The poetical works of David Garrick, Esq. Now first collected into two volumes. With explanatory notes.: [pt.1]

AN ODE ON THE DEATH OF Mr. PELHAM* 1.1.

An honest man's the noblest work of God.POPE.

First printed 1754.

ODE ON THE DEATH OF Mr. PELHAM.

LET others hail the rising sun, I bow to that whose course is run, Which sets in endless night; Whose rays benignant bless'd this isle, Made peaceful nature round us smile With calm, but chearful light.

No bounty past provokes my praise, No future prospects prompt my lays, From real grief they flow; I catch th' alarm from Britain's fears, My sorrows fall with Britain's tears, And join a nation's woe.

See—as you pass the crowded street, Despondence clouds each face you meet, All their lost friend deplore: You read in ev'ry pensive eye, You hear in ev'ry broken sigh, That PELHAM is no more!

If thus each Briton be alarm'd, Whom but his distant influence warm'd, What grief their breasts must rend! Who in his private virtues bless'd, By nature's dearest tyes possess'd The HUSBAND, FATHER, FRIEND!

What! mute ye bards?—no mournful verse, No chaplets to adorn his hearse, To crown the good and just? Your flow'rs in warmer regions bloom, You seek no pensions from the tomb, No laurels from the dust.

When pow'r departed with his breath, The sons of flatt'ry fled from death: Such insects swarm at noon. Not for herself my muse is griev'd, She never ask'd, nor e'er receiv'd, One ministerial boon.

Hath some peculiar strange offence, Against us arm'd Omnipotence, To check the nation's pride? Behold th' appointed punishment! At length the vengeful bolt is sent, It fell when PELHAM dy'd!

Uncheck'd by shame, unaw'd by dread, When vice triumphant rears her head, Vengeance can sleep no more;

The evil angel stalks at large, The good submits, resigns his charge, And quits th' unhallow'd shore.

The same sad morn* 1.2 to Church and State (So for our sins 'twas fix'd by fate) A double stroke was giv'n; Black as the whirlwinds of the north, St. John's fell genius issu'd forth, And PELHAM fled to heav'n!

By angels watch'd in Eden's bow'rs, Our parents pass'd their peaceful hours, Nor guilt nor pain they knew; But on the day which usher'd in The hell-born train of mortal sin, The heav'nly guards withdrew.

Look down, much-honor'd Shade, below! Still let thy pity aid our woe; Stretch out thy healing hand: Resume those feelings, which on earth Proclaim'd thy patriot love and worth, And sav'd sinking land.

Search, with thy more than mortal eye, The breasts of all thy friends: descry What there has got possession.

See if thy unsuspecting heart, In some for truth mistook not art, For principle, profession.

From these, the pests of human kind, Whom royal bounty cannot bind, Protect our parent King: Unmask their treach'ry to his sight, Drag forth the vipers into light, And crush them ere they sting.

If such his trust and honors share, Again exert thy guardian care, Each venom'd heart disclose: On Him, on Him, our all depends, Oh save him from his treach'rous friends, He cannot fear his foes.

Whoe'er shall at the helm preside, Still let thy prudence be his guide, To stem the troubled wave; But chiefly whisper in his ear, " That GEORGE is open, just, sincere, " And dares to scorn a knave."

No selfish views t' oppress mankind, No mad ambition fir'd thy mind, To purchase fame with blood; Thy bosom glow'd with purer heat; Convinc'd that to be truly great, Is only to be good.

To hear no lawless passion's call, To serve thy King, yet feel for all, Such was thy glorious plan! Wisdom with gen'rous love took part, Together work'd thy head and heart, The Minister and Man.

Unite, ye kindred sons of worth; Strangle bold faction in its birth; Be Britain's weal your view! For this great end let all combine, Let virtue link each fair design, And PELHAM live in YOU.

ADVERTISEMENT To the SECOND EDITION.

The Author of the foregoing ODE has heard with pleasure that what he had written from his con∣cern for the death of a good and great man has been favourably received. He is not vain enough to think that the Poem has any merit but what results from the truth and mere feeling of the subject-matter.—In this edition he has altered some Stanzas which were too hastily published in the first, and hopes he has now made it more wor∣thy of his Readers.

THE FRIBBLERIAD.

Foemina, Vir, Neutrum.PUL. in HERMOPH.

First printed in the Year 1761.

ADVERTISEMENT.

BE it known unto you, gentle or ungentle reader, that the author of the following poem is a volunteer in the service, or rather a poetical knight-errant, who, according to the oath taken at the late installation, is exhortca and admonished (by Apollo to be sure) to use his sword in defence of all equity and justice to the ut∣most of his power. His brother Quixote, of im∣mortal memory, tried his prowess upon Sheep and Windmills—Our champion does the very same; and calls forth to the field an unknown knight, who has the formidable X, Y, Z, in his train.—And, that he may not be thought to en∣gage with too great odds on his side, he opposes to them his own three trusty squires, A, B, C, who are resolved to stand by him, and fight all the weapons through, from Epic Poetry to Epigram, as long as there is a letter left standing in the English alphabet—and now, Mr. Churchill may know, that there is

—A Quixote of the age will dare, To wage a war with dirt, and fight with air.

When the aforesaid unknown knight shall please to appear with his beaver up, he may expect that our adventurer will shew his face too.—In the

mean time, we will divert him in our turn with a little bush-fighting, which he has been endea∣vouring to entertain the town with for more than a twelvemonth past.

It is therefore proper to inform thee, reader, for as yet perhaps thou hast not heard of it, that there is a certain weekly paper, called the Crafts∣man, still existing, if it may be called existence to crawl about from week to week, and be kept alive by those last resources of hungry ingenuity, falsehood and defamation. In this said paper, a certain gentleman, who subscribes himself X, Y, Z, a volunteer too in the service, has thrown about his dirt in a most extraordinary manner, and has attacked our Stage Hero, with unwearied male∣volence, both in his public and private character; but, indeed, his rancour being too much for his wit, he has let his heart indulge itself at the ex∣pence of his head, and has most imprudently made assertions, in the bitterness of his spirit, which can be contradicted by every attender upon the theatre.—It would be endless, and out of place here, to point out his want of taste, and even common truth, in his account of the manner of Mr. Garrick's speaking and acting in his various characters; of his most ungentleman-like, as well as unjust, abuse of his person, voice, age, &c. &c. &c.; for there is no kind of meanness, as Montaigne well observes, that a true malignant spirit will not descend to.—To give one instance

among a thousand of his upright intentions—This worthy gentleman, Mr. X, Y, Z, not con∣tent with exposing his impotent malice weekly to the publick, was at the pains and expence to col∣lect his papers into one volume* 1.3, and even send them to some of Mr. Garrick's friends, left the obscurity and disreputation of the paper, in which they first made their appearance, should have kept his malice totally a secret—The Re∣viewers gave their sentiments of this curious col∣lection, in the following manner—

"These are the overflowings of spleen, igno∣rance, conceit, and disappointment."

