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WRITTEN BY SIR CAR SCROOP, BART.
How hard the fate is of the scribbling drudge
Who writes to all when yet so few can judge !
Wit, like religion, once divine was thought,
and the dull crowd believ'd as they were taught ;
Now each fanatic fool presumes t explain
The text, and does the sacred writ profane ;
For while your wits each other's fall pursue,
The fops usurp the power belongs to you.
Ye think y' are challeng'd in each new play-bill,
And here you come for trial of your skill,
Where, fencer-like, you one another hurt,
While with your wounds you make the rabble sport,
Others there are that have the brutal will
To murder a poor play, but want the skill ;
They love to fight, but seldom have the wit
To spy the place where they may thrust and hit;
And therefore, like some bully of the town,
Ne'er stand to draw, but knock the poet down.
With these, like hogs in gardens, it succeeds,
They root up all, and know not flowers from weeds.
As for you, sparks, that hither come each day
To act your own and not to mind our play,
Rehearse your usual follies to the pit,
And with loud nonsense crown the stage's wit;
Talk of your clothes, your last debauches tell,
And witty bargains to each other sell;
Glout on the silly she who for your sake
Can vanity and noise for love mistahe,
Till the coquet, sung in the next lampoon,
Is by her jealous friends sent out of town;
For in this duelling intriguing age,
The love you make is like the war you wage,
Y'are still prevented e'er you come t' engage:
But it is not such trifling foes as you
The mighty Alexander deigns to sue;
Ye Persians of the pit he does despise,
But to the men of sense for aid he flies;
Onthir experienc'd arms he now depends,
Nor fears he odds if they but prove his friends;
For as he once a little handful chose
The numerous armies of the world to oppose :
So back’d by you who understands the rules,
He hopes to rout the mighty host of fools.
S Mr. Fearon.
ALEXANDER THE GREAT,
HEPHESI ION, Alexander's favourite,
LS MACH US, prince of the blood,
Clytus, master of the horse,
THE5»ALUS, the Median,
PerdiCCAS, a Commander,
ARISTANDER, a Soothsayer,
Women. ROXANA, first Wife of Alexander, Mrs. Hunter, SYSIGAMBIS, Mother of the Royal Family, Mrs. Booth. PARISATIS, in love with Lysimachus,
Miss Dayes. STATIRA, married to Alexander, Mrs. Hartley.
The Gardens of Semiramis. Enter Hephestion and
LYSIMACHUS fighting, Clytus parting them.
What! are ye madmen? This a time for quarrel ?
Put up I say—or by the gods that form’d me
He who refuses makes a foe of Clytus.
Lys. I have his sword.
Clyt. But must not have his life.
Lys. Must not, old Clytus!
Clyt. Hair-brain’d boy, you must not.
Heph. Lend me thy sword, thou father of the war,
Thou far-fam'd guard of Alexander's life,
Curse on this weak unexecuting arm !
Lend it, old Clytus. to redeem my fame ;
Lysimachus is brave, snd else will scorn me.
Lys. There, take thy sword; and since thou 'st
bent on death, Know 't is thy glory that thou dy'st by me.