To-night, if you have brought your good old taste,
We'll treat you with a downright English feast :
A tale, which told long since in homely wise,
Hath never fail'd of melting gentle eyes.
Let no nice sir despise our hapless dame,
Because recording ballads chaunt her name;
Those venerable ancient song-enditers
Soar'd many a pitch above our modern writers:
They caterwaul'd in no romantic ditty,
Sighing for Phillis's, or Chloe's pity.
Justly they drew the fair, and spoke her plain,
And sung her by her christian name-'twas Jane.
Our numbers may
more refin'd than those,
But what we've gain'd in verse, we've lost in prose.
Their words no shuffling, double-meaning knew,
Their speech was homely, but their hearts were true.
In such an age, immortal Shakspere wrote,
By no quaint rules, nor hampering critics taught;
With rough majestic force he mov'd the heart,
And strength and nature made amends for art.
Our humble author does his steps pursue,
He owns he had the mighty bard in view;
And in these scenes has made it more his care,
To rouze the passions, than to charm the ear.
Yet for those gentle beaux, who love the chime,
The ends of acts still jingle into rhime.
The ladies too, he hopes, will not complain,
Here are some subje&is for a softer strain,
A nymph forsaken, and a perjur'd swain.
What most he fears, is, lest the dames should frown,
The dames of wit and pleasure about town,
To see our picture drawn unlike their own.
But lest that error should provoke to fury
The hospitable hundreds of old Drury,
He bid me say, in our Jane Shore's defence,
She dole'd about the charitable pence,
Built hospitals, turn'd saint, and dy'd long since.
For her example, whatsoe'er we make it,
They have their choice to let alone or take it.
Tho' few, as I conceive, will think it meet,
To weep so sorely, for a sin so sweet:
Or mourn and mortify the pleasant sense,
To rise in tragedy two ages hence.
Several lords of the council, guards, and attendants.
Several lords of the council, guards, and attendants.
The Tower. Enter the Duke of GLOCESTER, Sir RICHARD RATCLIFFE, and CATESBY.
THUS far success attends upon our councils,
And each event has answer'd to my wish;
The queen and all her upstart race are quell'd;
Dorset is banish'd, and her brother Rivers,
Ere this, lies shorter by the head at Pomfret.
The nobles have, with joint concurrence, nam'd me
Protector of the realm. My brother's children,
Young Edward and the little York, are lodg'd
Here, safe within the Tower. How say you, sirs,
Does not this business wear a lucky face?
The sceptre and the golden wreath of royalty
Seem hung within my reach.
Rat. Then take 'em to you,
And wear 'em long and worthily. You are
The last remaining male of princely York,
(For Edward's boys, the state esteems not of them,)
And therefore on your sov'reignty and rule,
The common-weal does her dependence make,
And leans upon your highness' able hand.
Cat. And yet to-morrow does the council meet,
To fix a day for Edward's coronation.
Who can expound this riddle?
Glost. That can I.
Those lords are each one my approv'd good friends,
Of special trust and nearness to my bosom;
And howsoever busy they may seem,
And diligent to bustle in the state,
Their zeal goes on no farther than we lead,
And at our bidding stays.
And he amongst the foremost in his power,
Of whom I wish your highness were assur'd.
For me, perhaps it is my nature's fault,
I own, I doubt of his inclining, much.
Glost. I guess the man at whom your words would point:
Glost. He bears me great good-will.
Cat. 'Tis true, to you, as to the lord protector, And Gloster's duke, he bows with lowly service: But were he bid to cry, God save King Richard, Then tell me in what terms he would reply? Believe me, I have prov'd the man, and found him:
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