Cupid shall ne'er mistake another,
However beauteous, for his mother;
Nor shall his darts at random fly
From magazine in Celia's eye.
With women compounds I am cloy'd,
Which only pleas'd in Biddy Floyd *.
For foreign aid what need they roam,
Whom fate has amply blest at home?
Unerring Heaven, with bounteous hand,
Has form'd a model for your land,
Whom Jove endow'd with every grace;
The glory of the Granard race;
Now destined by the powers divine
The blessing of another line.

Then, would you paint a matchless dame,
Whom you'd consign to endless fame ?

Invoke not Cytherea's aid,

Nor borrow from the blue ey'd maid;

Nor need you on the Graces call;
Take qualities from Donegal.

THE DOG AND SHADOW.

ORE cibum portans catulus dum spectat in undis,
Apparet liquido prædæ melioris imago :

Dum speciosa diu damna admiratur, et alte
Ad latices inhiat, cadit imo vortice præceps
Ore cibus, nec non simulachrum corripit una.
Occupat ille avidus deceptis faucibus umbram;
Illudit species, ac dentibus aëra mordet.

* " And call'd the happy composition Floyd." See vol. VII, page 38.

BILLET TO A COMPANY OF PLAYERS.

THE enclosed prologue is formed upon the story

of the secretary's not suffering you to act, unless you would pay him 3001. per annum; upon which, you got a license from the lord mayor to act as strollers.

The prologue supposes, that, upon your being forbidden to act, a company of country strollers came and hired the playhouse, and your clothes, etc., to act in.

Our set of strollers, wandering up and down,
Hearing the house was empty, came to town;
And, with a license from our good lord mayor,
Went to one Griffith, formerly a player;
Him we persuaded, with a moderate bribe,
To speak to Elrington and all the tribe,
To let our company supply their places,

And hire us out their scenes, and clothes, and faces.
Is not the truth the truth? Look full on me;
I am not Elrington, nor Griffith he.

When we perform, look sharp among our crew,
There's not a creature here you ever knew.
The former folks were servants to the king;
We, humble strollers, always on the wing.
Now, for my part, I think upon the whole,
Rather than starve, a better man would stroll.

Stay!

Stay! let me see-Three hundred pounds a year,
For leave to act in town!-'Tis plaguy dear.
Now, here's a warrant; gallants, please to mark,
For three thirteens and sixpence to the clerk.
Three hundred pounds! Were I the price to fix,
The publick should bestow the actors six,
A score of guineas, given underhand,
For a good word or so, we understand.
To help an honest lad, that's out of place,
May cost a crown or so; a common case :
And, in a crew, 'tis no injustice thought
To ship a rogue, and pay him not a groat.
But, in the chronicles of former ages,
Who ever heard of servants paying wages?
I pity Elrington with all my heart;

Would he were here this night, to act my part!
I told him what it was to be a stroller;

How free we acted, and had no comptroller:
In every town we wait on Mr. may'r,

First get a license, then produce our ware;
We sound a trumpet, or we beat a drum;
Huzza! (the schoolboys roar) the play'rs are come!
And then we cry, to spur the bumpkins on,
Gallants, by Tuesday next we must be gone.
I told him, in the smoothest way I could,
All this and more, yet it would do no good.
But Elrington, tears falling from his cheeks,
He that has shone with Betterton and Wilks,
To whom our country has been always dear,
Who chose to leave his dearest pledges here,
Owns all your favours, here intends to stay,
And, as a stroller, act in every play :
And the whole crew this resolution takes,

To live and die all strollers for

your

sakes;

Not

Not frighted with an ignominious name,
For your displeasure is their only shame.
A pox on Elrington's majestick tone!
Now to a word of business in our own.

Gallants, next Thursday night will be our last;
Then without fail we pack up for Belfast.
Lose not your time, nor our diversions miss,
The next we act shall be as good as this.

ANSWER TO DR. SHERIDAN'S PROLOGUE, AND TO DR. SWIFT'S EPILOGUE*, IN BEHALF OF THE DISTRESSED WEAVERS. BY DR. DELANY.

FŒMINEO GENERI TRIBUANANR.

THE Muses, whom the richest silks array,
Refuse to fling their shining gowns away;
The pencil clothes the nine in bright brocades,
And gives each colour to the pictured maids;
Far above mortal dress the sisters shine,
Pride in their Indian robes, and must be fine.
And shall two bards in consort rhyme and huff,
And fret these Muses with their playhouse stuff?
The player in mimick piety may storm,
Deplore the comb, and bid her heroes arm :
The arbitrary mob, in paltry rage,

May curse the belles and chintses of the age:
Yet still the artist worm her silk shall share,
And spin her thread of life in service of the fair.

* See vol. VII, page 198.

The

The cotton plant, whom satire cannot blast; Shall bloom the favourite of these realms, and last; Like yours, ye fair, her fame from censure grows, Prevails in charms, and glares above her foes: Your injured plant shall meet a loud defence, And be the emblem of your innocence.

Some bard, perhaps, whose landlord was a weaver, Penn'd the low prologue, to return a favour: Some neighbour wit, that would be in the vogue, Work'd with his friend, and wove the epilogue. Who weaves the chaplet, or provides the bays, For such woolgathering sonneteers as these?

Hence then, ye homespun witlings, that persuade Miss Chloe to the fashion of her maid.

Shall the wide hoop, that standard of the town,
Thus act subservient to a poplin gown?
Who'd smell of wool all over? 'Tis enough
The underpetticoat be made of stuff.
Lord! to be wrapt in flannel just in May,
When the fields dress'd in flowers appear so gay!
And shall not miss be flower'd as well as they?

In what weak colours would the plaid appear,
Work'd to a quilt, or studded in a chair!

}

The skin, that vies with silk, would fret with

stuff;

Or who could bear in bed a thing so rough?
Ye knowing fair, how eminent that bed,
Where the chints diamonds with the silken thread,
Where rustling curtains call the curious eye,
And boast the streaks and paintings of the sky!
Of flocks they'd have your milky Ticking full;
And all this for the benefit of wool!

1

"But