave (save what good fame supplies,)
And wrapt my soul in Freedom's arms.

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'Tis not for me to shrink with mean despair,
Favour's proud ship should whirlwinds toss;
Nor venal idols sooth with bart'ring prayer,
To shield from wreck opprobrious dross.

"Midst all the tumults of the warring sphere, My light-charged bark may haply glide;

Some gale may waft, some conscious thought shall cheer, And the small freight unanxious glide.

WILLIAM PITT, 1750.

PROLOGUE to the WHEEL OF FORTUNE.

FARMER late (so Country Records say)

When as the bleak unshelter'd heath he crost,
Fast bound by winter in obdurate frost,
The driving snow-storm smote him in his course,
High blow'd the North, and rag'd in all its force:
Slow pac'd and full of years, th' unequal strife
Long time he held, and struggled hard for life;
Vanquish'd at length, benumbed in every part,
The very life-blood curdling at his heart,
Torpid he stood, in frozen fetters bound,
Doz'd, reel'd, and dropt, expiring to the ground.
Haply his dog, by wond'rous instinct fraught,
With all the reas'ning attributes of thought,
Saw his sad state, and to his dying breast
Close cow'ring his devoted body press'd:
Then howl'd amain for help, till passing near
Some charitable rustic lent an ear ;

Rais'd him from earth, recall'd his flitting breath,
And snatch'd him from the icy arms of death.
So when the chilling blast of secret woe
Checks the soul's genial current in its flow;
When death-like lethargy arrests the mind,
Till man forgets all feeling for his kind;
To his cold heart the friendly Muse can give
Warmth and a pulse that forces him to live;
By the sweet magic of her scene beguile,
And bend his rigid muscles with a smile ;
Shake his stern breast with sympathetic fears,
And make his frozen eye-lids melt in tears;
Pursuing still her life-restoring plan,
Till he perceives and owns himself a Man :

Warm'd

Warm'd with these hopes, this night we make appeal
To British hearts, for they are hearts that feel.

EPILOGUE to the WHEEL OF FORTUNE.

THER

HERE are-what shall I call them? Two great powers,
Who turn and overturn this world of our's-

Fortune and folly-tho' not quite the same

In property they play each other's game;

Fortune makes poor men rich, then turns 'em o'er
To folly, who soon strips them of their store.
Oh! 'twas a mighty neat and lucky hit,
When Pat O'Leary snapt a wealthy cit,

For why? His wants were big, his means were small,
His wisdom less, and so he spent his all:
When fortune turn'd about and jilted Pat,
Was fool or fortune in the fault of that?
-Sir Martin Madcap held the lucky dice,
He threw, and won five thousand in a trice;
Keep it! cried caution-no, he threw again,
Kick'd down the five, and cut with minus ten.
-Giles Jumble and his dame, a loving pair,
No brains had either, and of course no care,
Till (woe the day), when fortune, in her spite,
Made Giles High Sheriff, and then dubb'd him knight,
Up they both go; my lady leads the dance,

Sir Giles cuts capers on the Wheel of chance;
Heads down, heels over, whisk'd and whisk'd about,
No wonder if their shallow wits ran out;

Gigg'd by their neighbours, gull'd of all their cash,
Down came Sir Giles, and lo! with thund'ring crash.
Who says that Fortune's blind? she has quicker sight
Than most of those, on whom her favous light;
For why does she enrich the weak and vain,
But that her ventures may come home again?
Pass'd thro' like quicksilver, they lose not weight,
Nor value in their loco-motive state;

No stop, no stay; so fast her clients follow,
Ere one mouth shuts, another gapes to swallow;
Whilst like a conjurer's ball-presto! begone!
The pill that serv'd Sir Giles, now serves Sir John.
Sir Eustace had a fair and lovely wife,
Form'd to adorn and bless the nuptial life;
Fortune's best gift in her best giving mood,
Şir Eustace made that bad which Heav'n made good;

Basely

Basely allur'd her into Folly's course,

Then curs'd his fate, and sued out a divorce.
Unjust at Fortune's cruelty to rail,

When we make all the miseries we bewail.

Ah! generous patrons, on whose breath depends
The fortune of the muse, and us her friends;
If, in your grace, this night you shall bestow
One sprig of laurel for your poet's brow,
Impart to me your flattering commands,

And sign them with the plaudit of your hands.

ADDRESS spoken by MRS. SIDDONS, at her Benefit, and written by Sam. Rogers, Esq. Author of the Pleasures of Memory.

Y

ES, 'tis the pulse of life! my fears were vain!
I wake, I breathe, and am my self again,

Still in this nether world! no seraph yet!
Nor walks my spirit when the sun is set,
With troubled step to haunt the fatal board,
Where I died last-by poison or the sword;
And blanch each honest cheek with deeds of night,
Done here so oft by dim and doubtful light.

-To drop all metaphor, that little bell
Call'd back reality and broke the spell,
No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone;
A very woman-scarce restrains her own!
Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind,
When to be grateful is the part assign'd?
Ah, No! she scorns the trappings of her art;
No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart.

But, Ladies, say, must I alone unmask,
Is here no other actress? let me ask.
Believe me, those who best the heart dissect,
Know every woman studies stage-effect.
She moulds her manners to the parts she fills,
As instinct teaches, or as humour wills;
And, as the grave or gay her talent calls,

Acts in the drama till the curtain falls.

First, how her little breast with triumph swells,
When the red coral rings its silver bells!
To play in pantomime is then the rage
Along the carpet's many-colour'd stage;
Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeavour,
Now here, now there,-in noise and mischief ever!

A school

A school girl next, she curls her hair in papers,
And mimics father's gout and mother's vapours,
Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances;
Playful at church, and serious when she dances;
Tramples alike on customs and on toes,
And whispers all she hears to all she knows;
Terror of caps and wigs and sober notions!
A romp! that longest of perpetual motions!
-Till tam'd and tortur'd into foreign graces,
She sports her lovely face at public places;
And with blue, laughing eyes, behind her fan,
First acts her part with that great actor Man.

Too soon a flirt, approach her and she flies,
Frowns when pursu'd, and, when entreated sighs!
Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice;
Till fading beauty hints the late advice.

Her prudence dictates what her pride disdain'd,
And now she sues to slaves herself had chain'd.

Then comes that good old character a wife,
With all the dear, distracting cares of life;
A thousand cards a-day at doors to leave,
And in return, a thousand cards receive.
Rouge high, play deep, to lead the ton aspire,
With nightly blaze set Portland-place on fire;
Snatch half a glimpse at Concert, Opera, Ball,
A Meteor trac'd by none, tho' seen by all;
And when her shatter'd nerves forbid to roam,
In very spleen-rehearse the girl at home.

Last the grey dowager, in ancient flounces,
With snuff and spectacles the age denounces;
Boasts how the Sires of this degenerate Isle
Knelt for a look and duel'd for a smile;
The scourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal,
Her tea she sweetens, as she sips, with scandal;
With modern belles eternal warfare wages,
Like her own birds that clamour from their cages;
And shuffles round to bear her tale to all,
Like some old ruin, "nodding to its fall."

Thus woman makes her entrance and her exit,
Then most an actress when she least suspects it.
Each lesson lost, each poor pretence forgot;
Yet nature oft peeps out and marks the plot;
Full oft, with energy that scorns control,
At once lights up the features of the soul;
Unlocks each thought chain'd down by coward art,
And to full day the latent passions start!

But

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