Of fome I brought home Patterns; one To-night
We mean to shew-'tis true it is but flight;
But then for Summer wear, you know that's right.
A Little Weaver, whom I long have known,
Has work'd it up, and begs to have it fhewn-
But pray obferve, my friends-'tis not his own.
I brought it over-nay, if it mifcarries,
He'll cry-" 'tis none of mine, it came from Paris."
But should you like it, he'll foon let you know
'Twas fpun and manufactur'd in Soho."
-'T had a great run abroad; which always yields
Work for our Grub-street, and our Spitalfields.
France charms our Ladies, naked Bards and Beaux,
Who smuggle thence their learning and their cloaths;
Buckles like gridirons, and wigs on fprings;
Têtes built like towers, and rumps like Ostrich wings."
If this piece pleafe, each Summer I'll go over,
And fetch new Patterns by the Straits of Dover.
A Farce written by Mr. O'KEEFFE,
Spoken by Mr.
by Mr. PALMER.
F there's a Critick here, who hates what's law,
We humbly beg the Gentleman would go ;
He's very welcome to have seen the play,
To take his money back, and walk away.
Our Poet is the fearfull'ft man on earth,
And fears too much four sense may spoil your mirth;
He wishes plain blunt folks, that laugh and cry,
As nature prompts, and afk no reason why.
To night no Two Act Comedy you'll view,
But a mere Farce! the characters not new,
And all your old acquaintance: TONY LUMPKIN,
In town, 'tis true, but fill a Country Bumpkin.
His friend, TIM TICKLE too, who danc'd the Bear;
Bruin, the Bear himself-nay never stare!
He shall not hurt you, ladies-keep your places!
The Bear-leader has given him the Graces.
This ruftick groupe, Bear, Bear-leader, 'Squire, Clown,
The frolick Mufe of Farce now drives to town.
Her elder fifter, Comedy, has Wit;
But Farce has Fun, and oft a lucky Hit,
If the yields laugh, a laugh let, none despise;
Be merry, if you can, and not too wife.
To the SUICIDE, A COMEDY!
IS now the reigning tafte with Belle and
Beau
Their art and fkill in Coachmanfhip to fhow.
Nobles contend who throws a Whip the beft;
From head to foot like Hackney-coachmen drefs'd:
Duchefs and Peerefs too difcard their fear,
Ponies in front, my lady in the rear.
A Female Phaeton all danger mocks,
Half-coat, half-petticoat, the mounts the box;
Wrapt in a dufty whirlwind fcours the plains,
And cutting-Jehu !-whistling-holds the reins.
Happy, thrice happy, Britain, is thy state,
In the year feventeen hundred fev'nty eight,
When each fex drives at fuch a furious rate.
The modish Artift, Playwright, or Coach-maker, In Grub-street starv'd, or thriving in Long-Acre,
To fuit the times, and tally with the mode,
Muft travel in the beaten turnpike road:
Wherefore our Crane-neck'd Manager to-day
Upon four acts attempts to run his Play;
A fifth he fears you'd deem the Bard's reproach,
A mere fifth wheel that would but stop the Coach.
With Two Act Pieces what machines agree?
Buggies, Tim-whiskies, or squeez'd Vis a-vis,
Where two fit face to face, and knee to knee.
What is a piece in one fhort Act comprefs'd? A Wheelbarrow, or Sulky at the best.
A scale fo fmall, the Bard would fuffer for't; You'd fay his Farce was like himself-too short; Yet anxious with your fmiles his works to crown, many a varied shape he courts the town. Sometimes he drives-if Brother Bards implore, Sometimes he in a Prologue trots before,
Or in an Epilogue gets up behind
Happy in all, fo you appear but kind.
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