Bid general Essay lead the van, AUTHOR. True, true,-our news, our prose, our rhymes, Shall show the colour of the times; For which most salutary ends, We've fellow-soldiers, fellow-friends. My lord duke's butler, and the mayor's. Of oratorial reputation; Or those who live on scraps and bits, Mere green-room wasps, and Temple wits; On flow'r and seed, and wind, and weather, See how the urchin holds his hands. Upon my life he understands. -There's a sweet child, come, kiss me, come, Will Jacky have a sugar-plum? MRS. SCOT. This person, madam, (call him so His twenty shillings with a friend. MRS. BROWN. My good man, too-Lord bless us! wives Are born to lead unhappy lives, Although his profits bring him clear Almost two hundred pounds a year, Keeps me of cash so short and bare, That I have not a gown to wear; Except my robe, and yellow sack, And this old lutestring on my back. But we've no time, my dear, to waste. Come, where's your cardinal, make haste, The king, God bless his majesty, I say, Goes to the house of lords to day, In a fine painted coach and eight, And rides along in all his state. And then the queen 105 But tell me, do-I've never seen Her present majesty, the queen. MRS. BROWN. Lard! we've no time for talking now, Hark!-one-two-three-'tis twelve I vow. MRS. SCOT. Kitty, my things,-I'll soon have done, It's time enough, you know, at one. -Why, girl! see how the creature stands! Some water here to wash my hands. -Be quick-why sure the gipsey sleeps! Look how the drawling daudle creeps. That bason there-why don't you pour, Go on, I say-stop, stop-no moreLud! I could beat the hussey down, She's pour'd it all upon my gown. -Bring me my ruffles-can'st not mind? And pin my handkerchief behind. Sure thou hast awkwardness enough, Go-fetch my gloves, and fan, and muff. -Well, Heav'n be prais'd-this work is done, I'm ready now, my dear-let's run. Girl,-put that bottle on the shelf, And bring me back the key yourself, I'm glad you think so,-Kitty, here, -Come, come then, give mamma a kiss, -There, go to Kitty there's a man, Call in the dog, and shut the door, Now, ma'm. MRS. BROWN. Oh Lard! MRS. SCOT. Pray go before. MRS. BROWN. I can't indeed, now. MRS. SCOT. MRS. BROWN. Well then, for once, I'll lead the way. MRS. SCOT. Lard! what an uproar! what a throng! What will become of us?-look here, MRS. BROWN. Don't be afraid, my dear, come on, Why don't you see the guards are gone? MRS. SCOT. Well, I begin to draw my breath; But I was almost scar'd to death; For where a horse rears up and capers, It always puts me in the vapours. For as I live, nay, don't you laugh, I'd rather see a toad by half, They kick and prance, and look so bold, It makes my very blood run cold. MRS. BROWN. Come you from Palace-yard, old dame? OLD WOMAN. Troth, do I, my young ladies, why? MRS. BROWN. Was it much crowded when you came? MRS. SCOT. And is his majesty gone by? MRS. BROWN. Can we get in, old lady, pray, To see him robe himself to day? MRS. SCOT. Can you direct us, dame? OLD WOMAN. Endeavour. Go thy ways, Proverbs-well she's gone➡ Shall we turn back, or venture on? Look how the folks press on before, And throng impatient at the door. MRS. SCOT. Perdigious! I can hardly stand, Lord bless me, Mrs. Brown, your hand; And yon, my dear, take hold of hers, For we must stick as close as burrs, Or in this racket, noise and pother, We certainly shall lose each other. -Good God! my cardinal and sack Are almost torn from off my back. Lard, I shall faint-Oh Lud-my breastI'm crush'd to atoms, I' protest. God bless me I have dropt my fan, -Pray did you see it, honest man? MAN. I, madam! no,-indeed, I fear You'll meet with some misfortune here. -Stand back, I say-pray, sir, forbearWhy, don't you see the ladies there? Put yourselves under my direction, Ladies, I'll be your safe protection. MRS. SCOT. You're very kind, sir; truly few Are half so complaisant as you. We shall be glad at any day This obligation to repay, And you'll be always sure to meet A welcome, sir, in-Lard! the street Bears such a name, I can't tell how To tell him where I live, I vow. -Mercy! what's all this noise and stir? Pray is the king a coming, sir? MAN. No don't you hear the people shout? 'Tis Mr. Pitt, just going out. MRS. BROWN. Aye, there he goes, pray heav'n bless him! Well may the people all caress him. -Lord, how my husband us'd to sit, And drink success to honest Pitt, And happy o'er his evening cheer, Cry," you shall pledge this toast, my dear." MAN. Hist-silence-don't you hear the drumming? Now, ladies, now, the king's a coming. There, don't you see the guards approach? MRS. BROWN. Which is the king? MRS. SCOT. Which is the coach? SCOTCHMAN. Which is the noble earl of Bute, Geud-faith, I'll gi him a salute. For he's the Laird of aw our clan, Troth, he's a bonny muckle man. MAN. Here comes the coach, so very slow As if it ne'er was made to go, In all the gingerbread of state, MRS. SCOT. Upon my word, it's monstrous fine! Would half the gold upon't were mine! How gaudy all the gilding shows! It puts one's eyes out as it goes. What a rich glare of various hues, What shining yellows, scarlets, blues! It must have cost a heavy price; 'Tis like a mountain drawn by mice. MRS. BROWN. So painted, gilded, and so large, Bless me! 