No more he feeks the Cyprian's fmoaking fanes,
Or fips rich nectar in celeftial plains;
In Thea's heart a flame more pleafing grows,
And from her lips more lucious nectar flows.
Venus indignant faw her power decay,
And rufh'd impetuous through the realms of day:
Thus doft thou guard thy once lov'd parents' throne?
Shall then the rebel-power my power difown?
See! where the fatal caufe of my difgrace
(Each hateful beauty glowing in her face)
Infulting ftands!There let her fixt remain,
Nor be the anger of a goddess vain.
To kneel to fue fhe ftrove, unhappy maid!
In vain, her stiffening knees refuse their aid:
Her arms fhe lifts with pain, in wild furprise
She starts to fee a verdant branch arife:
O love! the try'd to fay, thy Thea aid,
Her ruddy lips the envious leaves invade:
Yet then, juft finking from his tortur'd view,
Her fwimming eyes languifh'd a laft adieu.
Venus triumphant, with a fcornful smile,
Points to the tree, and feeks the Cyprian ifle.
He mark'd the goddefs with indignant eyes,
And grief and rage, alternate tyrants, rife.
Then fighing o'er the vegetable fair,
Yet ftill, he faid, thou claim'ft thy Cupid's care!
Her arts no more fhall Cytherea prove,
But own my Thea aids the cause of love.
To the free ifle, I'll give thy rites divine,
Το nymphs, whofe charms alone can equal thine.
For thee the toiling fon's of Ind' fhall drain
The honey'd fponge, which fwells the leafy cane;
The gentle Naiads to thy fhrine shall bring
The limpid treasures of the crystal spring;
Thy verdant bloom fhall ftain the glowing ftream,
Diffufing fragrance in the quivering steam;
Around thy painted altars' brittle pride,
Shall dimpled fimiles, and fleek-brow'd health prefide:
Whilft white rob'd nymphs difplay each milder grace,
The morning dream juft glowing on each face.
With joy I fee in ages yet unborn,
Thy votarifts the British ifle adorn.
With joy I fee enamour'd youths defpife
The goblet's luftre for the fair one's eyes:
Till rofy Bacchus fhall his wreaths refign.
And Love and Thea triumph o'er the vine.
On a report of the king of Spain's marrying Madame Victoirs, a princess of France.
HO' Frenchmen may promife him Madame Victoire, .
He'll find it a trick and a cheat,
The following epigram was made by a Hessian officer upon Marshad Broglio's being so near taken on the 10th of July, 1761, reconnoitring, and losing his spying-glass, which Prince Ferdinand immediately returned. The affair of the 16th of the same month at Fellinghausen is well known.
Le Maréchal de Broglio, dit la Gazette,
Ce fameux héros, favori des cieux;
Le dixieme perdit fes lunettes,
Et le feizième fes yeux.
In the Gazette we're told,
That Broglio the bold,
His spectacle lost by surprize;
But when to our cost,
Fellinghausen was lost,
'Twas found that he wanted his eyes.
Advice from a Matron to a young Lady concerning wedlock,
FRE you read this, then you'll fuppofe,
That fome new lifted lover,
Thro' means of poetry hath chofe
His paffion to difcover.
No, fair one, I'm a matron grave,
Whom time and care hath wafted,
Who would thy youth from forrow fave,
Which I in wedlock tafted.
Thy tender air, thy chearful mien,
Thy temper fo alluring,
Thy form for conqueft well defign'd,
Gives torments patt enduring;
And lovers, full of hopes and fears,
Surround thy beauties daily,
Whilft vet, regardless of thy cares,
Thy moments pafs on'gaily.
Then país them, charmer, gailier on,
A maiden whilst you tarry;
For, troth, your golden days are gone,
The moment that you marry.
In courtship we are all divine,
And vows and prayers enfnare us;
Darts, flames, and tears adorn our shrine,
And artfully men woo us.
Then who'd the darling power forego,
Which ignorance has given ;
To ease them of eternal woe
Muft we refign our heav'n?
No, marriage lets the vizard fall,
Then ceafe they to adore us:
The goddess finks to housewife Moll,
And they reign tyrants o'er us.
Then let no man impreffion make
Upon thy heart fo tender,
Or play the fool for pity's fake,
Thy quiet to furrender.
Lead apes in hell! there's no fuch thing,
Thofe tales are made to fool us,
Though there we had better hold a string,
Than here let monkies rule us.
The applause bestowed on the Rosciad, will, we imagine, render the fol lowing extracts from it agreeable. They are such, we presume, as shew that the author unites the judgment of a critic with the fire and fancy of a poet.
