And that this boasted lord of nature

Is both a weak and erring creature. That instinct is a surer guide,

Than reason, boasting mortals' pride;

And that brute beasts are far before 'em, Deus est anima brutorum.

Who ever knew an honest brute

At law his neighbour prosecute.
Bring action for assault and battery?
Or friend beguile with lies and flattery?
O'er plains they ramble unconfin'd,
No politics disturb their mind;

They eat their meals, and take their sport,
Nor know who's in or out at court;
They never to the levee go

To treat as dearest friend, a foe;
They never importune his Grace,
Nor ever cringe to men in place;
Nor undertake a dirty job,

Nor draw the quill to write for Bob:
Fraught with invective they ne'er go
To folk at Pater-Noster Row;
No judges, fiddlers, dancing-masters,
No pickpokets or poetasters,
Are known to honest quadrupeds,
No single brute his fellows leads.
Brutes never meet in bloody fray,
Nor cut each other's throats for pay.
Of beasts, it is confess'd, the ape
Comes nearest us in human shape.
Like man he imitates each fashion,
And malice is his ruling passion:
But both in malice and grimaces,
A courtier any ape surpasses.
Behold him humbly cringing wait
Upon the minister of state;
View him soon after to inferiors
Aping the conduct of superiors :
He promises with equal air,
And to perform takes equal care.
Hle in his turn finds imitators,
At court, the porters, lacqueys, waiters,
Their master's manners still contract,
And footmen, lords, and dukes can act.
Thus at the court, both great and small
Behave alike, for all ape all.

PREFACE.

WHEN I undertook to write a comedy, I confess I was strongly prepossessed in favour of the poets of the last age, and strove to imitate them. The term genteel comedy was then unknown amongst us, and little more was desired by an audience, than nature and humour, in whatever walks of life they were most conspicuous. The author of the following scenes never imagined that more would be expected of him, and therefore to delineate character has been his principal aim. Those who know any thing of composition, are sensible, that in pursuing humour, it will sometimes lead us into the recesses of the mean; I was even tempted to look for it in the master of a spunging-house; but in deference to the public taste, grown of late, perhaps, too delicate, the scene of the bailiffs was retrenched in the representation. In deference also to the judgment of a few friends, who think in a particular way, the scene is here restored. The author submits it to the reader in his closet; and hopes that too much refinement will not banish humour and character from ours, as it has already done from the French theatre. Indeed, the French comedy is now become so very elevated and sentimental, that it has not only banished humour and Moliere from the stage, but it has banished all spectators too. Upon the whole, the author returns his thanks to the Public for the favourable reception which the Good-Natured Man has met with; and to Mr Colman in particular, for his kindness to it. It may not also be improper to assure any, who shall hereafter write for the theatre, that merit, or supposed merit, will ever be a sufficient passport to his protection.

PRESS'D by the load of life, the weary mind Surveys the general toil of human kind; With cool submission joins the lab'ring train, And social sorrow loses half its pain: Our anxious bard, without complaint may share This bustling season's epidemic care, Like Cæsar's pilot, dignified by fate, Toss'd in one common storm with all the great; Distress'd alike, the statesman and the wit, When one a borough courts, and one the pit. The busy candidates for power and fame, Have hopes, and fears, and wishes, just the

same;

Disabled both to combat, or to fly, Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply. Uncheck'd, on both loud rabbles vent their rage, As mongrels bay the lion in a cage. Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale, For that blest year when all that vote may rail; Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss, Till that glad night, when all that hate may hiss. "This day the powder'd curls and golden coat," Says swelling Crispin, "begg'd a cobbler's vote." "This night, our wit," the pert apprentice cries, "Lies at my feet-I hiss him, and he dies." The great, 'tis true, can charm the electing tribe;

The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. Yet judged by those whose voices ne'er were

sold,

He feels no want of ill-persuading gold; But confident of praise, if praise be due, Trusts without fear to merit and to you.