Jul. You join me, Sir, to an unfortunate bard; but,

to procure your peace

Sir Tho. You oblige me for ever. Now the fecret dies with us four. My fault. I owe him much.

Be it your care to fhew it;

And blefs the man tho' I have damn'd the poet,

BUCKS, HAVE AT YE ALL:

O R,

THE PICTURE OF A PLAY-HOUSE. By DAVID GARRICK, Efq.

Spoken by Mr WARD,

At the THEATRE-ROYAL, EDINBURGH, 1783.

E focial friends of claret and of wit,

YE

Where'er difpers'd in merry groups ye fit;
Whether below ye glide the glittering fcene,
Or in the upper regions oft have been;
Ye bucks affembled at your Ranger's call,
Damme, I know ye—and have at ye all!
The motive here that fets our bucks on fire,
The generous wish, the first and last desire;
you will plaud its echo to renown,

If

Or urg'd with fury tear the benches down;
'Tis ftill the fame-to one bright goal we hafte,
To fhow your judgment and approve your taste.
'Tis not in nature for ye to be quiet:
No, demme, bucks exift but in a riot.

For

For inftance now-to please the ear and charm th' admiring crowd,

Your bucks o' the boxes fneer and talk aloud:

To the green box next with joyous speed you run,
Hilly-ho! ho! my bucks! well, damn it, what's the fun?
Tho' Shakespeare speaks regardless of the play,
Ye laugh and loll the fprightly hours away:

For to seem sensible of real merit,

O damme, 'tis low, 'tis vulgar-beneath us lads of spirit.
Your bucks o' the pit are miracles of learning,
Who point out faults to fhow their own difcerning ;
And critic-like beftriding martyr'd fenfe,
Proclaim their genius and vaft confequence.
The fidelong row, whofe keener views of blifs
Are chiefly center'd in a favourite mifs;
A fet of jovial bucks who here resort,

Flush'd from the tavern, reeling, ripe for sport,
Wak'd from their dream oft join the general roar,
With bravo, bravo-braviffimo, eh damme, encore !
Or, skipping that, behold another row,
Supply'd by citizens, or fmiling beau;
Addreffing Mifs, whofe cardinal protection
Keeps her quite safe from rancorous detraction;
Whofe lively eyes beneath a down-drawn hat,
Gives hint the loves a little -you know what.
Ye bucks above, who range like gods at large-
Nay, pray, don't grin, but liften to your charge-
You who defign to change this scene of raillery,
And out-talk players in the upper-gallery;

Oh there's a youth, and one o' the sprightly fort-
I don't mean you- damme, you've no features for't-
Who flily fkulks to hidden station

(While players follow their vocation).

Whistle off off off? Nofee roaft-beef-there's education.
Now I've explor'd this mimic world quite through,
And fet each country's little faults to view :
In the right fenfe receive the well-meant jeft,
And keep the moral still within your breaft;
Convinc'd I'd not in heart or tongue offend,
Your hands acquit me, and I've gain'd my end.

END OF VOLUME FOURTH.

al.