ON THE GLORY OF HER SEX, MRS. MARY BLAIZE. GOOD people all, with one accord, Lament for madam Blaize, Who never wanted a good word- The needy seldom pass'd her door, She strove the neighbourhood to please, At church, in silks and satins new, Her love was sought, I do aver, But now her wealth and finery fled, Her hangers-on cut short all; Her last disorder mortal. Let us lament in sorrow sore, For Kent-street well may say, That had she lived a twelve-month more, She had not dy'd to-day. EPILOGUE SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, In the character of Harlequin, at his benefit. HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your non sense; I'd speak a word or two to ease my conscience. My heels eclips'd the honours of my head; [Takes off his mask: Give me another horse! bind up my wounds!-soft -'twas but a dream. Aye, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating, If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. 'Twas thus that Esop's stag, a creature blameless, Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless, Once on the margin of a fountain stood, And cavill'd at his image in the flood. "The deuce confound," he cries, "these drumstick "shanks, "They never have my gratitude nor thanks; Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew. hind, He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind: Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free, [Taking a jump through the stage door. ON THE TAKING OF QUEBEC. AMIDST the clamour of exulting joys, Which triumph forces from the patriot heart; Grief dares to mingle her soul-piercing voice, And quells the raptures which from pleasure star. O WOLFE, to thee a streaming flood of wo, Sighing we pay, and think e'en conquest dear; Quebec in vain shall teach our breast to glow, Whilst thy sad fate extorts the heart-wrung tear. Alive the foe thy dreadful vigour fled, And saw thee fall with joy pronouncing eyes: Yet they shall know thou conquerest, though dead! Since from thy tomb a thousand heroes rise. ON A BEAUTIFUL YOUTH, Struck blind by Lightning. SURE 'twas by Providence design'd Rather in pity than in hate, A SONNET. WEEPING, murmuring, complaining, Lost to every gay delight; Myra, too sincere for feigning, Fears th' approaching bridal night. Yet why impair thy bright perfection! Had Myra follow'd my direction, END OF VOL. I.. |