No need of lessons, now-the knowing think
We might as well be taught to eat and drink.
Caus'd by a dearth of scandal-should the vapours
Distress our fair ones-let them read the papers;
Their powerful mixtures all disorders hit,
Crave what they will, there's quantum sufficit!

Lord! (cries my Lady Wormwood, who loves prattle,

And puts much salt and pepper in her tattle,) Give me the papers, Lisp-how bold and free! Last night, Lord L- was caught with Lady DIf Mrs. A. will still continue flirting,

We hope she'll draw, or we'll undraw the curtain.
Fine satire, poz!-in publick all abuse it,

Yet by ourselves our praise we can't refuse it.
Lisp, now read you, there at that dash and star-
Yes Ma'am-a certain Lord had best beware,
Who lives not twenty miles from Grosy'ner Square.
For should he Lady W. find willing-

Wormwood is bitter-Oh! that's me-the villain !
Throw it behind the fire, and never more

Let that vile paper come within my door!

Thus at our friends we laugh, who feel the dartTo reach our feelings, we ourselves must smart! To staunch the wound when Reputation bleeds, What hand will aid you, though an Angel pleads? What wight presumptuous will advance his pen To gore the Hydra-Scandal in his den?

So strong, so swift, the monster there's no gagging. Cut Scandal's head off-still the tongue is wagging! Then who so bold, though mad as Quixote be, To grasp the subtle folds of Calumny!

The venomed Snake at envy's call awakes.

And like the worm of Nile,' his cave forsakes;

Curled round his prey, the poisonous reptile clings,
And truth is strangled by a serpent's stings!
In Scandal's field, when once the horn resounds,
Who 'scapes the shot, must perish by the hounds;
The tube once levelled all pursue the game,
'Tis glorious sport to chase a hunted name.
'The cry is up,' who will not bravely dare,
When the poor victim-is a trembling Hare!
Cowards have souls to act th' assassin's part,
And heroes strut-who never felt a heart!

Old bachelors who marry smart young wives,
Learn from our play to regulate your lives,
I, who was late so volatile and gay,

Like a trade-wind must now blow all one way,
Bend all my cares, my studies and my vows
To one old rusty weathercock-my spouse !
And say, ye fair, was ever lively wife,
Born with a genius for the highest life,
Like me untimely blasted in her bloom,
Like me condemned to such a dismal doom?
So wills our bond; and yet I much deplore
That the gay scene of dissipation's o'er.
Must I then watch the early crowing cock,
The melancholy ticking of a clock?

With humble curates must I now retire,

Whilst good Sir Peter boozes with the squire,
And at back-gammon mortify my soul,
That pants for Loo, and flutters at a Vole?
The transient hour of fashion too soon spent,
Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content,
Farewell the plumed head, the squeezing rout,
Where all, by one consent, move in and out.
And you, ye knockers, that with brazen throat
The welcome visitor's approach denote,
Farewell! your revels I partake no more,
For Lady Teazle's occupation's o'er.

The scenick fiction dropped, let me impart The kindling sense that warms this flattered heart, Me, now retired from fashion and from Court, The grateful being whom your smiles support, Th' adventurous wanderer whom your patron-praise Deigns to adopt, to cherish, and to raise !

Lured by ambition, to your shores I came,
(A little feather on the tide of Fame)
By hope elated, yet by fear depressed,

What strong emotions filled this anxious breast!
Your liberal hearts the trembling guest received,
Her hopes you flattered, and her fears relieved;
Beneath this hospitable roof she roved,
Cheered by your favour, by your taste improved.
And blest the hour when destined here to roam,
The Stranger found a welcome and a home!

A home thrice happy! be it long my pride
To move in scenes where taste and you reside.
My noblest meed is your applause to gain,

My
first ambition, in your hearts to reign;
Still to exist where your affections move,

For even Scandal dies, if you approve.” ́

P ROLOGUE

To the new Farce called "Mr. H.""
If we have sinn'd in paring down a name,
All civil well-bred authors do the same.
Survey the columns of our daily writers-
You'll find that some Initials are great fighters-
How fierce the shock, how fatal is the jar,
When Ensign W. meets Lieutenant R.

With two stout seconds, just of their own gizzard,
Cross Captain X. and rough old General Izzard !.
Letter to letter spreads the dire alarms,
Till half the Alphabet is up in arms :
Nor with less lustre have Initials shone,
That grace the gentler annals of Crim. Con.
Where the dispensers of the publick lash
Soft penance give; a letter and a dash-
Where vice, reduced in size, shrinks to a failing,
And loses half its grossness by curtailing;
Faux pas are told us in a modest way.

The affair of Colonel B. with Mrs. A.

You must excuse them-for what is there, say,

Which such a pliant vowel must not grant,
To such a very pressing consonant?
Or who Poetick justice dares dispute,
When, mildly melting at a lover's suit,
The wife's a liquid-her good man a mute ?
Even in the homelier scenes of honest life,
The coarse-spun intercourse of man and wife,
Initials I am told have taken place

Of Deary, Spouse, and that old-fashion'd race:
And Cabbage, ask'd by brother Snip to tea,
Replies, "I'll come-but it don't rest with me-
"I always leaves them things to Mrs. C."
Oh should this mincing fashion ever spread
From names of living heroes to the dead,
How would ambition sigh and hang her head,
As each lov'd syllable should melt away,
Her Alexander turn'd into Great A-

A single C her Cæsar to express

P

Her Scipio shortened to a Roman S.

And nick'd and dock'd to these new modes of speech, Great Hannibal himself a Mr. H.

ON A FOP TURNED EPICURE.
SAVING, you say, Jack Spendthrift grows,
Because he's seen in shabbier clothes,

But you mistake, I tell ye :--

A selfish spendthrift still is Jack,

And that which lately vamped his back,
Now goes to gorge his belly.

Z... VOL. 4.