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Adieu to those, who with melodious strain
Have skill to waken joy, or soften pain !
Thee, Kennedy ! above the tricks of art,
And with true pathos melting every heart ;
The warbling Wilkinson, and sprightly Brown,
And Martyr, captivating half the town ;
And Billington, whose execution charms,
Delights with wonder, and with rapture warms ;
And Crouch, endued with every gentle grace,
A voice celestial, and an angel face:
Sweet Harmonist! whose filver tones impart
The foothing melody that charms the heart

No more shall I, with the admiring throng,
Enraptur'd listen to thy magic song ;
Nor shall I, but by Fancy's powerful aid,
Behold thee as the gentle Adelaide,
Or as Ophelia claim the tender tear,
While, unadorn'd, thy voice shall footh the car :-
But the prophetic muse with joy reveals
What merit, ever diffident, conceals ;
Delighted, sees thee join the tragic strain,
And in soft numbers pensively complain.
Thine is the skill, and thine the happy art,
With sacred sounds to elevate the heart :
When Handel's harmony divinely flows,
With holy rapture every bofom glows :
Aided by thee, we feel th' angelic strain,
And find, well pleas'd, a new Cecilia-reign.

No more, Thalia! shall thy sportive band
Excite my pity, or my smile command ::
Fareweil to favourite Palmer, useful Dodd,
In Belch and Ague-cheek supremely odd!..

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To Macklin, Neftor of the spouting crew,
The “ Scotchman's friend,” and the unrivald Jew!
To Edwin's irresistible grimace ;
To matchless Parsons, with his comic face;
Men that 'gainst Chesterfield do highly fin,
By making ladies laugh, and coxcombs grin!
To Quick the humorous, and to King the chaste,
To Smith and Lewis, “ Gentlemen"-fans tafte!
To far-fam'd Farren, chief of comic belles,
To romping Jordan, and to rustic Wells ;
Farewell to all whom playful minds adore,
That strut their hour, and then are seen no more
A long farewell to those tremendous players
So much “ at home" in lions, wolves, and bears!
Parts that-in time-great Barrymore may claim,
Or which may add to lofty Fawcett's fame!
Williams and Phillimore, in goats and swine,
Could not but prove themselves immensely fine !

Nay, do not think I flatter!”-for 'tis plain
These four, as brutes, unrival'd would remain :
For who is quick enough of fight to ken
That they resemble “ christians, pagans, men,
In gait or accent ?" Then 'tis fit they reign
The mighty quadrupeds of Drury-lane !


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Y E fage Reviewers –ye whose monthly toil
Spreads twilight knowledge over all the ifle ;



Who, Luna-like, your borrow'd beams bestow
On those that seldom to the fountain
Ye sage Reviewers !-who with skill condense
In narrow


author's sense ;
Who bring all Europe's learning in a page, i
And all the wit of all this witty age ;
Who bind huge quartos in a little cell,
Like Homer's Iliad in a walnut-shell;
Who strip the goose-quill hero of renown,
By puffing purchas'd from a tasteless Town:
Ye, who as literary monarchs fit,
Waving your fceptres o'er the realms of wit;
Who shew each obvious and each latent fault,
Each venial error, and each brilliant thought ;
Forbear! forbear! nor your dread wrath dispense
On this my first, and this my

last offence!
Surely, 'tis no such mighty heinous crime
To take one's last farewell in harmless rhyme !
Though often prompted by the love I bear
Some names of worth, and one accomplish'd fair,
Yet, unambitious of a wit's renown,
I ne'er disturb'd the ever-patient Town :
Me can no printed pamphlet e’er accuse
Of holding daring commerce with the muse:
To charm the mind with verse I never ftrove,
Save when

my half- ftrung lyre was wak'd by love ;
Imperial love, that bids the bosom glow
With tender fighs, will prompt the verse to flow.
I call'd not, to adorn a classic song,
Unheard-of sorrow and fictitious wrong ;
Nor have I, twisting Hudibrastic wire
With the bold strings of Pindar's founding lyre,
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Like Peter, whom a random muse attends,
With mirth convuls'd my laughter-loving friends.
Nor is this all : I never did expose
The ramblings of my mind in humble profe;
No tempting letter-box by me was fed
With libels on the living or the dead :
Diurnal prints I wisely let alone,
O’erwhelm'd with rapid nonsense of their own;
Nor did I ever paint lascivious scenes,
Or lying tête-à-tête for magazines :
To please the vicious, or amuse the vain,
No luscious, novel issued from


brain : Scorning that strongest band of Virtue's foes, I ne'er destroy'd her innocent repose.

Thus having past my inoffensive days,
Deaf to the lure of literary praise ;
If now I trespass, mitigate the crime,
By still remembering—'tis the only time;
Nor let me find myself, for this ADIRU,
Hung, drawn, and quarter'd in the next Review.
Yet what avails it ?-I were much to blame
Idly to dream of wild poetic fame.
The happy hermit, in his cell retir'd,
Forgets the world, nor seeks to be admir'd;
Yet, favour'd by the muse, his penfive strain
Shall fometimes footh the melancholy plain ;
His harp with harmony the vallies fill,
And simple shepherds bless his tuneful skill.
Hence let me haste; and, led by powers divine,
Find the calm transports of his bosom mine !


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ADIEU to those of the attractive fair,

Whom avarice teaches to prefer the prayer ;
Whose harden'd hearts ne'er beat with love or joy,
But blunt the arrows of the Paphian boy ;
Whom modeft merit fupplicates in vain,
Whose fame is prudence, and whose god is gain.
Hafte, man the ship! to India let them fail ;
Interest the chart, and fordid fighs the gale.
O’er seas of riches see the vessel go,
Pride at the helm, and Plutus at the prow!
Go, foolish fair ! go venture fame and life,
Go, and be call’d fome knavish nabob's wife!
Command thy vassals ; view thy fplendid store ;
What now is wanting ?-Only ten times more !
Add ten times more, and ten times that be thine,
Content and riches thou shalt never join.
The female heart that throbs with luft of gold,
Shall faster throb the more her eyes

Strange! that in lovely bosoms there should rage.
The most detested vice of grasping age!
So vernal blossoms all their sweets impart,
But hide the hateful canker at the heart..

O shield me from the female mind

, warpd by wealth, no chains but gold can bind !! Though form’d by Beauty with angelic mien, She looks a goddess, and she moves a queen," I 6




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