Written by JOHN COURTNAY, Efq.
And Spoken by Mrs. SIDDONS.
HOUGH tender fighs breathe in the tragic page,
What lover now complains-but on the ftage?
No fuitor now attempts his rival's life,
But lets him take that cordial balm-a wife;
And yet, to prove his pure and conftant flame,
Still loves his miftrefs in the wedded dame;
Still courts his friend, and ftill devoutly bows
At the fair fhrine where first he breath'd his vows.
For love, she knows fome gratitude is due,
Searches her heart, and finds there's room for two;
And often fees, her coy reluctance o'er,
Good caufe to prize her caro pofa more.
Thus modish wives, with fentimental fpirit,
May go aftray, to prove their husbands' merit,
Or ope the door, in this commodious age,
Without death's aid, t' escape the wedlock's cage.
Abjuring rules, that foon will feem romance,
Love's gayer fyftem we import from France;
Refcind politely our old English duty,
And take off all teftraints from wine and beauty;
While lighter manners chear our native gloom,
As Spanish wool refines the British loom.
Had fashion's law of old such influence shed,
The raptur'd Claudio ne'er had timeless bled:
His blifs with joy Mentevole had seen,
And Julia's favourite Cicifbé had been.
Th'affidious lover, and the husband bland,
Like Brentford kings, had ftill walk'd hand in hand:
Together ftill had fhone at Park and play,'
Quaffing the fragrance of the fame bouquet,
Our varlet Poet, with licentious fpeech,
Thus far our injur'd sex has dar'd impeach.
The Female character thus rudely flurr'd,
'Tis fit, at last, that I should have a word.
Firft then, without rejoinder or difpute,
This virtuous circle might each charge refute,
That 'tis a nuptial age, I fure may fay,
With their own wives when hufbands run away.
But truce with jeft. Howe'er the wits may rail,
The caufe of truth and virtue muft prevail,
Of former times whatever may be told,
We're just as good as e'er they were of old.
Connubial love here long has fix'd his throne,
And blifs is ours to foreign climes unknown.
If now and then a tripping fair is found,
On fcandal's wings the buzzing tale flies round;
While blameless thousands, in fequefter'd life,
Adorn each state, of parent, friend, and wife;
From private cares ne'er with abroad to roam,
And blefs, each day, the funfhine of their home;
Unnotic'd keep their noiselefs happy course,
Nor dream of fecond wedlock or divorce.
Hee the verdict's ours; you fmile applause;
So, with your leave, again I'll plead your caufe:
New triumphs nightly o'er this railer gain,
And to the last our female rights maintain.
Addrefs to the Deil.-From Poems chiefly in the Scottish Dialect. By ROBERT BURNS,
e a hollow continued moan.
e the fhrub elder. fftrong and hoarse. wizards. h digged. i careffed. k twelve pint. 1 barren, that gives no milk. m bull.
When thowes diffolve the fnawy hoord,
An' float the jinglin icy-boord,
Then, Water-kelpies haunt the foord,
By your direction,
An' nighted Trav❜llers are allur'd
To their deftruction.
An' aft your mofs-traverfing Spunkies
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is:
The bleezin, curft, mischievous monkica
Delude his eyes,
Till in fome miry flough he funk is,
Ne'er mair to rise.
When Mafons myftic word an' grip.
In ftorms an' tempefts raise you up,
Some cock or cat your rage maun ftop,
Or, ftrange to tell!
The youngest Brother ye wad whip
Aff ftraught to h-ll.
Lang fyne, in Eden's bonie yard,
When youthfu' lovers firft were pair'd,
An' all the Soul of Love they fhar'd,
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry fwaird,
A Dedication to G**** H******, Efq.-From the fame.
XPECT na, Sir, in this narration,
A fleechin, e fleth'rin Dedication,
To roofe you up, an' ca' you guid,
An' fprung o' great an' noble bluid;
Because ye're firnam'd like His Grace,
Perhaps related to the race:
Then when I'm tir'd-and fae are ye,
Wi' monie a fulsome, finfu' lie,
Set up a face, how I ftopt fhort,
For fear your modefty be hurt.
This may do-maun do, Sir, wi' them wha
Maun please the Great Folk for a wamefouf;
For me! fae laigh I need na bow,
For, LORD be thankit, I can plough;
And when I downa yoke a naig,
Then, LORD be thankit, I can beg ;
Sae I fhall fay, an' that's nae flatt'rin,
It's juft fic Poet an' fic Patron.
Tripping dodging. perhaps. fupplicating. e flattering. f belly full,
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