SPOKEN AT Edinburgh, IN THE CHARACTER OF

LADY FANCIFUL.

FANCY, we're told, of parentage Italic,
And Folly, whose original is Gallic,

Set up to sale their vast misshapen daughter,
And Britain, by a large subscription, bought her.
The fertile soil grew fond of this exotic,
And nursed her till her power became despotic;
Till every would-be Beauty of the nation
Did homage at the shrine of Affectation.
But Common Sense will certainly dethrone her,
And (like the fair ones of this place) disown her.
If she attempts the dimpled smile delightful,
The dimpled smile of Affectation's frightful:
Mark but her bagatelles,-her whine-her whim-
per-
[per;
Her loll-her lisp-her saunter-stare-her sim-
All outrés, all—no native charm about her,
And Ridicule would soon expire without her.
Look for a grace, and Affectation hides it;
If Beauty aims an arrow, she misguides it:
So awkwardly she mends unmeaning faces,
To Insipidity she gives-grimaces.

Without her dear coquettish arts to aid them, Fine ladies would be just as-Nature made them, Such sensible-sincere-domestic creatures, The jest of modern belles and petits-maîtres.

Safe with good sense, this circle's not in danger: But as the foreign phantom 's-here a stranger, gave her portrait, that the fair may know her, And if they meet, be ready to forego her:

I

For trust me, ladies, she'd deform your faces,
And with a single glance destroy the graces.

SPOKEN AT NORWICH, IN THE CHARACTER OF
MRS. DEBORAH WOODCOCK,

IN LOVE IN A VILLAGE.'

AFTER the dangers of a long probation,
When, Sibyllike, she's skill'd in penetration;
When she has conquer'd each unruly passion,
And rides about the rocks that others dash on;
When deeply mellow'd with reserve and rigour;
When decent gravity adorns her figure,
Why an old maid, I wish the wise would tell us,
Should be the standing jest of flirts and fellows?
In maxims sage, in eloquence how clever!
Without a subject she can talk-for ever!
Rich in old saws, can bring a sentence pat in,
And quote, upon occasion, lawyer's Latin.

Set up that toast, that culprit, nobus corum,
"Tis done-and she's demolish'd in turrorum,
If an old maid's a dragoness on duty,
To guard the golden fruit of ripening beauty;
'Tis right, for fear the giddy sex should wander,
To keep them in restraint by decent slander.
When slips are made, 'tis easy sure to find them;
We
We can detect before the fair design'd them.

As for the men, whose satire oft hath stung us, Many there are that may be rank'd among us. Law, with long suits and busy mischiefs laden, In rancour far exceeds the ancient maiden. "Tis undenied, and the' assertion's common, That modern physic is a mere old woman. The puny fop that simpers o'er his tea-dish, And cries-Indeed-Miss Deborah's-quite old maidish!

Of doubtful sex, of undetermined nature,
In all respects is but a virgin creture.'

Jesting apart, and moral truths adjusting! There's nothing in the state itself disgusting; Old maids, as well as matrons bound in marriage, Are valued from propriety of carriage:

If gentle sense, if sweet discretion guide them,
It matters not though coxcombs may deride them;
And virtue's virtue, be she maid or wedded,
A certain truth! say-Deborah Woodcock
said it.

IN fond romance let fancy reign creative!
Valour among the northern hills is native;
The northern hills ('tis proved by Ossian's story),
Gave early birth to Caledonian glory;
Nor could the stormy clime, with all its rigour,
Repel in love or war the hero's vigour. [ponder,
When Honour call'd, the youth disdain'd to
And as he fought, the favourite maid grew fonder:
The brave by Beauty were rejected never,
For girls are gracious when the lads are clever.

If the bold youth was in the field vindictive, The bard, at home, had every power descriptive; He swell'd the sacred song, enhanced the story, And raised the warrior to the skies of glory.

That northern lads are still unconquer'd fellows, The foes of Britain to their cost can tell us; The sway of northern beauty, if disputed, Look round, ye infidels! and stand confuted:

And for your bards, the letter'd world have known

them, [them. They're such-the sacred Ossian can't disown To prove a partial judgment does not wrong you, And that usual candour reigns among you, Look with indulgence on this crude endeavour, And stamp it with the sanction of your favour.

your

SPOKEN IN THE CHARACTER OF

LADY TOWNLEY,

IN THE PROVOKED HUSBAND.'

A LADY-let me recollect—whose night is 't?
No matter at a circle the politest,

Taste summons all the satire she is able,
And canvasses my conduct to the table.

A wife reclaim'd, and by a husband's rigour,
A wife with all her appetites in vigour;
Lard! she must make a lamentable figure!
Where was her pride? Of every spark divested,
To mend, because a prudish husband press'd it!
What! to prefer his dull domestic quiet
To the dear scenes of hurricane and riot?
Parties disclaim'd, the happy rout rejected,
Because at ten she's by her spouse expected?
Oh, hideous! how immensely out of nature!
Don't you, my dears, despise the servile creature?'
Prudence, although the company be good,
Is often heard, and sometimes understood.
Suppose, to justify my reformation,
She'd give the circle this concise oration :—
Ye giddy group of fashionable wives,
That in continued riot waste your lives;

Did

ye but see the demons that descend, The cares convulsive that on cards attend;

The midnight spectres that surround your chairs
(Rage reddens here-there Avarice despairs),
You'd rush for shelter where contentment lies,
To the domestic blessings you despise.

Or if you've no regard to moral duty, [Beauty.'
("Tis trite but true)-Quadrille will murder
Taste is abash'd, (the culprit !) I'm acquitted,
They praise the character they lately pitied;
They promise to reform-relinquish play,
So break the tables up at-break of day.

DESIGNED TO BE SPOKEN AT ALNWICK,

ON RESIGNING THE PLAYHOUSE

TO A PARTY DETACHED FROM THE EDINBURGH THEATRE.

'To Alnwick's lofty seat, a silvan scene! To rising hills from distance doubly green, Go (says the god of wit)-my standard bear, These are the mansions of the great and fair, 'Tis my Olympus now; go, spread my banners there.'

Led by fond hope, the pointed path we trace, And thank'd our patron for the flowery place; Here we behold a gently waving wood! There—we can gaze upon a wandering flood! The landscape smiles!—the fields gay fragrance

wear!

Soft scenes are all around-refreshful air!
Slender repast indeed, and but camelion fare!