Character of Mrs. Cibber.
NORM'D for the tragic fcene, to grace the stage,
With rival excellence of love and rage,
Mistress of each foft art, with matchless skill,
To turn and wind the paffions as fhe will;
To melt the heart with fympathetie woe,
Awake the figh, and teach the tear to flow;
To put on frenzy's wild diftracted glare,
And freeze the foul with horror and despair;
With juft defert enroll'd in endless fame
Confcious of worth fuperior, Cibber came.
When Poor Alicia's madding brains are rack'd,
And frongly imag'd griefs her mind diftract;
Struck with her grief, I catch the madness too!
My brain turns round, the headlefs trunk I view !
The roof cracks, thakes, and falls !-New horrors rife,
And reafon buried in the ruin lies.
Nobly difdainfui of each flavish art,
She makes her first attack upon the heart:
Pleas'd with the fummons, it receives her laws,
And all filence, fympathy, applaufe.
But when, by fond ambition drawn afide,
Giday with pra fe, and puff'd with female pride,
She quits the tragic fcene, and, in pretence
To comic merit breaks down nature's fence;
I feaicely can believe my ears or eyes,
Or find out Cibber through the dark difguife.
Mrs. Pritchard, from the same.
RITCHARD, by nature for the ftage defign'd,
In perfon graceful, ard in ferfe refin'd;
Her art as much as nature's friend became,
Her voice as tree from blemish as her fame.
Who kws fo well in majelly to please,
Attemper'd with the graceful charms of eafe?
When Congreve's favour'd pantomime to grace,
She comes a captive queen of Moorish race;
When love, hate, jealoufy, defpair and rage,
With wildeft tumults in her breast engage;
Stl equal to herfeli is Zara feen;
For p ons are the pics of a queen.
When he to murther whets the tim'rous thane,
I feel amb'tion ruth through ev'ry vein;
Perfuafion hangs upon her daring tongue,
My heart grows fint, and ev'ry nerve's new ftrung.
In comedy-Nay, there," cries critic, "hold,
Pritchard's for comedy too fat and old.
Who can,
with patience, bear the grey coquette,
Or force a laugh with over-grown Julet?
Her fpeech, look, action, humour, all are juft,
But then her age and figure give difguft."
Are foibles then, and graces of the mind,
In real life to fize or age confin'd?
Do fpirits flow, and is good-breeding placed
any fet circumference of waift?
As we grow old, deth affectation cease,
Or gives not age new vigour to caprice?
If in originals thefe things appear,
Why should we bar then in the copy here.
The nice punctilio-mongers of this age,
The grand minute reformers of the stage,
Slaves to propriety of ev'ry kind,
Some ftandard-measure for each part should find;
Which, when the best of actors fhall exceed,
Let it devolve to one of fmaller breed.
All actors too upon the back fhould bear
Certificate of birth;-time, when ;-place, where,
For how can critics rightly fix their worth,
Unless they know the minute of their birth?
An audience too, deceiv'd, may find, too late,
That they have clapp'd an actor out of date.
Figure, I own, at firft may give offence,
And harthly frike the eye's too curious fenfe :
But when perfections of the mind break forth,
Humour's chafte fallies, judgment's folid worth;
When the pure genuine flame, by nature taught,
Springs into fenfe, and ev'ry action's thought;
Before fuch merit, all objections fly;
Pritchard's genteel, and Garrick fix feet high.
Oft have I, Pritchard, feen thy wond rous skill, Confefs'd thee great, but find thee greater ftill. That worth, which fhone in fcatter'd rays before, Collected now breaks forth with double pow'r. The Jealous Wife-On that thy trophies raife, Inferior only to the author's praife.
-N, from afar, lur'd by the feent of fame,
A ftage Leviathan put in his claim.
Pupil of Betterton and Booth. Alone,
Sullen he walk'd, and deem'd the chair his own.
For how fhould moderns, mushrooms of the day,
Who ne'er thofe matters knew, know how to play?
Grey-bearded vet'rans, who, with partial tongue,
Extol the times when they themselves were young
Who, having loft all relish for the flage,
See not their own defects, but laih the age,
Receiv'd with joyful murmurs of applause,
Their darling chief, and lin'd his fav'rite caufe.
Far be it from the candid Mufe to tread
Infulting o'er the afhes of the dead.
Eut juft to living inerit, fhe maintains,
And dares the teft, whilft Garrick's genius reigns
Ancients, in vain, endeavour to excel,
Happily praised if they could act as well.
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