Crit. Rev. Jan. 1761.

"The design of publishing these important pieces of criticism, is, to prevent the sad misfor∣tune of their sinking into oblivion with a last year's news-paper. If we believe the author, all the praises that have hitherto been given to Mr. Garrick, as an actor, are so entirely without foun∣dation, that "he never did, nornever could, speak ten successive lines of Shakespeare with gramma∣tical propriety." This is an assertion so contrary to the opinion of many better critics than this au∣thor shews himself to be, and in reality so oppo∣site

to truth, that it is alone sufficient to invali∣date all his reasonings upon the subject."

Monthly Rev. Dec. 1760.

It would take up too much time at present, to exhibit our hero X, Y, Z, in all his proper co∣lours: we shall leave that task to a much abler hand, who will very soon more fully detect and expose him and his designs* 1.4.—But to return to our poem—

It may properly be called an Iliad in a nut∣shell; for, though it does not consist of many

more than four hundred lines, it contains all the essential epic properties—the plan, sentiments,

character, diction, moral, metre, and even the heroes themselves, all in miniature.

The following epigram, printed in the Ledger, was the corner-stone of the whole, and furnished us with ideas of the redoubted Fitzgig, the Achilles of the Fribbleriad—

To X, Y, Z.

Inded most severely poor Garrick you handle, Not bigots damn more with their bell, book, and candle; Though you with the town about him disagree, He joins with the town in their judgment of thee:

So dainty, so devilish, is all that you scribble, Not a soul but can see 'tis the spite of a Fribble; And all will expect you, when forth you shall come, With a round smirking face, and a jut with your bum.

If X, Y, Z, is really such a thing as here re∣presented, he is most welcome to the honour we have done him; if he is not, he may thank his own malignant d sposition, that made it natural to suppose, that such poor spite could proceed from no one, who was not, in his person, man∣ners, mind, and heart, an arrant FRIBBLE.

THE FRIBBLERIAD.

WHO is the Scribbler, X, Y, Z, Who still writes on, though little read? Whose falsehood, malice, envy, spite, So often grin, yet se dom bite? Say, Garrick, does he write for bread,Line 5 This friend of yours, this X, Y, Z? For pleasure sure, not bread—'twere vain To write for that he ne'er could gain: No calls of nature to excuse him, He deals in rancour to amuse him;Line 10 A man, it seems—'tis hard to say— A woman then?—a moment pray;— Unknown as yet by sex or feature, Suppose we try to guess the creature; Whether a wit, or a pretender?Line 15 Of masculine or female gender?

Some things it does may pass for either, And some it does belong to neither: It is so fibbing, slandering, spiteful, In phrase so dainty, so delightful;Line 20 So fond of all it reads add writes, So waggish when the maggot bites; Such spleen, such wickedness, and whim, It must be woman, and a brim. Line 25

But then the learning and the Latin!Line 25 The ends of Horace come so pat in, And, wanting wit, it makes such shift To fill up gaps with Pope and Swift, As cunning housewives bait their traps, And take their game with bits and scraps;Line 30 For playhouse critics, keen as mice, Are ever greedy, ever nice; And rank abuse, like toasted cheese, Will catch as many as you please. In short, 'tis easily discerning,Line 35 By here and there a patch of learning, The creature's male—say all we can, It must be something like a man— What, like a man, from day to shrink, And seek revenge with pen and ink?Line 40 On mischief bent, his name conceal, And like a toad in secret steal, There swell with venom inward pent, Till out he crawls to give it vent. Hate join'd with fear will shun the light,Line 45 But hate and manhood fairly fight— 'Tis manhood's mark to face the foe, And not in ambush give the blow; The savage thus, less man than beast, Upon his foe will fall and feast,Line 50 From bush, or hole, his arrows send, To wound his prey, then tear and rend; For fear and hatred in conjunction Make wretches, that feel no compunction.

With colours flying, beat of drum,Line 55 Unlike to this, see Churchill come! And now like Hercules he stands, Unmask'd his face, but arm'd his hands; Alike prepar'd to write or drub! This holds a pen and that a club!Line 60 A club! which nerves like his can wield, And form'd, a wit like his to shield. " Mine is the Rosciad, mine, he cries; Who says 'tis not, I say, he lies. To falsehood and to fear a stranger,Line 65 Not one shall fear my fame or danger; Let those who write with fear or shame, Those Craftsmen scribblers, hide their name! My name is Churchill!"—Thus he spoke, And thrice he wav'd his knotted oak:Line 70 That done, he paus'd—prepar'd the blow, Impartial bard! for friend and foe.

If such are manhood's feats and plan, Poor X, Y, Z, will prove no man. Nor male? nor female?—then on oathLine 75 We safely may pronounce it both.

What! of that wriggling, fribbling race, The curse of nature, and disgrace? That mixture base, with fiends set forth, To taint and vilify all worth—Line 80 Whose rancour knows nor bounds nor measure, Feels every passion, tastes no pleasure; The want of power, all peace destroying, For ever wishing, ne'er enjoying— Line 85

So smiling, smirking, soft in feature,Line 85 You'd swear it was the gentlest creature— But touch its pride, the lady-fellow, From sickly pale, turns deadly yellow— Male, female, vanish—fiends appear— And all is malice, rage, and fear!Line 90

What in the heart breeds all this evil, Makes man on earth a very devil? Corrupts the mind, and tortures sense? Malignity with impotence.

Say, Gossip Muse, who lov'st to prattle, And fill the town with tittle-tattle, To tell a secret such a bliss is! Say for what cause these Master-Misses To Garrick such a hatred bore, That long they wish'd to pinch him sore;Line 100 To bind the monster hand and foot, Like Gulliver in Lilliput, With birchin twigs to flea his skin, And each to stick him with a pin?— Are things so delicate, so fell!Line 105 Can Cherubims be imps of hell? Tell us how spite a scheme begot, Who laid the eggs, who hatch'd the plot: O sing in namby-pamby feet, Like to the subject, tripping neat;Line 110 Snatch every grace that fancy reaches; Relate their passions, plottings, speeches; You, when their PANFRIBBLERIUM sat, Saw them conven'd, and heard their chat: Line 115

Saw all their wriggling, fuming, fretting,Line 115 Their nodding, frisking, and curvetting; Each minute saw their rage grow stronger, Till the dear things could hold no longer; But out burst forth the dreadful vow, TO DO A DEED!—but when? and how?Line 120 And where?—O Muse, thy lyre new-string, The how, the where, the when to sing! Say in what sign the sun had enter'd, When these sweet souls on plotting ventur'd— 'Twas when the balmy breath of MayLine 125 Makes tender lambkins sport and play; When tenderer fribbles, walk, and dare, To gather nosegays in the air— 'Twas at that time of all the year When flowers and butterflies appear,Line 130 When brooding warmth on nature lies, And circulates the blood of flies— Then Fribbles were with Fribbles leaguing, And met for plotting and intriguing.

