No more he seeks the Cyprian's fmoaking fanes,
Or fips rich nectar in celeftial plains ;

In Thea's heart a flame more pleasing glows,
And from her lips more luscious 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 parent's throne?
Shall then the rebel power my power difown?
See! where the fatal cause 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 trove, unhappy maid!
In vain, her stiffening knees refufe their aid:
Her arms the lifts with pain, in wild furprize
She starts to fee a verdant branch arise :
O love! The try'd to say, 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 isle.
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,

To nymphs, whofe charms alone can equal thine.
For thee the toiling fons of Ind' fhall drain

The honey'd fponge, which fwells the leafy cane;
The gentle Naiads to thy fhrine fhall bring
The limpid treasures of the crystal spring;
Thy verdant bloom shall stain the glowing ftream,
Diffufing fragrance in the quivering team;
Around thy painted altars' brittle pride,

Shall dimpled fmiles, and fleek-brow'd health prefide;
Whilft white-rob'd nymphs display each milder grace,
The morning dream juft glowing on each face.
With joy I fee, in ages yet unborn,
Thy votarifts the British isle 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 Victoire, a princess of

France.

HO' Frenchmen may promise him Madame Victoire,
He'll find it a trick and a cheat,

THO

The following epigram was made by a Heffian officer upon Marshal Broglio's being fo near taken on the 10th of July, 1761, reconnoitring, and lofing bis fpiyng glass, which Prince Ferdinand immediately returned. The affair of the 16th of the fame month at Fellinghaufen is well known,

Le Maréchal de Broglio, dit la Gazette,

Ce fameux héros, favori des cieux,

Le dixieme perdit fes lunettes,

Et le feizieme fes yeux.

In the Gazette we're told,
That Broglio the bold,
His fpectacles loft by furprize;

But when to our coft,
Fellinghoufen was loft,

'Twas found that he wanted his eyes.

Advice from a Matron to a young Lady concerning wedlock.

RE you read this, then you'll fuppofe,

ERE

That fome new lifted lover,

Thro' means of poetry hath chofe

His paffion to discover.

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 mein,
Thy temper fo alluring,

Thy form for conqueft well defign'd,
Gives torments paft enduring;
And lovers, full of hopes and fears,
Surround thy beauties daily,

$ 4

Whit

Whilft yet, regardless of thy cares,

Thy moments país on gayly.
Then país them, charmer, gaylier on,
A maiden whilft you tarry;

For, troth, your golden days are gone,
The moment that you marry.
In courtship we are all divine,

And vows and, prayers ensnare us;
Darts, flames, and tears adorn our fhrines,
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 goddefs 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 quict 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 fring,
Than here let monkies rule us.

The applause befored on the Rofciad, will, we imagine, render the fellowing extracts from it agreeable. They are fuch, we prefume, as few that the author unites the judgment of a critic with the fire and fancy of a poet.

F

Character of Mrs. Cibber.

ORM'D for the tragic fcene, to grace the flage,
With rival excellence of love and rage,

Miftrefs of each foft heart, with matchlets skill,
To turn and wind the paffions as fhe will;
To melt the heart with fympathetic 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, C-bb-r came.

When poor Alicia's madding brains are rack'd,
And strongly imag'd griefs her mind distract;

5

Struck

Struck with her grief, I catch the madness too!
My brain turns round, the headless trunk I view !

The roof cracks, fhakes, and falls!New horrors rife,
And reafon buried in the ruin lies.

Nobly difdainful of each flavish art,

She makes her first attack upon the heart:
Pleas'd with the fummons, it receives her laws,
And all is filence, fympathy, applaufe.

But when, by fond ambition drawn afide,
Giddy with praife, and puff'd with female pride,
She quits the tragic fcene, and, in pretence
To comic merit, breaks down nature's fence ;
I fcarcely can believe my ears or eyes,
Or find out C-bb-r through the dark disguise.

Mrs. Pritchard from the fame.

RITCHARD, by nature for the ftage defign'd,

Pin perfon graceful, and in fenfe refin'd;

Her art as much as nature's friend became,
Her voice as free from blemish as her fame.
Who knows fo well in majesty to please,
Attemper'd with the graceful charms of ease?
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 breaft engage;
Still equal to herself is Zara feen;
Her paffions are the paffions of a queen.

When the to murther whets the tim❜rous thane,
I feel ambition rush through ev'ry vein ;
Perfuafion hangs upon her daring tongue,
My heart grows flint, 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 Julett?
Her fpeech, look, action, humour, all are juft,
But then her age and figure give disgust."
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
In any fet circumference of waift?
As we grow old, doth affectation cease,
Or gives not age new vigour to caprice?
If in originals these things appear,
Why should we bar them in the copy here?

The

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 shall exceed,
Let it devolve to one of fmaller breed.

All actors too upon the back should 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 first may give offence,
And harthly ftrike the eye's too curious sense:
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 & thee great, but find thee greater still.
That worth, which fhone in fcatter'd rays before,
Collected now breaks forth with double pow'r.
The Jealous Wife- On that thy trophies raise,
Inferior only to the author's praise.

Mr. 2-n, from the fame.

Input the fent 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 those masters 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 relifh for the ftage,
See not their own defects, but lafh 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 Muse to tread

Infulting o'er the ashes of the dead.
But juft to living merit, fhe maintains,

And dares the teft, whilft Garrick's genius reigns:
Ancients, in vain, endeavour to excel,
Happily prais'd if they could act as well.