To the SUICIDE, A COMEDY!
IS now the reigning tafte with Belle and
Beau
Their art and skill in Coachmanfhip to fhow.
Nobles contend who throws a Whip the beft;
From head to foot like Hackney-coachmen drefs'd:
Duchefs and Peerefs too discard their fear,
Ponies in front, my lady in the rear.
A Female Phaeton all danger mocks,
Half-coat, half-petticoat, fhe mounts the box;
Wrapt in a dufty whirlwind fcours the plains,
And cutting-Jehu !-whiftling-holds the reins.
Happy, thrice happy, Britain, is thy ftate,
In the year feventeen hundred fev'nty eight,
When cach fex drives at fuch a furious rate.
The modifh Artift, Playwright, or Coach-maker, In Grub-street starv'd, or thriving in Long-Acre,
To fuit the times, and tally with the mode,
Muft travel in the beaten turnpike road:
Wherefore our Crane-neck'd Manager to-day
Upon four acts attempts to run his Play;
A fifth he fears you'd deem the Bard's reproach,
A mere fifth wheel that would but stop the Coach.
With Two Act Pieces what machines agree?
Buggies, Tim-whiskies, or fqueez'd Vis a-vis,
Where two fit face to face, and knee to knee.
What is a piece in one fhort A&t comprefs'd? A Wheelbarrow, or Sulky at the best. A fcale fo fmall, the Bard would fuffer for't; You'd fay his Farce was like himself-too fhort; Yet anxious with your fmiles his works to crown, In many a varied fhape he courts the town. Sometimes he drives-if Brother Bards implore, Sometimes he in a Prologue trots before, Or in an Epilogue gets up behindHappy in all, fo you appear but kind.
His vehicle to day may none reproach,
Nor take it for a Hearse, or Mourning-Coach!
'Tis true a gloomy outfide he has wrought,
"That rather threatens than doth promife aught;"
Yet from black fun'ral, like his brother Bayes,
A nuptial banquet he intends to raife.
We do but jeft-poifon in jeft-no more-
And thus One Mercer to the world reftore.
But if a well-tim'd jest should chance to fave
One Mercer from Perdition and the Grave,
All Ludgate-Hill be judge, if 'twere not hard,
Felo-de-fe fhould you bring in the Bard.
To the CHAPTER of ACCIDENT S,
A Comedy written by Mifs LEE,
Spoken by Mr. PALMER.
ONG has the paffive Stage, howe'er abfurd,
L a
Been rul'd by Names, and govern'd by a Word. Some poor cant term, like magick fpells can awe, And bind our realms, like a Dramatick law. When Fielding, Humour's fav'rite child appear'd, Low was the word-a word each author fear'd! 'Till chac'd at length, by Pleafantry's bright ray, Nature and Mirth refum'd their legal fway; And Goldfmith's Genius bafk'd in open day.
No beggar, howe'er poor, a cur can lack; Poor Bards, of Critick Curs, can keep a pack. One yelper filenc'd, twenty barkers rife, And with new howls, their fnarlings ftill difguife. Low banish'd, the word Sentiment fucceeds: And at that farine, the modern Playwright bleeds.
Hard fate! but let each would-be Critick know,
That Sentiments from genuine Feelings flow!
Criticks! in vain declaim, and write, and rail:
Nature, eternal Nature! will prevail.
Give me the Bard, who makes me laugh and cry,
Diverts and moves, and all, I scarce know why!
Untaught by Commentators, French or Dutch,
Paffion ftill anfwers to th' electrick touch.
Reafon, like Falstaff, claims, when all is done,
The honours of the field already won.
To-night, our Author's is a mixt intent-
Paffion and Humour-Low and Sentiment:
Smiling in tears a Serio-comick Play-
Sunshine and fhow'r-a kind of April-Day!
A Lord, whofe pride is in his honour plac'd;
A Governor, with Av'rice riot disgrac'd ;
An humble Prieft! a Lady, and a Lover
So full of virtue, fome of it runs over.
No temporary touches, no allufions
To camps, reviews, and all our late confufions
No perfonal reflections, no fharp Satire,
But a mere Chapter-from the Book of Nature.
Wrote by a Woman too! the Muses now
Few liberties to naughty Men allow;
But like old maids on earth, refolv❜d to vex,
With cruel coynefs treat the other fex.
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