‘This day the powder’d curls and golden coat,’
  Says swelling Crispin, ‘begg’d a cobbler’s vote;’
  ‘This night our wit,’ the pert apprentice cries,
  ‘Lies at my feet; I hiss him, and he dies.’ 
  The great, ’tis true, can charm the electing tribe,
  The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. 
  Yet, judged by those whose voices ne’er were sold,
  He feels no want of ill-persuading gold;
  But confident of praise, if praise be due,
  Trusts without fear to merit and to you. 30

* * * * *

PROLOGUE

  TO THE COMEDY OF ‘A WORD TO THE WISE,’ SPOKEN BY
  MR HULL.

  This night presents a play which public rage,
  Or right, or wrong, once hooted from the stage;
  From zeal or malice now no more we dread,
  For English vengeance wars not with the dead. 
  A generous foe regards with pitying eye
  The man whom Fate has laid—­where all must lie.

   To Wit, reviving from its author’s dust,
  Be kind, ye judges! or at least be just. 
  For no renew’d hostilities invade
  The oblivious grave’s inviolable shade. 10
  Let one great payment every claim appease,
  And him who cannot hurt, allow to please;
  To please by scenes unconscious of offence,
  By harmless merriment, or useful sense. 
  Where aught of bright or fair the piece displays,
  Approve it only—­’tis too late to praise. 
  If want of skill, or want of care appear,
  Forbear to hiss—­the poet cannot hear. 
  By all like him must praise and blame be found,
  At best a fleeting dream, or empty sound. 20
  Yet then shall calm Reflection bless the night
  When liberal Pity dignified delight;
  When Pleasure fired her torch at Virtue’s flame,
  And Mirth was Bounty with an humbler name.

* * * * *

  SPRING.

  1 Stern Winter now, by Spring repress’d,
      Forbears the long-continued strife;
    And Nature, on her naked breast,
      Delights to catch the gales of life.

  2 Now o’er the rural kingdom roves
      Soft Pleasure with her laughing train;
    Love warbles in the vocal groves,
      And Vegetation paints the plain.

  3 Unhappy! whom to beds of pain
      Arthritic tyranny consigns;
    Whom smiling Nature courts in vain,
      Though Rapture sings, and Beauty shines.

  4 Yet though my limbs disease invades,
      Her wings Imagination tries,
    And bears me to the peaceful shades
      Where ——­’s humble turrets rise.

  5 Here stop, my soul, thy rapid flight,
      Nor from the pleasing groves depart,
    Where first great Nature charm’d my sight,
      Where Wisdom first inform’d my heart.

  6 Here let me through the vales pursue
      A guide—­a father—­and a friend;
    Once more great Nature’s works renew,
      Once more on Wisdom’s voice attend.