There is a place, upon a hill,Line 135 Where cits of pleasure take their fill, Where hautboys scream, and fiddles squeak, To sweat the ditto once a week; Where joy of late unmix'd with noise Of romping girls and drunken boys;Line 140 Where decency, sweet maid, appear'd, And in her hand brought Johnny Beard; 'Twas here—(for public rooms are free) They met to plot, and drink their tea. Line 145

Each on a sattin stool was seated,Line 145 Which, nicely quilted, curtain'd, pleated, Did all their various skill display: Each work'd his own, to grace the day— Above the rest, and set apart, A chair was plac'd; where curious artLine 150 With lace and fringe to honour meant Him, they should chuse their President.

No longer now the kettle simmers, The smoke ascends, or cotton glimmers; The tea was done, the cups revers'd;Line 155 Lord TRIP began—"May I be curs'd; " May this right hand grow brown and speckled, " This nose be pimpled, face be freckled, " May my sick monkey ne'er get up; " May my sweet Dido die in pup,Line 160 " Nay may I meet a worse disaster, " My finger cut, and have no plaister— " No cordial drops when dead with vapour, " Be taken short and have no paper— " If I don't feel your wrongs and shame,Line 165 " With such a zeal for FRIBBLE fame— " So much my heart for vengeance thumps, " You see it raging through my jumps"— Then, opening wide his milk-white vest, They saw it fluttering in its nest.Line 170 Some felt his heart, and some propose Their drops—his lordship to compose— The perturbation, all agree, Was partly fidgets, partly tea. Line 175

While some the drops, some water get,Line 175 Sir COCK-A-DOODLE, Baronet, Arose—"Let not this accident " The business of the day prevent! " That lord's my friend, my near relation, " But what's one lord to all our nation?Line 180 " Friendship to patriot eyes looks small, " And COCK-A-DOODLE feels for all. " Shall one, though great, encrease your care, " While still unhonour'd stands that chair? " Might I presume to name a creter,Line 185 " Form'd for the place by art and nater; " I would a dainty Wit propose " To serve our friends, destroy our foes: " To fill the chair so nicely ••it, " His pride and passion match his wit;Line 190 " His wit has so much power and might, " It yields to nothing but his spite— " For wit may have its ebbs and flows, " But malice no abatement knows." Propose! they cried, we trust in you—Line 195 Name him, Sir COCK-A-DOODLE—do— " Would you have one can joke and scribble? " Whose heart and very soul is FRIBBLE—

" Would you have one can smile, be civil, " Yet all within a very devil—Line 200 " Lay pretty schemes, like cobwebs spin 'em, " To catch your hated foe within 'em, " Let him a thousand times break thro 'em, " Th' ingenious creter shall renew 'em— Line 205

" If mischief is your wish and plan,Line 205 " Let * 1.5FIZGIG, FIZGIG, be the man! " What say you?—Brethren! shall it be? " Has he your voice?"—All cry'd, ouy, ouy. At which, ONE larger than the rest With visage sleek, and swelling chest,Line 210 With stretch'd-out fingers, and a thumb Stuck to his hips, and jutting bum, Rose up!—All knew his smirking air; They clap'd, and cry'd—the chair, the chair! He smil'd: and to the honour'd seat,Line 215 Paddled away with mincing feet: So have I seen on dove-house top With cock'd-up tail, and swelling crop, A pouting pigeon waddling run, Shuffling, riggling, noddling on.Line 220

Some minutes pass'd in forms and greeting, PHIL. WHIFFLE op'd the cause of meeting. " In forty-eight—I well remember— " Twelve years or more; the month November; " May we no more such misery know!Line 225 " Since Garrick made OUR SEX a shew; " And gave us up to such rude laughter, " That few, 'twas said, could hold their water: " For He, that player, so mock'd our motions, " Our dress, amusements, fancies, notions,Line 230

" So lisp'd our words, and minc'd our steps, " He made us pass for demi-reps. " Though wisely then we laugh'd it off, " We'll now return his wicked scoff. " Genteel revenge is ever slow,Line 235 " The dear Italians poison so.— " But how attack him? far, or near? " In front, my friends, or in the rear?" All started up at once to speak, As if they felt some sudden tweak:Line 240 'Twas quick resentment caus'd the smart, And piere'd them in the tenderest part. For these dear souls are like a spinnet, Which has both sharp and sweet within it: Press but the keys, up start the quills:Line 245 And thus perk'd up these Jack-my-Gills. Each touching, brushing, as they rose, Together rustled all their cloaths. Thus, when all hush'd, at Handel's air, Sit, book in hand, the British fair,Line 250 A sudden whiz the car receives, When rustling, bustling, turn the leaves.

In all the dignity of form, The chairman rose to hush the storm; To order call'd, and try'd to frown—Line 255 As all got up, so all sat down: Sir DIDDLE then he thus address'd— " 'Tis yours to speak, be mute the rest." When thus the knight—"Can I dissemble? "Conceal my rage, while thus I tremble?Line 260

" O FIZGIG! 'tis that Garrick's name, " Now stops my voice, and shakes my frame— " His pangs would please—his death—oh lud! " Blood, Mr. FIZGIG, blood, blood, blood!" The thought, too mighty for his mind,Line 265 O'ercame his powers; he star'd; grew blind: Cold sweat his faded cheek o'erspread, Like dew upon the lily's head; He squeak'd and sigh'd—no more could say But blood—bloo—blo—and died away.Line 270 Thus when in war a hero swoons, With loss of blood, or fear of wounds, They bear him off—and thus they bore Sir DIDDLE to the garden-door; Where sat LORD TRIP—where stood for use,Line 280 Salts, hartshorn, peppermint, and eau de luce.

A pause ensued:—at length began The valiant captain, PATTYPAN. With kimbow'd arm, and tossing head, He bridled up—"Wear I this red?Line 285 " Shall blood be nam'd, and I be dumb? " For that, and that alone, I come. " Glory's my call, and blood my trade; And thus"—then forth he drew his blade.Line 290 At once the whole assembly shrieks, At once the roses quit their cheeks; Each face o'ercast with deadly white, Nor paint itself could stand the fright; The roof with order, order, rings,Line 295 And all cry out—NO NAKED THINGS!

