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CRITICAL

MOMENT.

How
OW capricious were Nature and Art to poor

Nell!
She was painting her cheeks at the time her nose fell.

EPILOGUE to Mrs. MANLEY's Lucius,

THI

HE Female Author who recites to-day,

Trusts to her sex the merit of her play. Like Father Bayes securely the fits down : Pit, box, and gallery, 'gad ! all's our own. In ancient Greece, she says, when Sappho writ, By their applause the critics shew'd their wit, They tun'd their voices to her Lyric string ; Though they could all do something more than fing. But one exception to this fact we find; That booby Phaon only was unkind, An ill-bred boat-man, rough as waves and wind. From Sappho down through all succeeding ages, And now on French or on Italian stages, Rough fatyrs, fly remarks, ill-natur'd speeches, Are always aim'd at Poets that wear breeches. Arm’d with Longinus, or with Rapin, no man Drew a sharp pen upon a naked woman. The blustering bully in our neighbouring streets Scorns to attack the female that he meets : Fearless the petticoat contemns his frowns : "The hoop secures whatever it surrounds.

The

The many-colour'd gentry there above,
By turns are rul’d by tumult and by love :
And, while their sweethearts their attention fix,
Suspend the din of their damn'd clattering fticks.
Now, Sirs
To you our author makes her soft request,
Who speak the kindest, and who write the best,
Your sympathetic hearts the hopes to move,
From tender friendship, and endearing love.
If Petrarch's Muse did Laura's wit rehearse;
And Cowley flatter'd dear Orinda's verse;
She hopes from you-Pox take her hopes and fears !
I plead her sex's claim ; what matters hers ?
By our full power of beauty we think fit,
To damn the Salique law impos’d on wit :
We'll try the empire who fo long have boasted;
And, if we are not prais’d, we'll not be toasted.
Approve what one of us prefents to-night;
Or every mortal woman here shall write :
Rural, pathetic, narrative, sublime,
We'll write to you, and make you write in rhyme;
Female remarks shall take

up
all
your

time.
Your time, poor souls ! we'll take your very money ;
Female third-days shall come so thick upon you,
As long as we have eyes, or hands, or breath,
We'll look, or write, or talk you all to death.
Unless you yield for better and for worse :
Then the She-Pegasus shall gain the course;
And the grey mare will prove the better horse.

}

}

The

The THIEF and the CORDELIER,

a BALLAD; to the Tune of, King John and the Abbot of CANTERBURY.

WHO
THO has e'er be at Paris, must needs know the

Greve,
The fatal retreat of th' unfortunate brave;
Where Honour and Justice most oddly contribute,
To eafe Hero's pains by a halter and gibhet.

Derry down, down, hey derry down.
There Death breaks the shackles which Force had put on;
And the Hangman compleats what the Judge but begun;
There the Squire of the Pad, and the Knight of the Post,
Find their pains no more balk'd, and their hopes no

more croft.
Derry down, &c.
Great claims are there made, and great secrets are known;
And the king, and the law, and the thief, has his own;
But my hearers cry out, What a duce doft thou ail?
Cut off thy reflections; and give us thy tale.

Derry down, &c.
'Twas there then, in civil respect to harsh laws,
And for want of false witness to back a bad cause,
A Norman, though late, was oblig'd to appear :
And who to allist, but a grave Cordelier ?

Derry down, &c.
VOL. I.
T

The

The Squire, whose good grace was to open the scene, Seem'd not

in

great haste that the show should begin Now fitted the halter, now travers’d the cart ; And often took leave, but was loth to depart.

Derry down, &c.

What frightens you thus, my good son? says the Priest; You murder'd, are sorry, and have been confeft. O father! my sorrow will scarce save my bacon: For 'twas not that I murder'd, but that I was taken.

Derry down, &c.

Pough! pr’ythee ne'er trouble thy head with such

fancies :
Rely on the aid you shall have from Saint Francis :
If the money you promis'd be brought to the cheft,
You have only to die: let the church do the rest.

Derry down, &c.

And what will folks say, if they see you afraid? It reflects upon me, as I knew not my trade : Courage, friend ; for to-day is your period of sorrow; And things will go better, believe me, to-morrow.

Derry down, &c.

To-morrow! our Hero replied in a fright: He that 's hang'd before noon, ought to think of to

night. Tell your beads, quoth the Priest, and be fairly truss'd up, For you surely to-night shall in Paradise fup. Derry down, &c.

Alas!

Alas! quoth the Squire, howe'er sumptuous the treat, Parbleu ! I shall have little stomach to eat ; I should therefore esteem it great favour and grace, Would

you

be so kind as to go in my place. Derry down, &c.

That I would, quoth the Father, and thank you to boot; But our actions, you know, with our duty must suit. The feast I propos’d to you, I cannot taste; For this night, by our order, is mark’d for a fast.

Derry down, &c.

Then, turning about to the hangman, he said,
Dispatch me, I pr’ythee, this troublesome blade:
For thy cord and my cord both equally tie;
And we live by the gold for which other men dic.

Derry down, &c.

TO CHLO E.
WHILST I am scorch'd with hot desire,

In vain cold friendship you return;
Your drops of pity on my fire,

Alas! but make it fiercer burn.

Ah! would you have the flame supprest,

That kills the heart it heats too fast,
Take half my passion to your breast;
The rest in mine shall ever last.

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