What hearts with tender pity fhall regret
The bitter grief that clouds OPHELIA's fate?

ONCE fair fhe flourish'd, nature's joy and pride, But droop'd and wither'd, when a father dy'd. Severe extremes of tendernefs and woe,

5

When love and virtue mourn one common blow; 10
When griefs alternate o'er the bosom reign,
And ev'ry sense and ev'ry thought is pain!
Here nature triumph'd, on her throne fublime,
And mock'd each pygmy muse of later time;
Till SHAKESPEARE touch'd the foul with all her

smart,

And ftamp'd her living image on the heart,

FROM his inftructive fong we deeply feel,
How vainly guilt its horrors would conceal.
Tho' night and filence with the fraud confpire,
To bid the crime from human fearch retire;
Tho' yet the traitor feem from harm fecure,
And fate a while fufpend th' avenging hour:
Tho fortune nurfe him with a mother's care,
And deck her pageant in a short-liv'd glare:
In vain he struggles to disguise his smart,
A living plague corrodes his ulcer'd heart;

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20

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While ev'ry form of ruin meets his eyes,
And heav'n's vindictive terrors round him rife.

SUCH falutary truths their light diffuse, Where honours due attend the tragic muse;

Deep by her facred signature imprest,

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They mingle with the foul, and warm the breast. Hence taught of old, the pious and the fage, With veneration, patroniz'd the stage.

BUT, foft! methinks you cry with fome surprize, 35 "How long intend you thus to moralize?" Our prologue deviates from establish'd rules, Nor fhocks the fair, nor calls the critics fools, 'Tis true; but, dully fond of common sense, We still think fpleen to wit has no pretence; 49 Think impudence is far remote from spirit,

And modefty, tho' aukward, has fome merit.

भु

The

The AUTHOR'S PICTURE.

HILE in my matchless graces wrapt I

WHILE

ftand,

And touch each feature with a trembling hand; Deign, lovely SELF! with art and nature's pride, To mix the colours, and the pencil guide.

SELF is the grand pursuit of half mankind:
How vast a croud by felf, like me, are blind!
By felf, the fop, in magic colours shown,
Tho' fcorn'd by ev'ry eye, delights his own:
When age and wrinkles feize the conqu'ring maid,
Self, not the glass, reflects the flatt'ring fhade. ΤΟ
Then, wonder-working felf! begin the lay;
Thy charms to others, as to me, display.

STRAIGHT is my perfon, but of little fize;
Lean are my cheeks, and hollow are my eyes:
My youthful down is, like my talents, rare;
Politely diftant ftands each fingle hair.
My voice too rough to charm a lady's. ear;

15

So fmooth a child may liften without fear;

Not

Not form'd in cadence foft and warbling lays,"

To footh the fair thro' pleasure's wanton ways, 20
My form fo fine, fo regular, fo new;

My port fo manly, and fo fresh my hue;
Oft, as I meet the croud, they laughing fay,
"See, fee Memento mori cross the way."
The ravish'd PROSERPINE at laft we know,

Grew fondly jealous of her fable beau;

But thanks to nature! none from me need fly; ́One heart the De'el could wound-so cannot I,

YET, tho' my perfon fearless may

be feen,

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There is fome danger in my graceful mien: 301 For, as fome veffel, tofs'd by wind and tide,

Bounds o'er the waves, and rocks from fide to fide; In juft vibration thus I always move:

2

This who can view, and not be forc'd to love?

HAIL! charming felf! by whofe propitious aid 35 My form in all its glory ftands difplay'd:

Be present still; with inspiration kind, wgnfor Let the fame faithful colours paint the mind.

LIKE all mankind, with vanity I'm blefs'd; Conscious of wit I never yet poffefs'd.

To strong defires my heart an eafy prey,

Oft feels their force, but never owns their sway.

This hour, perhaps, as death I hate my

The next I wonder why I should do fo.

foe;

40

Tho' poor, the rich I view with careless eye; 45
Scorn a vain oath, and hate a ferious lye.

I ne'er, for fatire, torture common sense;
Nor fhow
my wit at God's, nor man's expence.
Harmless I live, unknowing and unknown;
Wish well to all, and yet do good to none.
Unmerited contempt I hate to bear;
Yet on my faults, like others, am severe.
Dishonest flames my bofom never fire;
The bad I pity, and the good admire :
Fond of the mufe, to her devote my days,

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55

And scribble---not for pudding, but for praife.

THESE Careless lines if any virgin hears,
Perhaps, in pity to my joyless years,
She may confent a gen'rous flame to own;
And I no longer figh the nights alone.

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But,