The captain sheath'd his wrath in pride, And stuck the bodkin by his side.

More soft, more gentle than a lamb, The reverend Mister MARJORAMLine 300 Arose—but first, with finger's tip, He pats the patch upon his lip; Then o'er it glides his healing tongue, And thus he said—or rather sung. " Sure 'tis the error of the moon!Line 305 " What, fight a mimic, a buffoon! " In France he has the church's curse, " And England's church is ten times worse. " Have you not read the holy writ, " Just publish'd by a reverend wit?Line 310 " That every Actor is a thing, " A Merry Andrew, paper king, " A puppet made of rags and wood, " The lowest son of earth, mere mud; " Mere public game, where'er you meet him,Line 315 " And coblers as they please may treat him? " Slave, coxcomb, venal, and what not? " Ten thousand names that I've forgot— " Then risque not thus a precious life, " In such a low, unnatural strife,Line 320 " And sure, to stab him would be cruel.— " I vote for—arsenick in his gruel."

He said, and smil'd; then sunk with grace, Lick'd the patch'd lip, and wip'd his face. A buz of rapture fill'd the room,Line 325 Like bees about a shrub in bloom:

All whisper'd round—"Was it not fine? " O very—Very—'Twas divine!" But soon as from the chair was seen A waving hand, and speaking mein,Line 330 A calm came on—the Chairman bow'd— And smirking spoke—"I'm pleas'd and proud " To mix my sentiments with yours: " 'Tis prudence every point secures. " Two friends with rapture I have heard;Line 335 " One favours arsenick, one the sword— " In both there's danger—but, succeeding, " Short pangs in poisoning, less in bleeding; " A sudden death's not worth a shilling— " I'd have our foe nine years a killing."Line 340 Then from his bosom forth he drew A crow-quill pen—"Behold, for you " And your revenge, this instrument! " From hell it came, to me 'twas sent: " Within is poison, sword, and all;Line 345 " Its point a dagger, dipt in gall: " Keen lingering pangs the foe shall feel, " While clouds the hand that stabs conceal: " With this, while living, I'll dissect him; " Create his errors, then detect 'em;Line 350 " Swell tiny faults to monstrous size! " Then point them out to purblind eyes, " Which, like Polonious, gaze in air, " For ouzel, camel, whale, or bear. " His very merit I'll pervert, " And swear the ore is sand and dirt—

" I know his quick and warm sensations, " And thence will work him more vexations— " Attended with some noisy cit, " Of strong belief, but puny wit;Line 260 " I'll take my seat, be rude and loud, " That each remark may reach the crowd; " At Lear will laugh, be hard as rocks, " And sit at Scrub like barbers blocks: " When all is still, we'll roar like thunder;Line 365 " When all applause—be mute, and wonder! " In this I boast uncommon merit— " I like, have prais'd, his genius, spirit: " His various powers, I own, divert me— " 'Tis his success alone has hurt me—Line 370 " My patriot hand, like Brutus, strikes, " And stabs, and wounds, where most it likes: " He, as a Roman, gave the blow; " I, as a FRIBBLE, stab your foe;Line 374 " He mourn'd the deed, would not prevent it, " I'll do the deed—and then * 1.6lament it."— At this all tongues their hearts obey, A burst of rapture forc'd its way, Bravo!—Bravissimo!—Huzza!

All rose at once—then hand in hand,Line 380 Each link'd to each, the heroes stand— Like Fairies form a magic round,— Then vow, and tremble at the sound— By all that's dear to human kind, By every tye can FRIBBLES bind;Line 385

They vow, that with their latest breath They'll stand by Fizgig—life or death. The kiss goes round the parting friends— The chair is left—th' assembly ends. Then each, his spirit to recruit,Line 390 For biscuits call, and candied fruit; And sip, his flutter'd nerves to heal, Warm water, sack, and orange-peel— Then made as warm as warmth could make them, All to their several homes betake them—Line 395 Save one, who, harrass'd with the chair, Remain'd at Hampstead, for the air.

Now, GARRICK, for the future know Where most you have deserv'd a foe— Can you their rage with justice blame?Line 400 To you they owe their public shame. Though long they slept, they were not dead; Their malice wakes in X, Y, Z.— And now bursts forth their treasur'd gall, Thro' him—COCK FRIBBLE of them all!Line 405

THE SICK MONKEY* 1.7. A FABLE.

"Thursday Afternoon, DAVID GARRICK, Esq arrived at his House in Southampton-street, Covent-Garden." Public Advertiser, April 27, 1765.

First published 1765.

THE SICK MONKEY. A FABLE.

ADDRESSED To Mr. GARRICK, upon his Arrival.

REturn'd from travel to your native shore, Again to make us laugh or cry, To turn your back, we hope, no more, Nor from your colours fly.

Whether you fled for health, or quiet, Harrass'd with rule, or sick with riot, Or whether you have kept us lean, As slander says, With lenten plays, To make our appetites more keen; Whether it be or this or that, No matter what, For we before the curtain see but blindly; Now you are come To us, and home, We greet you, Sir, and greet you kindly.

My Muse is honest, as she's bold, A forward Miss, Who loves to prate—but hold— I quite forgot; Before I tell you what she is, I'll tell you what she's not.

No bird of prey, with wild uproar, Like Churchill to disturb the grove; Nor comes she, like the harmless dove, To bill, and coo, and love, —And nothing more.

In short; to speak more plainly, Nor be it thought I speak it vainly, Averse to flattery and spite, She is a modest, sober dame, I wish all females were the same, And will not scratch or bite:

She is not one of those Who shew their genius in their dress, Whose inky fingers, unpinn'd cloaths, The slip-shod shoe, and snuffy nose, Denote her wit, and sluttishness: Who with a Play, like pistol cock'd, in hand, Bid Managers to stand:

" Deliver, Sir, " Your thoughts on this " Before you stir— " —But, Madam—Miss— " Your answer strait; " I will not wait— " 'Tis fit you know— " I'll hear no reason, " This very season, " AY or No."

Not to kill more precious time, In dropping sense to pick up rhime; Or, like friend Shandy, rattle, And lose my matter in my prattle; Without much wit digression's tame, So I shall give it o'er; And beat about the bush no more, But start my game.

The Critick's pen has various uses, It praises now, and now abuses, Does this and that, Or both together, As fancy strikes or rhimes come pat, Stabs with the point, or tickles with the feather.

