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PROLOGUE,

POKEN BY MR. WOODS, ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT, MON DAY, APRIL 16, 1787.

WHEN, by a gen'rous public's kind acclaim,
That dearest meed is granted - honest fame;
When here your favor is the actor's lot,
Nor ev'n the man in private life forgot;
What breast so dead to heav'nly virtue's glow,
But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe?

Poor is the task to please a barb'rous throng,
It needs no Siddon's powers in Southron's song;
For here an ancient nation, fam'd afar
For genius, learning high, as great in war!
Hail, Caledonia! name for ever dear!
Before whose sons I'm honor'd to appear!
Where ev'ry science, ev'ry nobler art,
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart,
Is known; as grateful nations oft have found,
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound.
Philosophy, no idle pendant dream,

Here holds her search by heav'n-taught reason's beam
Here History paints, with elegance and force,
The tide of Empire's fluctuating course;
Here Doug.as forms wild Shakspeare into plan,
And Harley* rouses all the god in man.

* The Man of Feeling, written by Mr. M'Kenzie.

When well-forin'd taste and sparkling wit unite,
With manly lore, or female beauty bright,
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace
Can only charm us in the second place,)
Witness, my heart, how oft with panting fear,
As on this night, I've met these judges here!
But still the hope Experience taught to live,
Equal to judge-you're candid to forgive.
No hundred-headed Riot here we meet,
With decency and law beneath his feet;
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name;
Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame.

O Thou, dread Power! whose empire-giving hand Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honor'd land! Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire; May ev'ry son be worthy of his sire; Firm may she rise, with generous disdain, At Tyranny's or direr Pieasure's chain; Still self-dependent in her native shore,

Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar, Till Fate the curtain droo on worlds to be no mora

THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN,

AN OCCASIONAL ADDRESS, spoken by MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT.

WHILE Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty things,
The fate of empires, and the fall of kings;
While quacks of state must each produce his plan,
And even children lisp the Rights of Man;
Amid this mighty fuss, just let me mention,
The Rights of Woman merit some attention.

First, in the sexes' intermix'd connection,
One sacred right of Woman is protection.
The tender flower that lifts its head, elate,
Helpless must fall before the blast of fate,
Sunk on the earth, defac'd, its lovely form,
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm.

Our second Right - but needless here is caution To keep that right inviolate's the fashion; Each man of sense has it so full before him, He'd die before he'd wrong it 'tis decorum. There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, A time when rough, rude man had naughty ways, Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot, Nay, even thus invade a lady's quiet!

Now, thank our stars! those Gothic times are fled Now, well-bred men and you are all well-bred Most justly think (and we are much the gainers` Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners.

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, That right to flutt'ring female hearts the nearest, Which ev'n the Rights of Kings, in low prostration, Most humbly own- 'tis dear, dear admiration! In that blest sphere alone we live and move, There taste that life of life, immortal love! Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, fits, flirtations, airs, 'Gainst such a host what flinty savage dares ? When awful beauty joins with all her charms, Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms?

But truce with kings, and truce with constitutions, With bloody armaments and revolutions; Let majesty your first attention summon, Ah ca Ira! the Majesty of Woman!

ADDRESS,

SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE, ON HER BENEFIT NIGHT DECEMBER 4, 1795, AT THE THEATRE, Dumfries.

STILL anxious to secure your partial favor, And not less anxious sure this night than ever, A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, "Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; So, sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; Said, nothing like his works was ever printed; And last my Prologue business slily hinted. “Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, "I know your bent these are no laughing times

Can you

but, Miss, I own I have my fears,

Dissolve in pause and sentimental tears

With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, Rouse from his sluggish slumbers, fell Repentance? Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand Waving on high the desolating brand,

Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land?”

I could no more - askance the creature eyeing, "D'ye think," said I, "this face was made for crying? I'll laugh, that's poz; nay more, the world shall know it And so, your servant! gloomy master Poet!"

Firm as my creed, sir, 'tis my fix'd belief,
That Misery's another word for Grief;
I also think so may I be a bride!

That so much laughter's so much life enjoy'd.

Thou man of crazy care, and ceaseless sigh, Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye; Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — To make three guineas do the work of five; Laugh in Misfortune's face the beldam witch: Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich.

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, Measur❜st, in desp'rate thought, a rope

thy neck

Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep,
Peerest to meditate the healing leap;

Would'st thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf?
Laugh at her follies-laugh e'en at thyself

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