ТО А BUSH FIGHTER. I 'N Rancour's dark, obfcene, fequefter'd Seat, Where Pride and Dulnefs, Spleen and Envy meet, Critic, thy Stink-pot Batteries prepare, No Friend of Learning, Heir of Genius fpare. то то DOCTOR GOLDSMITH, ON THE SUCCESS OF HIS COMEDY, CALLED THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT, With Tales of Pity and chafte Scenes of Love; On Stilts fublime the laughing Muse they raise, For nothing low our Tafte refin'd can please. Nor Wit, nor Humour, fuch grave Preachers knew, The maudlin House resembles Whitfield's Crew. No Bursts of Laughter fhake the merry Pit. In folemn Silence all attentive fit; Till fome fad Story, big with tragic Woe, From the touch'd Boxes cause the Tear to flow. To find no poifon'd Bowl or Dagger there. Let Sentiment but ftiffen ev'ry Line, The raptur'd Audience cries, That's fine! that's fine! Goldsmith at length, warm in Thalia's Caufe. Broke the dull Charm, and refcu'd Nature's Laws. PROLOGUE To the revived TRAGEDY of TIMOLE O N. SPOKEN By Mr. REDDISH, at Drury-Lane Theatre, in 1771. T Written by Mr. CRADOCK. OO long had Corinth wept her evil Hour, Too long had Corinth felt a Tyrant's Power, Too long had groan'd in Chains-her Fate deplor'd, Ere fam'd Timoleon Liberty reftor'd. He, like fome Rock the Billows lafh in vain, A Grecian Daughter too demands Applaufe, Ye generous Bulwarks of the British State, With unabating Zeal your Course pursue, PROLOGUE то THE PRVOKED HUSBAND, Spoken laft CHRISTMAS, at CASHIO BURY, THE SEAT of the EARL of ESSE X. W Written by the fame. THATEVER Ills affect our wayward State, We juftly lay each deep Mistake to Fate, If poor Sir Francis loft his mighty Boon, He only liv'd fome twenty Years too soon. 'Twas long ago our Author drew, from Life, A fober Husband, and a fickle Wife. Oh! could he now the living Draught renew, He would be firft, ye Fair, and picture you; Allow more Scope, yet wifer Maxims trace, And give us fomething more than Lady Grace. The Knight's fair Lady too might hold her Sway, And teach her good Sir Francis to obey: Nor Manly four his deep-laid Schemes deplore, Thank Heaven the Race of Wrongheads are no more. Expell'd the House-He's in a bitter T'aking, Expulfion-now perhaps had been his Making: Tho' loft his Glories in St. James's Air, The lavish City would thofe Wrongs repair, Be-fur'd, be-chain'd-Heftruts the new Lord Mayor. 2 If |