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TO A

BUSH FIGHTER.

IN

N Rancour's dark, obscene, fequefter'd Seat,

Where Pride and Dulness, Spleen and Envy meet, Critic, thy Stink-pot Batteries prepare, No Friend of Learning, Heir of Genius spare. But when thy mighty Conquests thou hast made, What are the Gains of thy illicit Trade? Hated by all, and hating all, to live, Is a worse Punishment than Hell can give,

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ONG have our Comic Writers try'd to move

With Tales of Pity and chafte Scenes of Love;
On Stilts sublime the laughing Muse they raise,
For nothing low our Taste refin’d can please.
Nor Wit, nor Humour, such grave Preachers knew,
The maudlin House resembles Whitfield's Crew.
No Bursts of Laughter shake 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.
So deep the Comedy, it makes you stare
To find no poison’d Bowl or Dagger there.
Gay Mirth and honest Joke are in Disgrace,
Melpomene usurps her Sister's Place.
Let Sentiment but stiffen ev'ry Line,
The raptur'd Audience cries, That's fine! that's fine!
Goldsmith at length, warm in Thalia's Cause.
Broke the dull Charm, and rescu'd Nature's Laws.

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SPOKEN

By Mr. REDDISH, at Drury-Lane Theatre, in 1771.

Written by Mr. CRADOCK.

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TO

00 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 restor'd.

He, like some Rock the Billows lash in vain,
Still tow’rs aloft, and overawes the Main :
In vain the Surges roar, the Clouds impend,
The Thunder rolls, the forked Fires descend.
He like their fam'd Colossus awful stood,
A steady Patriot for the public Good.

A Grecian Daughter too demands Applause,
Who nobly combats in a Parent's Cause.
O spare-in Mercy spare-she trembling pleads,
And Pity struggles tho'a Tyrant bleeds :
View well the Motives all their Actions move,
Timoleon Wonder claims, Eunesia Love.

Yegenerous Bulwarks of the British State,
Who live again those Wonders we relate,
Who still the bright Career of Glory run,
Transmit the Laurels that yourselves have won,

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With unabating Zeal your Course pursue,
Ye keep not Corinth, but yourselves in View.

Nor think ye Fair, your Glories more confin'd,
Who sooth the Heart, or humanize the Mind;
The generous Labour will at Length recoil,
The generous Labour well repays your Toil:
Succeeding Annals trace Eunesia's Fame,
Succeeding Annals blefs Timoleon's Reign.
The World perceives that Influence ye bring,
From great Examples future Heroes spring;
Heroes with more than mortal Ardour fird,
When Beauty crowns that Virtue she inspir'd.

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THATEVER Ills affect our wayward State,

We justly lay each deep Mistake to Fate,
If poor Sir Francis lost his mighty Boon,
He only liv'd some twenty Years too soon.

'Twas long ago our Author drew, from Life,
A sober Husband, and a fickle Wife.
Oh! could he now the living Draught renew,
He would be first, ye Fair, and picture you ;
Allow more Scope, yet wiser Maxims trace,
And give us something 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 Taking,
Expulfionnow perhaps had been his Making:
Tho lost his Glories in St. James's Air,
The lavish City would those Wrongs repair,
Be-fur'd, be-chain'd-Heftruts the new Lord Mayor.

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