Authors, like bees, buz round, and round Dramatic ground; For all they meet Have sharp and sweet;

They do no ill, Would fools fit still; Provoke 'em, and they're dangerous things; And ev'ry Player Should equally beware Their honey as their stings.

GARRICK! thou mighty chief of kings and queens, Despotic tyrant of the scenes! Think'st thou all human race to mock, In buskin, and in sock, And will not fools Thy mock'ry ridicules, From CHALKSTONE's Lord, to dainty FRIBBLE, Rave, chatter, write, In various ways display their spite? For all can talk, and some can scribble.

Others again Take up the pen, In panegyrick's gaudy colours paint thee; As humour flows, Now friends, now foes, In prose and verse, and verse and prose, Bedevil thee, and saint thee.

And can such Criticks teaze thee? And can such praises please thee?

O, if they can, Alas! poor man, No more deride Thy neighbour's weakness, folly, pride, But cure thy own, If thou art able, While I make known My friendship to thee in a Fable.

An APE there was, an APE of merit, A lively, sportive, pleasant thing, Had so much fancy, whim, and spirit, And made such sport, He got to Court, And shew'd his tricks before the LION-KING.

Such honour gave him fame, And rais'd his name; From far and near they came to see This MONKEY-prodigy!

Though none were more expert and quick, In tumbling backward o'er a stick; Though none with a more lordly pride, And happy ease, did e'er bestride The rugged, Russian bear; Though he could skip it up and down, And pick the pocket of a clown, Or whip away his hat, Or fondle with a cat, The wonder of the Fair!

This was not all—he had the art Of acting still a higher part: To each profession that he saw, Physick, Divinity, or Law, He ludicrously shap'd him: So much possess'd of all their notions, Their humours, oddities, and motions, That not a soul escap'd him.

In ridicule's enchanted glass, Whatever forms are shewn, We all can see another's face, But never find our own. To flatter SELF we all incline, For SELF we plan and labour; " Pluck not, good Sir, a hair of mine, " And you may scalp my neighbour."

Each laugh'd to see his friend the jest, And prais'd the MONKEY highly, Not openly, but slily, At court you find a thousand such: But what was best, Though there were none By turns he did not fall upon, Each thought himself the only one The MIMIC could not touch: Blest fools! who boast your happy lot From ridicule secure, Though leopard-stain'd, you see no spot, INIMITABLY pure!

Whether the Jackanapes was clever, Or the court not over nice, By various tricks he crept in favour, And for those tricks had DOUBLE PRICE! Thus FORTUNE, in a whim, Resolv'd to turn his brain, And fill'd his cup up to the brim, Th' in toxicating cup of joy, Which better heads than his destroy, No wonder he was vain!

Whenever gossip FAME prates loud, ENVY, in turn, as loud will tattle, And scribblers to her standard croud, Cry, HAVOCK! and prepare for battle. MALEVOLENCE, with lynx's eye, The most minute defects will spy; And even FRIENDSHIP, shame upon our kind! Is to those faults not always blind.

The looking up fatigues the sight, And mortals when they soar, Should they once reach a certain height, All wish to have them lower: And friends there are in this good town Will lend a hand to help them down.

About, about my pen, Nor lose the Fable in thy railing! But to our MONKEY back again, Who found that Brutes, as well as Men, Have this same cursed failing.

The moment he got fame and wealth (How ill exchang'd for ease and health!) The envious crew Poor PUG pursue, Abuse his active, pliant spirit; But chiefly those Were mark'd his foes, Who felt a satire in his merit.

The dull and sluggish were the first To shew their teeth, if not to bite; The Hog, the Bear, the Ass had burst, Had they not grunted, roar'd, and bray'd their spite. This furious stir Awak'd the Critic CUR; Hound, Greyhound, Mastiff, answer to the call, The little Dogs and all. The game's in view: For man and beast Scandal's a feast, Where both with appetite fall to.

The bloated Toad, in silence, stole To gather poison in her hole:

As mischief never knows delay, She rouz'd the Viper in her way; A neighbour, and her bosom friend: For tho' she crawl'd and could not run, She kept this maxim strict'y, (Ye sons of Law, attend!) That mischief, if it must be done, 'Twere well it were done quickly.

But then his friends—Did they oppose? (A luke-warm friend's the worst of foes) The Goat look'd wife, and wagg'd his beard.; The Spaniel shook his ears; The Fox turn'd up his pointed nose; Thoughtful and dull the Cat appear'd, Or else in whispers purr'd her fears: The Steed a lone was firm and fast, The generous Steed stood by him to the last.

PUG sickens, mopes, and looks like death, Speaks faintly, and scarce draws his breath; Some call it Megrim, some the Spleen; Words often us'd that little mean: But Scandal, with her face demure, Hints it is heat of blood, By which is understood, An old Amour: In short, they ransack all diseases, And give him that their fancy pleases.

Among the rest, That fits him best, Which best the Doctor serves: Of which he most avails him, When knowledge fails him, And, with a face of wisdom, calls it—Nerves.

The Horse, who saw his friend's distress, Did thus his honest mind express: " Come, prithee, rouze; this life's the devil; " What sigh and sob, and keep within? " What YOU, who us'd to frisk and revel, " For ever chatter, and for ever grin? " Zounds—it would make a parson swear!— " Get on my back, and take the air." Away they went, and as they pass, The Hog, the Dog, the Bear, the Ass, Pug's diff'rent foes in diff'rent places; If in the least they shew'd their spite, The Horse would winny, snort, and bite, And throw the dirt into their faces.

For all this care, This exercise and air, Yet still the MONKEY pin'd, For well we are assur'd, That when the grief is in the mind, 'Tis sooner got than cur'd.

In this condition, What to prescribe him?—a Physician. There is a certain way of life, Which all must take, For fashion's sake, Or be with all the world at strife: The rich must to the Doctor give, The poor to Nature trust, and live.

It must be so;—or could the tribe Of those who quack, or who prescribe, In folly find fuch ample gain? Could nostrums swell the Advertiser? Or the wise heads of Warwick-lane Buy Wig enough to make them wiser?

Our patient cannot wait; " Send for a doctor strait!" But not a formal, half-bred fool, Who cures by chance, and kills by rule, A perriwig-pated block: Physicians for the Brutes were Fowls, And tho' the sworn practitioners were OWLS, They chose a neighbouring COCK.

He enters with a stately tread, His comb and wattles dignify his head: No outward sign was ever seen, That promis'd half so much within;

And yet—ye sons of Physick, blush! The wine was better than the bush. His learning back'd by penetration, A kind of Radcliffe-inspiration, Bound by no partial, pedant laws, Shot through each symptom to its cause: A rarity without dispute! He was an honest COCK to boot. Yet with this genius, worth, and knowledge, He had a stain, a deep disgrace, No mortal merit could efface,— —He was not of the College!

