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Spoken by Mrs CLIVE.
Write for each play two Epilogues at least;
Speak it, when the play is damn'd?
Orpheus drew fones with bis enchanting song:
-But tho' our angry poets rail in spite,
from these rude places you abftain,
Spoken by Mr KING. HITHER, in days of yore, from Spain or France,
Came a dread sorceress; ber name Romance.
spells fbe cast,
This fiend to quell, bis sword Cervantes drew,
the dear delight of later years, The younger fifter of Romance, appearsi
Les folemn is ber vir, her drift the same,
'Tis not alone the small-talk and the smart, *Tis novel mofi beguiles the female heart. Miss readsm-fbe melts-foe
fighsm-love feals upon ber--And then-alas, poor girl!--good night, poor bonour !
« * Thus of our Polly having lightly Spoke, “ Now for our author! but without a joke, “ Though wits and journals, who ne'er fibb'd
before, “Have laid this bantling at a certain door, “Where, lying fore of faults, they'd
fain beap more; " I now declare it as a serious truth, “ 'Tis the first felly of a simple youth,
Caught and deluded by our barlot playamana 6. Then crush not in the foell this infant Bayes; “ Exert your favour to a young beginner, “ Nor use the ftripling like a batter'd
Scene, An Apartment in Honeycombe's House.
POLLY, with a Book in her Hand.
But so “ With these words the enraptur'd " baronet (reading) concluded his declaration of love." -So! But what heart can imagine, (reading), “ what tongue describe, or what pen delineate, the "s amiable confusion of Emília ?"-Well, now for it.
.“ Reader, if thou art a courtly reader, thou haft “ feen, at polite tables, iced cream crimsoned with raf“ berries; or, if thou art an uncourtly reader, thou haft “ seen the rosy-finger'd morning dawning in the golden “ eaft."-Dawning in the golden eaft !_Very pretty.
46 Thou * These lines were added by Mr Garrick, on its being reported that he was author of this piece; and, however humorous and poetical, contain as itrict mattor of fact as the dullest profe.
- Thou haft feen perhaps (reading) the artificial ver" milion on the cheeks of Cleora, or the vermilion of “ nature on those of Sylvia; thou haft seen-in a word, " the lovely face of Emila was overfpread with blushes." -This is a moft beautiful paffage, I protest! Well, a novel føt my money!-Lord, Lord, my ftupid papa has no tafte. He has no notion of humour and character, and the fenfibility of delicate feeling, (affectedly.) And then mama
But where was I?-Oh, here “Overspread with blushes, (reading.)—Sir George, “ touched at her confufion, gently feized her hand, " and softly preffing it to his bofon, (atting it as the “ reads), where the pulses, of his heart beat quick, throb** bing with tumultuous paflion, in a plaintive tone of “ voice breathed out, Will you not anfwer me, Emi* lia?"Tender creature ! " She, half railing ** freading and acting) her downcaft eyes, and half* inclining ber averted head, faid in faultering accents * — Yes, Sár."-Well, now. Then gradually reco#vering, with ineffable fweetness the prepared to ado “ dress him, when Mrs Jenkins bounced into the rooms, " threw down a fet of china in her burry, and ftrewed " the floor with porcelain-fragments: then turning E** milia round and round, whirled her out of the apart* ment in an instant, and struck Sir George dumb with “ astonishment at her appearance. She raved; but the * baronet refuming his accustomed effrontery."
Enter Norfe. Oh, surse, I am glad to fee you!
Well, and how Nur. Well, chicken? Pol. Tell me, tell me all this inftant. Did you fee him? Did you give him my letter? Did he write? Will he come? Shall I see him? Have you got the anfwer in your pocket ? Have you Nur. Blessings on her, how her tongue runs!
Pol. Nay, but come, dear nursee, tell me, what did he say?
Nur. Say? why, he took the letter
Nur. And kifs'd it a thousand times, and read it a whousand times, and Pok Od charming!
Nur. And ran about the room, and blest himself, and, Hear'n preserve us, curst himself, and
Pol. Very fine, very fine!
Nur. And vowed he was the most miserable creature upon earth, and the happiest man in the world, and
Pol. Prodigiously fine! excellent! My dear, dear nursee! (Kiling her.) Come, give me the letter. -Nur. Letter, chicken! what letter?
Pol. The answer to mine. -Come then! (Impatiently.)
Nür. I have no letter. He had such a peramble to write, by my troth I could not stay for it.
Nur. How soon you're affronted now! He faid he'd send it some time to-day.
Pol. Send it some time to-day! I wonder now (as if musing) how he will convey it. Will he squeeze it, as he did the laft, into the chicken-house in the garden? Or will he write it in lemon-juice, and send it in a book like blank paper? Or will he throw it into the house inclosed in an orange? Or will he
Nur. Heavens bless her, what a sharp wit she has ! Pol. I have not read so many books for nothing. Novels, nursee, novels! A novel is the only thing to teach a girl life, and the way of the world, and elegant fancies, and love to the end of the chapter.
Nur. Yes, yes; you are always reading your fimple ftory-books; the Ventures of Jack this, and the Hiftory of Betsy t'other, and Sir Humphrys, and women with hard Christian names. You had better read your prayer. book, chicken.
Pol. Why so I do; but I'm reading this now(Looking into the book.) “She raved; but the baronet”
I really think I love Mr Scribble as well as Emilia did Sir George.--Do you think, nursee, I should have had such a good notion of love so early if I had not read novels? Did not I make a conquest of Mr Scribble in a fingle night at a dancing? but my cross papa will hardly ever let me go out. And then, I know life as well as if I had been in the beau-monde all my days. I can tell the nature of a masquerade as well as if I had been at twenty, I long for a mobbing scheme with Mr