SPOKEN BY

MR. FOOTE.

OF all the passions that possess mankind,
The love of novelty rules most the mind;
In search of this, from realm to realm we roam,
Our fleets come fraught with every folly home;
From Lybia's deserts hostile brutes advance,
And dancing dogs in droves skip here from France;
From Latian lands gigantic forms appear,

Striking our British breasts with awe and fear,

As once the Lilliputians

-Gulliver.

Not only objects that affect the sight,

In foreign arts and artists we delight;

Near to that spot where Charles bestrides a horse,

In humble prose the place is Charing Cross;

Close by the margin of a kennel's side,

A dirty dismal entry opens wide,

There with hoarse voice, check shirt, and callous hand,

Duff's Indian English trader takes his stand,

Surveys each passenger with curious eyes,
And rustic Roger falls an easy prize;
Here's China porcelain that Chelsea yields,
And India handkerchiefs from Spitalfields.
With Turkey carpets that from Wilton came,
And Spanish tucks and blades from Birmingham,
Factors are forced to favour this deceit,

And English goods are smuggled thro' the street,
The rude to polish, and the fair to please,
The hero of to-night has cross'd the seas,

Tho' to be born a Briton be his crime,

He's manufactured in another clime.

'Tis Buck begs leave once more to come before The little subject of a former story,

ye,

How chang'd, how fashion'd, whether brute or beau,
We trust the following scenes will fully shew.
For them and him we your indulgence crave,
'Tis ours still to sin on, and yours to save.

EPILOGUE:

SPOKEN BY

MRS. BELLAMY.

AMONG the arts to make a piece go down,

And fix the fickle favour of the town,
An Epilogue is deem'd the surest way
To atone for all the errors of the play;
Thus when pathetic strains have made you cry,
In trips the Comic Muse, and wipes your eye,
With equal reason, when she has made you laugh,
Melpomene should send you snivelling off.
But our Bard, unequal to the task,

Rejects the dagger, and retains the mask :
Fain would he send you chearful home to-night,
And harmless mirth by honest means excite;
Scorning with luscious phrase or double sense,
To raise a laughter at the fair's expence.
What method shall we choose your taste to hit ?
Will no one lend our Bard a little wit?
Thank ye, kind souls, I'll take it from the pit.

The piece concluded, and the curtain down,
Up starts that fatal phalanx, call'd The Town:
In full assembly weighs our author's fate,
And Surly thus commences the debate:

Pray, among friends, does not this poisoning scene
The sacred rights of Tragedy profane ?

If Farce may mimic thus her awful bowl :
Oh fie, all wrong, stark naught, upon my soul!
Then Buck cries, Billy, can it be in nature?
Not the least likeness in a single feature.
My lord, Lord love him, 'tis a precious piece;
Let's come on Friday night and have a hiss.
To this a peruquier assents with joy,
Parcequ'il affronte les François, oui, ma foi.
In such distress what can the poet do?
Where seek for shelter when those foes pursue?
He dares demand protection, sirs, from you.

La Jonquil, La Loire, Bearnois, and Servants.

FROM PARIS.

66

ACT I.

Crab discovered reading.

AND I do constitute my very good friend, Giles Crab, esq. of St. Martin in the Fields, executor to this my will; and do appoint him guardian to my ward Lucinda; and do submit to his direction, the management of all my affairs, till the return of my son from his travels; whom I do intreat said executor in consideration of our ancient my friendship, to advise, to counsel, &c. &c.— John Buck." A good, pretty legacy! Let's see, I find myself heir, by this generous devise of my very good friend, to ten actions at common law, nine suits in chancery, the conduct of a boy, bred a booby at home, and finish'd a fop abroad; together with the direction of a marriageable, and therefore an unmanageable wench; and all this to an old fellow of sixty-six, who heartily hates business, is tired of the world, and despises every thing in it. Why how the devil came I to merit

Enter Servant.

Ser. Mr. Latitat, of Staple's Inn.

Crab. So, here begin my plagues. Shew the hound in.

Enter Latitat with a bag, &c.

Lat. I would, Mr. Crab, have attended your summons immediately, but I was obliged to sign