IN BOW-STREET, COVENT-GARDEN.
SAY, cruel Iris, pretty rake,
Dear mercenary beauty,
What annual off'ring fhall I make
Expreffive of my duty.
My heart, a victim to thine eyes,
Should I at once deliver,
Say, would the angry fair-one prize
The gift who flights the giver?
A bill, a jewel, watch, or toy,
My rivals give-and let 'em.
If gems, or gold, import a joy,
I'll give them-when I get 'em.
I'll give but not the full-blown rofe,
Or rofe-bud more in fashion;
Such fhort-liv'd off'rings but disclose
A tranfitory paffion.
I'll give thee fomething yet unpaid,
Not lefs fincere, than civil:
I'll give thee-ah! too charming maid,
I'll give thee to the devil.
THIS tomb infcrib'd to gentle PARNEL's name,
May speak our gratitude, but not his fame.
What heart but feels his fweetly moral lay,
That leads to truth through pleafure's flowery way!
Celestial themes confefs'd his tuneful aid;
And heaven, that lent him genius, was repaid.
Needless to him the tribute we bestow,
The tranfitory breath of fame below:
More lafting rapture from his works fhall rife,
While converts thank their poet in the skies.
WHAT? five long acts-and all to make us wifer!
Our authorefs fure has wanted an adviser.
Had fhe confulted me, the should have made
Her moral play a fpeaking masquerade;
Warm'd up each buftling fcene, and in her rage
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
My life on't, this had kept her play from finking;
Have pleas'd our eyes, and fav'd the pain of thinking.
Well, fince fhe thus has fhewn her want of skill,
What if I give a masquerade ?—I will.
But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing]—I've got
The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, you, [To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery..
Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses! False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses! Statesmen with bridles on; and, close befide 'em, Patriots in party-colour'd fuits that ride 'em.
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore.
These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.
Mifs, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Flings down her fampler, and takes up the woman ;
The little urchin fmiles, and fpreads her lure,
And tries to kill, ere fhe's got power to cure :
Thus 'tis with all-their chief and conftant care
Is to feem every thing--but what they are.
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
Who feems t'have robb'd his vizor from the lion;
Who frowns, and talks, and fwears, with round parade,
Looking, as who fhould fay, dam'me! who's afraid?
[Mimicking,
Strip but this vizor off, and fure I am
•You'll find his lionship a very lamb.
Yon politician, famous in debate,
Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, beftrides the state;
Yet, when he deigns his real fhape t'affume,
He turns old woman, and beftrides a broom.
Yon patriot, too, who preffes on your fight,
And feems to every gazer, all in white,
If with a bribe his candour you attack,
He bows, turns round, and whip-the man in black!
Yon critic, too-but whither do I run ?
If I proceed, our bard will be undone !
Well then a truce, fince the requests it too :
Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you.
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