But hold—our hero out of sight, Must now again be brought to light: We left him in the Doctor's care, Who with a serious face, Attending to the case, Did thus his mind declare:

" I could, like any learned brother, " With a hard name my ign'rance smother; " 'Tis one of our establish'd laws, " Which daily we fulfil, " Whene'er our skill can't find a cause, " To make a cause to suit our skill; " Thus we seldom meet disgrace, " We only can mistake the case. " What are these papers by your side? " 'Tis physick, Sir, to cure my pride:

" This heap of papers, verse and prose, " Is the joint malice of my foes; " There's not a day but something's sent me, " To fret me, and torment me."

This said, the conversation stops: For PUG was faint, and calls for drops; With rage subdu'd, the patient panted, Which struck a light the Doctor wanted, Who thus pronounc'd—"I know your ail; " 'Tis not in your heart or head, " As some have said; " Where then, good Doctor?—in your tail."

His Tail of most uncommon make, In action like the serpent kind, A thousand diff'rent forms could take, Twirl, twist, and vary to his mind. If Lords were ap'd—this pliant queue Was cross his breast a ribbon blue, Or green, or red,—and then slap-dash, A Chaplain's scarf, or Col'nel's sash: Whene'er the city struck his brain, 'Twas round his neck a Lord Mayor's chain: Or were his part to lisp and trip it, Hey, presto!—'twas a lady's tippet! But now depriv'd of spirit, life, and strength, It lies a languid, lank, inanimated length.

The Doctor paus'd—then silence broke, " I'll strike a master stroke! " This Tail of yours we must amend, " Give it new life and force, " And if we gain that end, " The rest will come of course: " With that same malice of your foes, " Both verse and prose, " Curl it each night and morning; " But then take warning— " Never again to cast your eyes " On what is wrote, or may be writ, " Whether it is, or is not wit; " For there the magic lies."

'Tis best by craft, and not by book, To cure these mental fevers;— The MONKEY all for gospel took, The sick are great believers. So well the Doctor's words he noted, His tail that night was papilloted; His greedy eyes, to cure his head, No more on paper-diet fed.

The cause remov'd, effects will cease, Depriv'd of oil, the flame goes out, Our APE began to be at peace, His Tail to move about: The more 'twas curl'd, The more 'twas twirl'd;

With head and heart The Tail took part, Life frisks in ev'ry vein, —PUG was himself again!—

The MONKEY got his health, The Doctor wealth, Of patients he had plenty: For though the cure was half a joke, 'Twas wonder'd at by silly folk, And that's nineteen in twenty. To fix his cure, Historians say, That, like Sir WILFUL in the play, He talk'd of foreign parts: Left all his griefs and cares behind, Sail'd with the first fair wind, And hey for ITALY and Arts!

What he got there no creature knows, Nor he himself can tell us; What lightly comes, as lightly goes, With all such pretty fellows. He skip'd the country o'er, And then return'd, With what he learn'd, A greater MONKEY than before.

THE Fable told, the Moral comes;— GARRICK, don't fret, and bite your thumbs, But take the Monkey's place; The same's your case; The same prescription we advise: Should Spleen and Spite, Nay, though Critic Truth should write, (For who is always in the right?) Shut your ears, and close your eyes: Whate'er is publish'd, buy the heap, You'll have it cheap, But not to read, or hear it read: Would you strike detraction dead, The Doctor's method cannot fail; Keep the poison from your HEAD, And clap it to your TAIL.

AN ODE UPON DEDICATING A BUILDING, AND ERECTING A STATUE, TO SHAKESPEARE, AT STRATFORD UPON AVON* 1.8.

ADVERTISEMENT.

COULD some gentlemen of ap∣proved ability have been prevailed upon to do justice to the subject of the following Ode, the present apology would have been unnecessary;—but as it was requisite to produce something of this kind upon the occasion, and the lot having unluckily fallen on the person perhaps the least qualified to succeed in the attempt, it is hoped the candour of the public will esteem the per∣formance rather as an act of duty, than vanity in the author.

As some news-paper writers have illiberally endeavoured to shake the poetic character of our immortal bard (too deeply indeed rooted in the heart to be affected by them) it is recommended to those who are not sufficiently established in their dramatic faith, to peruse a work lately published, called, An Essay on the Genius and Writings of SHAKESPEARE, by which they will with much satisfaction be convinced, that England may justly boast the honour of producing the greatest dra∣matic poet in the world.

To strengthen and justify the general admira∣tion of this astonishing Genius, it has been

thought proper to subjoin to the Ode some unde∣niable testimonies (both in prose and verse) of his unequalled original talents* 1.9.

If it shall be found, that speaking that part of the Ode, which has usually been conveyed in re∣citative, produces a better effect, the Author flatters himself he may lay claim to some little merit on that account: As to the Ode itself, he presents it to the public as an object of their good-nature,—to his friends as an exercise of their partiality—to his enemies, as a lucky opportu∣nity of venting their wit, humour, criticism, spleen, or whatever else they please, should they think it worthy of their notice.

ODE.

TO what blest genius of the isle Shall gratitude her tribute pay, Decree the festive day, Erect the statue, and devote the pile?

Do not your sympathetic hearts accord, To own the "bosom's lord?" 'Tis he! 'tis he!—that demi-god! Who Avon's flow'ry margin trod, While sportive Fancy round him flew, Where Nature led him by the hand, Instructed him in all she knew, And gave him absolute command! 'Tis he! 'tis he! " The god of our idolatry!"

To him the song, the Edifice we raise, He merits all our wonder, all our praise! Yet ere impatient joy break forth, In sounds that lift the soul from earth;

And to our spell-bound minds impart Some faint idea of his magic art; Let awful silence still the air! From the dark cloud, the hidden light Bursts tenfold bright! Prepare! prepare! prepare! Now swell at once the choral song, Roll the full tide of harmony along; Let rapture sweep the trembling strings, And Fame expanding all her wings, With all her trumpet-tongues proclaim The lov'd, rever'd, immortal name! Shakespeare! Shakespeare! Shakespeare! Let th' enchanting found From Avon's shores rebound; Thro' the air Let it bear The precious freight the envious nations round!

CHORUS.

Swell the choral song, Roll the tide of harmony along, Let Rapture sweep the strings, Fame expand her wings, With her trumpet-tongues proclaim The lov'd, rever'd, immortal name, Shakespeare! Shakespeare! Shakespeare!

AIR.

I.

Sweetest bard that ever sung, Nature's glory, Fancy's child,; Never sure did witching tongue Warble forth such wood-notes wild!

