INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY.
There is a place, so Ariosto sings,
A treasury for lost and missing things :
Lost buman wits have places there assign'd them,
And they, who lose their senses, there may find them.
But where's this place, this storehouse of the age ?
The Moon, says he :- but I affirm, the Stage:
At least in many things, I think, I see
His lunar and our mimic world agree.
Both shive at night, for but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down.
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics,
But in this parallel my best pretence is,
That mortals visit both to find their senses.
To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for operas and dotes on dancing,
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.