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“ Know, puppy, I'm an English pipe,
“ Deem'd worthy of each Briton's gripe,
“ Who, with my cloud-compelling aid
Help our plantations and our trade,
" And am, when sober and when mellow,
« An upright, downright, honest fellow.
• Tho’ fools, like you, may think me rough,
“ And scorn me, 'cause I am in buff,
« Yet your contempt I glad receive,
“ 'Tis all the fame that you can give :
“ None finery or fopp’ry prize ;
« But they who've something to disguise ;
“ For simple nature hates abuse,
" And Plainness is the dress of Use.”
L D Care with Industry and Art,
At length so well had play'd his Part ;
He heap'd up such an ample store,
That Av'rice cou'd not figh for more:
Ten thousand flocks his shepherd told,
His coffers overflow'd with Gold;
The land all round him was his own,
With corn his crouded granaries groan.
In short so vast his charge and gain,
That to possess them was a pain;
With happiness oppress’d he lies,
And much too prudent to be wise.
Near him there liv'd a beauteous maid,
With all the charms of youth array'd ;
Good, amiable, sincere and free,
Her name was Generosity.
'Twas hers the largess to bestow
On rich and poor, on friend and foe,
Her doors to all were open'd wide,
The pilgrim there might safe abide :
For th’hungry and the thirsty crew,
The bread she broke, the drink she drew;
There Sickness laid her aching head,
And there Distress cou'd find a bed.
Each hour with an all-bounteous hand,
Diffused she blessings round the land :
Her gifts and glory lasted long,
And numerous was th' accepting throng.
At length pale Penury feiz’d the dame,
And Fortune fled, and Ruin came,
She found her riches at an end,
And that she had not made one friend. --
All cursed her for not giving more,
Nor thought on what she'd done before ;
She wept, she rav'd, she tore her hair,
When lo! to comfort her came Care.
And cry'd, my dear, if you will join,
Your hand in nuptial bonds with mine;
All will be well--you shall have store,
And I be plagu'd with Wealth no more.----
Tho'I restrain your bounteous heart,
You still shall act the generous part.
The Bridal came--great was the feast,
And good the pudding and the priest;
The bride in nine moons brought him forth
A little maid of matchless worth:
Her face was mix'd of Care and Glee,
They christen’d her Oeconomy ;
And styled her fair Discretion's Queen,
The mistress of the golden mean.
Now Generosity confin'd,
Is perfect eafy in her mind;
She loves to give, yet knows to spare,
Nor wishes to be free from Care:
As it was acted at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, on
Thursday the 7th of March 1751, by Persons of Distinction for their Diyersion.
HIL E mercenary actors tread the stage,
And hireling scrìblers lash or lull the
Ours be the task t'instruct, and entertain,
Without one thought of glory or of gain.
Virtue's her own---from no external cause---
She gives, and she demands the Self-applausę:
Home to her breast she brings the heart-felt bays,
Heedless alike of profit, and of praise.
This now perhaps is wrong---yet this we know,'
'Twas sense and truth a century ago :
When Britain with transcendent glory crown’d,
For high atchievements, as for wit renown'd ;
Culld from each growing grace the purest part,
And cropt the flowers from every blooming art.
Our noblest youth would then embrace the task
Of comic humour, or the mystic masque.
'Twas theirs t’incourage worth, and give to bards
What now is spent in boxing and in cards :
Good sense their pleasure---Virtue still their guide,
And English magnanimity---their pride.
Methinks I see with Fancy's magic eye,
The shade of Shakespear, in yon azure sky.
On yon high cloud behold the bard advance,
Piercing all Nature with a single glance :
In various attitudes around him ftand
The passions, waiting for his dread command.
First kneeling Love before his feet appears,
And musically sighing melts in tears.
Near him fell Jealousy with fury burns,
And into storms the amorous breathings turns ;
Then Hope with heavenward look, and Joy draws near,
While palsied Terror trembles in the rear.
Such Shakespear's train of horror and delight,
And such we hope to introduce to-night.
But if, tho' just in thought, we fail in fact,
And good intention ripens not to act,
Weigh our design, your censure still defer,
When truth's in view ’tis glorious e'en to err.