II.

Come each Muse, and sister Grace, Loves and Pleasures hither come; Well you know this happy place, Avon's banks were once your home.

III.

Bring the laurel, bring the flow'rs, Songs of triumph to him raise; He united all your pow'rs, All uniting, sing his praise!

Tho' Philip's fam'd unconquer'd son, Had ev'ry blood-stain'd laurel won; He sigh'd—that his creative word (Like that which rules the skies) Could not bid other nations rise, To glut his yet unsated sword:

But when our Shakespeare's matchless pen, Like Alexander's sword, had done with men; He heav'd no sigh, he made no moan, Not limited to human kind, He fir'd his wonder-teeming mind, Rais'd other worlds, and beings of his own!

AIR.

When Nature, smiling, hail'd his birth, To him unbounded pow'r was given; The whirlwind's wing to sweep the sky, " The frenzy-rowling eye, To glance from heav'n to earth, From earth to heav'n!"

O from his muse of fire Could but one spark be caught, Then might these humble strains aspire To tell the wonders he has wrought.

To tell,—how fitting on his magic throne, Unaided and alone, In dreadful state, The subject passions round him wait; Who tho' unchain'd, and raging there, He checks, inflames, or turns their mad career; With that superior skill, Which winds the fiery steed at will, He gives the awful word— And they all foaming, trembling, own him for their Lord.

With these his slaves he can controul, Or charm the soul; So realiz'd are all his golden dreams, Of terror, pity, love, and grief, Tho' conscious that the vision only seems, The woe-struck mind finds no relief: Ingratitude would drop the tear, Cold-blooded age take fire, To see the thankless children of old Lear Spurn at their king, and fire! With his our reason too grows wild! What nature had disjoin'd, The poet's pow'r combin'd, Madness and age, ingratitude and child.

Ye guilty, lawless tribe, Escap'd from punishment, by art or bribe, At Shakespeare's bar appear! No bribing, shuffling there— His genius, like a rushing flood, Cannot be withstood, Out bursts the penitential tear! The look appall'd, the crime reveals, The marble-hearted monster feels, Whose hand is stain'd with blood.

SEMI-CHORUS.

When law is weak, and justice fails, The poet holds the sword and scales.

AIR.

Though crimes from death and torture fly, The swifter muse, Their flight pursues, Guilty mortals more than die! They live indeed, but live to feel The scourge and wheel, " On the torture of the mind they lie;" Should harrass'd nature sink to rest, The Poet wakes the scorpion in the breast, Guilty mortals more than die!

When our Magician, more inspir'd, By charms, and spells, and incantations fir'd, Exerts his most tremendous pow'r; The thunder growls, the heav'ns low'r, And to his darken'd throne repair, The Demons of the deep, and Spirits of the air!

But soon these horrors pass away, Thro' storms and night breaks forth the day: He smiles,—they vanish into air! The buskin'd warriors disappear! Mute the trumpets, mute the drums, The scene is chang'd—Thalia comes, Leading the nymph Euphrosyne, Goddess of joy and liberty! She and her sisters, hand in hand, Link'd to a num'rous frolick band, With roses and with myrtle crown'd, O'er the green velvet lightly bound, Circling the Monarch of th' inchanted land!

AIR.

I.

Wild, frantick with pleasure, They trip it in measure, To bring him their treasure, The treasure of joy.

II.

How gay is the measure, How sweet is the pleasure, How great is the treasure, The treasure of joy!

III.

Like roses fresh blowing, Their dimpled-cheeks glowing, His mind is o'erflowing; A treasure of joy!

IV.

His rapture perceiving, They smile while they're giving, He smiles at receiving, A treasure of joy.

With kindling cheeks, and sparkling eyes, Surrounded thus, the Bard in transport dies; The little Loves, like bees, Clust'ring and climbing up his knees, His brows with roses bind; While Fancy, Wit, and Humour spread Their wings, and hover round his head, Impregnating his mind. Which teeming soon, as soon brought forth, Not a tiny spurious birth, But out a mountain came, A mountain of delight! LAUGHTER roar'd out to see the sight, And FALSTAFF was his name! With sword and shield he, puffing, strides; The joyous revel-rout Receive him with a shout, And modest Nature holds her sides: No single pow'r the deed had done, But great and small, Wit, Fancy, Humour, Whim, and Jest, The huge, mis-shapen heap impress'd; And lo—SIR JOHN! A compound of 'em all, A comic world in ONE.

AIR.

A world where all pleasures abound, So fruitful the earth, So quick to bring forth, And the world too is wicked and round.

As the well-teeming earth, With rivers and show'rs, Will smiling bring forth, Her fruits and her flow'rs; So Falstaff will never decline; Still fruitful and gay, He moistens his clay, And his rain and his rivers are wine;

Of the world he has all, but its care; No load, but of flesh, will he bear; He laughs off his pack, Takes a cup of old sack, And away with all sorrow and care.

Like the rich rainbow's various dyes, Whose circle sweeps o'er earth and skies, The heav'n-born muse appears; Now quench'd in show'rs, she fades away, Now blends her smiles and tears.

Sweet Swan of Avon! ever may thy stream Of tuneful numbers be the darling theme; Not Thames himself, who in his silver course Triumphant rolls along, Britannia's riches and her force, Shall more harmonious flow in song. O had those bards, who charm the list'ning shore Of Cam and Isis, tun'd their classic lays, And from their full and precious store, Vouchsaf'd to fairy-haunted Avon praise! (Like that kind bounteous hand* 1.10, Which lately gave the ravish'd eyes Of Stratford swains A rich command, Of widen'd river, lengthen'd plains, And opening skies) Nor Greek, nor Roman strains would flow along, More sweetly clear, or more sublimely strong, Nor thus a shepherd's feeble notes reveal, At once the weakest numbers, and the warmest zeal.

AIR.

I.

Thou soft-flowing Avon, by thy silver stream, Of things more than mortal, sweet Shakespeare would dream, The fairies by moon-light dance round his green bed, For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head.

II.

The love-stricken maiden, the soft-sighing swain, Here rove without danger, and sigh without pain: The sweet bud of beauty no blight shall here dread, For ballow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head.

III.

Here youth shall be fam'd for their love and their truth, And chearful old age feel the spirit of youth; For the raptures of fancy here poets shall tread, For hallow'd the turf is that pillow'd his head.

IV.

Flow on, silver Avon, in song ever flow, Be the swans on thy bosom still whiter than snow, Ever full be thy stream, like his fame be it spread, And the turf ever hallow'd which pillow'd his head.