'tis like my lord mayor's barge. And so it is-look how it reels! 'Tis nothing else—a barge on wheels. MAN. Large! it can't pass St. James's gate, So big the coach, the arch so strait, It might be made to rumble through And pass as other coaches do. Could they a body-coachman get So most preposterously fit, Who'd undertake (and no rare thing) Without a head to drive the king. MRS. SCOT. Lard! what are those two ugly things There with their hauds upon the springs, Filthy, as ever eyes beheld, With naked breasts, and faces swell'd? To put such things to fright the queen? MAN. Oh! they are gods, ma'am, which you see, Of the Marine Society, Tritons, which in the ocean dwell, MRS. SCOT. Gods, d'ye call those filthy men? Why don't they go to sea again? Pray, tell me, sir, you understand, What do these Tritons do on land? MRS. BROWN. And what are they? those hindmost things, Men, fish, and birds, with flesh, scales, wings? MAN. Oh, they are gods too, like the others, For show, they wear the yellow hue, MRS. SCOT. Lord bless us! what's this noise about? Lord, what a tumult and a rout! How the folks hollow, hiss, and hoot! Let's make for any house we can, You say, To that confinement you would shun, AUTHOR. Yes it stands forth to public view Within, without, on white, on blue, In proper, tall, gigantic letters, Not dash'd-emvowell'd-like my betters. And though it stares me in the face, Reflects no shame, hints no disgrace. While these unlabour'd trifles please, Familiar chains are worn with ease. -Behold! to yours and my surprise, These trifles to a volume rise. Thus will you see me, as I go, Still gath'ring bulk like balls of snow, Steal by degrees upon your shelf, And grow a giant from an elf. The current studies of the day, Can rarely reach beyond a play: A pamphlet may deserve a look, But Heav'n defend us from a book! A libel flies on scandal's wings, But works of length are heavy things. -Not one in twenty will succeedConsider, sir, how few can read. FRIEND. I mean a work of merit AUTHOR. True. FRIEND. A man of taste must buy. AUTHOR. Yes; You And half a dozen more, my friend, Whom your good taste shall recommend. When argument and reason fail; FRIEND. Whose nuptials, sir? AUTHOR. A poet's- -did that poem stir? No-fixt-tho' thousand readers pass, It still looks through its pane of glass, And seems indignant to exclaim "Pass on ye sons of taste, for shame!" While duly each revolving Moon, Pick up those flowers the Muses send, FRIEND. But you must have a fund, a mine, Prose, poems, letters, AUTHOR. Not a line. And here, my friend, I rest secure; He can't lose much, who's always poor. And if, as now, through numbers five, This work with pleasure kept alive Can still its currency afford, Nor fear the breaking of its hoard, Can pay you, as at sundry times, For self per Mag, two thousand rhymes, From whence should apprehension grow, That self should fail, with richer co? No doer of a monthly grub, Myself alone a learned club, I ask my readers to no treat Of scientific hash'd-up meat, Nor seek to please theatric friends, With scraps of plays, and odds and ends. FRIEND. Your method, sir, is plain enough; And all the world has read your Puff'. AUTHOR. Why let it be, and wherefore shame? As Juliet says, what's in a name? I See the Puff. Besides it is the way of trade, Through which all science is convey'd, FRIEND. That's an Herculean task, my friend, What! break up Latin! pull down Greek! AUTHOR. I seek not, with satyric stroke, No let him cull and spout quotations, Such, though they waste the midnight oil In dull, minute, perplexing toil, Not understanding, do no good, By scholars, apprehend me right, Mayn't write the worse, because they've read. FRIEND. True; but that fault is seldom known, AUTHOR. Lord! I have seen a thousand such, With such, eternal books, successive From these I ground no expectation you mistake me, friend. Suppose, (Translations are but modern clothes) 1 dress my boy-(for instance sake Maintain these children which I make) I give him coat and breeches FRIEND. True But not a bib and apron too! AUTHOR. So would I clothe a free translation, FRIEND. Your Horace now-e'en borrow thence AUTHOR. Originals will always please, * The first restorer of Greek learning in Eng- A similarity must strike, land. 3 See Sigonius and Manutius. Where both, of simple nature fond, |