Tho' bards with envy-aching eyes, Behold a tow'ring eagle rise, And would his flight retard; Yet each to Shakespeare's genius bows, Each weaves a garland for his brows, To crown th' heaven-distinguish'd Bard. Nature had form'd him on her noblest plan, And to the genius join'd the fecling man. What tho' with more than mortal art, Like Neptune he directs the storm, Lets loose like winds the passions of the heart, To wreck the human form; Tho' from his mind rush forth, the Demons to destroy, His heart ne'er knew but love, and gentleness and joy.

AIR.

More gentle than the southern gale, Which softly fans the blessem'd vale, And gathers on its balmy wing The fragrant treasures of the spring, Breathing delight on all it meets, " And giving, as it steals, the sweets."

Look down, blest SPIRIT, from above, With all thy wonted gentleness and love; And as the wonders of thy pen, By heav'n inspir'd, To virtue fir'd, The charm'd, astonish'd sons of men! With no reproach, even now, thou view'st thy work, Where no alluring mischiefs lurk, To taint the mind of youth. Still to thy native spot thy smiles extend, And as thou gav'st it fame, that fame defend; And may no sacrilegious hand Near Avon's banks be found, To dare to parcel out the land, And limit Shakespeare's hallow'd ground* 1.11. For ages free, still be it unconfin'd, As broad, and general, as thy boundless mind.

Can British gratitude delay, To him the glory of this isle, To give the festive day The song, the statue, and devoted pile? To him, the first of poets, best of men? " We ne'er shall look upon his like again!"

DUETT.

Shall the hero laurels gain, For ravag'd fields, and thousands slain? And shall his brows no laurels bind, Who charms to virtue human kind?

CHORUS.

We will,—his brows with laurel bind, Who charms to virtue human kind: Raise the pile, the statue raise, Sing immortal Shakespeare's praise! The song will cease, the stone decay, But his Name, And undiminish'd fame, Shall never, never pass away

Notes

• * 1.1

  Henry Pelham, Esq brother to the Duke of Newcastle, at the time of his death First Commissioner, Chancellor, and Under Treasurer of the Exchequer.
• * 1.2

  The 6th of March, 1754, was remarkable for the publica∣tion of the Works of a late Lord, and the death of Mr. Pelbam.
• * 1.3

  The title of which was "An enquiry into the real merit of a certain popular Performer; in a Se∣ries of Letters, first published in the Craftsman, or Gray's Inn Journal, with an Introduction to David Garrick, Esq." 8vo.
• * 1.4

  This was soon after executed in the following se∣vere character, drawn by Mr. Churchill, of the hero of this poem, first inserted in the eighth edition of THE ROSCIAD.

  "With that low cunning, which in fools supplies, And amply too, the place of being wife, Which nature, kind indulgent parent, gave To qualify the blockhead for a knave; With that smooth falsehood, whose appearance charms, And reason of each wholesome doubt disarms, Which to the lowest depths of guile descends, By vilest means pursues the vilest ends, Wears friendship's mask for purposes of spite, Fawns in the day, and butchers in the night; With that malignant envy, which turns pale, And sickens, even if a friend prevail, Which merit and success pursues with hate, And damns the worth it cannot imitate; With the cold caution of a coward's spleen, Which fears not guilt, but always seeks a screen, Which keeps this maxim ever in her view— What's basely done, should be done safely too; With that dull, rooted, callous impudence, Which, dead to shame, and every nicer sense, Ne'er blush'd, unless, in spreading vice's snares, She blunder'd on some virtue unawares; With all these blessings, which we seldom find Lavish'd by nature on one happy mind, A motley figure, of the fribble tribe, Which heart can searce conceive, or pen describe, Came simpering on; to ascertain whose sex, Twelve sage impanell'd matrons would perplex. Nor male, nor female; neither, and yet both; Of neuter gender, though of Irish growth; A six-foot sackling, mincing in his gait; Affected, peevish, prim, and delicate; Fearful it seem'd, though of athletic make, Lest brutal breezes should too roughly shake Its tender form, and savage motion spread O'er its pale cheeks the horrid manly red.

  Much did it talk, in its own pretty phrase, Of genius and of time, of players and plays; Much too of writings which itself had wrote, Of special merit, though of little note, For fate, in a strange humour, had decreed That what it wrote, none but itself should read; Much too it chatter'd of dramatic laws, Misjudging critics, and misplac'd applause; Then, with a self-complacent jutting air, It smil'd, it smirk'd, it wriggled to the chair; And, with an aukward briskness not his own, Looking around, and perking on the throne, Triumphant seem'd, when that strange savage dame, Known but to few, or only known by name, Plain Common Sense, appear'd; by Nature there Appointed, with plain Truth, to guard the chair. The Pageant saw, and blasted with her frown, To its first state of nothing melted down.

  Nor shall the Muse (for even there the pride Of this vain nothing shall be mortified) Nor shall the Muse (should fate ordain her rhimes, Fond pleasing thought! to live in after-times) With such a trifler's name her pages blot: Known be the character, the thing forgot; Let it, to disappoint each future aim, Live without sex, and die without a name!"
• * 1.5

  Some say FITZGIG—The Reader may take his choice.
• * 1.6

  Some MSS. read repent it.
• * 1.7

  "After Mr. Garrick had been abroad about a year and half; satiated with the amusements and pleasures of the Continent, he turned his thoughts towards his native coun∣try. But before he would set out for Calais, he was resolved to put in practice his usual method of preventing censure, and blunting the edge of ridicule by anticipation. For this purpose, before he left Paris, he sat down very seriously to write a kind of satirical poem on himself; it was called The Sick Monkey, and the plan of it was, the talk or censure of other animals and reptiles on him and his travels; and this poem he sent from Paris to a friend (Mr. Colman) with a request that he would get it printed to prepare his reception in London."

  Davies's life of Garrick, Vol. 2. P. 95.
• * 1.8

  This Ode was spoken by Mr. GARRICK, 7th September, 1769, at Stratford upon Avon; and the ensuing Winter at Drury-Lane Theatre.
• * 1.9

  These are extracted from the Works of Ben Jonson, Mil∣ton, Dryden, Pope, Thomson, Johnson, Warton, Seward, Akenside, Gray, Mason, Churchill, Jago, Whitehead, Addi∣son, Rowe, Voltaire, Theobald, Hanmer, Lyttelton, Warburton, Dodd, Steevens, Capel, Hurd, Murphy, Colman, Walpole and Mrs. Montague. In the present collection they are omitted.
• * 1.10

  The D— of D—, with the concurrence of Mr. B—y, most generously ordered a great number of trees to be cut down, to open the river Avon for the Jubilee.
• * 1.11

  This alludes to a design of inclosing a large common field at Stratford.