 | Miscellanies (1785) |  |
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PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.
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PROLOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF CATO.
The tender force of Charity to prove,
And wake the social passions into love,
To draw the cherub tear from Pity's eye,
And strike the nerve of gen'rous Sympathy;
To raise the bleeding hero from the ground,
And pour Compassions balm upon the wound;
To soothe the orphans and the widow's grief,
And bring to honest Poverty relief;
The sick to succour, and reward the bold,
For this, to-night, “ye are what ye behold,”
For this soft Mercy, heav'n-descended Fair,
Hath made a crouded Theatre her care,
For this we play, well pleas'd the patriot's part,
And woo the feelings of the public heart.
And wake the social passions into love,
To draw the cherub tear from Pity's eye,
And strike the nerve of gen'rous Sympathy;
To raise the bleeding hero from the ground,
And pour Compassions balm upon the wound;
To soothe the orphans and the widow's grief,
And bring to honest Poverty relief;
The sick to succour, and reward the bold,
For this, to-night, “ye are what ye behold,”
For this soft Mercy, heav'n-descended Fair,
Hath made a crouded Theatre her care,
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And woo the feelings of the public heart.
And see how wide the social flame extends,
Here forms a radiant circle, there ascends,
Full in the center here I see it glow,
There dart a glory on the plain below.
What lovely Lucias, Marcias shine around,
What noble Jubas grace yon glittering bound.
Lo! Pity pleads the veteran warrior's cause,
All hail the brilliant circle which she draws!
With reverence bow we at her sacred shrine,
O! who but proves her ardour is divine.
The actor sinks—farewell our mimic plain,
My soul is soften'd, and I feel as man.
Here forms a radiant circle, there ascends,
Full in the center here I see it glow,
There dart a glory on the plain below.
What lovely Lucias, Marcias shine around,
What noble Jubas grace yon glittering bound.
Lo! Pity pleads the veteran warrior's cause,
All hail the brilliant circle which she draws!
With reverence bow we at her sacred shrine,
O! who but proves her ardour is divine.
The actor sinks—farewell our mimic plain,
My soul is soften'd, and I feel as man.
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PROLOGUE, WRITTEN FOR MRS. HUNTER, AT BIRMINGHAM.
The passage birds, when Winter's surly powers
Strips modest Nature and unrobes her flowers,
Are forc'd by fate to leave their fav'rite shore,
Or sleep immur'd till all the storms are o'er;
But soon as Spring her rosy bloom displays,
And in green mantle thro' the meadow strays,
The twittering songsters hail their season nigh,
And bless the coming of a genial sky;
In feather'd troops on joyous wings they speed
And all their little hopes at last succeed:
Their household gods near every roof appear
With all the blessings of the former year,
Their ancient chimnies, nests securely hung
Close to the friendly wall where grew their young.
The well remember'd tiles too where they sate
In playful circles, or in deep debate,
Of all they take possession, grief is past
And revel Summer smiles consent at last.
Strips modest Nature and unrobes her flowers,
Are forc'd by fate to leave their fav'rite shore,
Or sleep immur'd till all the storms are o'er;
But soon as Spring her rosy bloom displays,
And in green mantle thro' the meadow strays,
The twittering songsters hail their season nigh,
And bless the coming of a genial sky;
In feather'd troops on joyous wings they speed
And all their little hopes at last succeed:
Their household gods near every roof appear
With all the blessings of the former year,
Their ancient chimnies, nests securely hung
Close to the friendly wall where grew their young.
The well remember'd tiles too where they sate
In playful circles, or in deep debate,
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And revel Summer smiles consent at last.
Thus I long absent, my returning greet,
And hail with reverence this my lov'd retreat,
My heart confesses—scarce without a tear,
The varied favours often granted here.
Candour that smil'd on each attempt to please,
And kind Applause which set that heart at ease.
Here, like the passage bird, well pleas'd I come,
Sport in your sunshine and avow my home,
Around, above, beneath, again I see,
Whate'er can set the flutt'ring spirits free.
In every eye my Summer shines confess'd,
And Fame's fair garland by your hands is dress'd.
Bless'd be the wreathe, and doubly blest the spot,
Where beauties thrive and errors are forgot,
Where smallest flowers are nurs'd with tend'rest care
Feel a rich soil, and prove the mildest air!
And hail with reverence this my lov'd retreat,
My heart confesses—scarce without a tear,
The varied favours often granted here.
Candour that smil'd on each attempt to please,
And kind Applause which set that heart at ease.
Here, like the passage bird, well pleas'd I come,
Sport in your sunshine and avow my home,
Around, above, beneath, again I see,
Whate'er can set the flutt'ring spirits free.
In every eye my Summer shines confess'd,
And Fame's fair garland by your hands is dress'd.
Bless'd be the wreathe, and doubly blest the spot,
Where beauties thrive and errors are forgot,
Where smallest flowers are nurs'd with tend'rest care
Feel a rich soil, and prove the mildest air!
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EPILOGUE,
SPOKEN BY MRS. SIDDONS, On her last Benefit Night at Bath.
To please, to soothe, to soften, to unite,O'er Life's dark shades to draw the tenderest light,
From grief the real object to erase,
And show a fancied sorrow in its place;
The shocks of Fortune, kindly to remove,
And woo the powers of Pity and of Love,
All these, blest office! to display, is ours.
But oh—an office still more blest—is yours:
Rich from the bounty of the public heart,
Springs the lov'd recompense which crowns our art;
The actor but reflects your generous aid,
And thus by you his toils are—over paid, Curtseys.
To night—and shining thro' the grateful tears,
An honour'd object of your smile appears;
Appears herself—to play no borrow'd part,
But pour the tribute of—this throbbing heart.
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And when I fail'd your candour stepp'd between;
Warm'd by your praise, I felt th' inspiring glow,
And from that fount, my humble efforts flow;
By you I spoke, thro' you I trode the stage,
And try'd the Comic mask, the Tragic rage.
Behold THIS night's sensation—in my eyes—
And faithful memory all the past supplies;
Yes—I am yours; and when you most approv'd,
When most my little skill your plaudits mov'd,
When you most honour'd what I anxious play'd,
It was but smiling on the powers you made;
'Twas but approving your creative plan;
Just as you sovereign artist smiles on man,
Thus, the shrubs gratify the planters toil,
Who, pleas'd surveys them flourish in his soil;
Thus feeble streams acquire unwonted force,
When daily fed by some superior source;
Some sacred fountain the rich tide bestows,
While broad as mine from you, each blessing flows.
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AN OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE, WRITTEN FOR MRS. SIDDONS AT DRURY-LANE THEATRE.
Chear'd by the summer's sun and fostering gales,
Should some light bark unfurl her little sails,
Smooth down the stream in easy port she glides,
Where scarce a breeze the silver wave divides;
The sporting zephyrs with her pennants play,
As safe she anchors in th' unruffled bay;
No squalls molest, no deaf'ning thunders roar,
But pleas'd spectators greet her from the shore;
Lovers and friends run eager to the strand,
And shouts of welcome echo thro' the land.
Should some light bark unfurl her little sails,
Smooth down the stream in easy port she glides,
Where scarce a breeze the silver wave divides;
The sporting zephyrs with her pennants play,
As safe she anchors in th' unruffled bay;
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But pleas'd spectators greet her from the shore;
Lovers and friends run eager to the strand,
And shouts of welcome echo thro' the land.
But if once trusted from this friendly lee,
She braves the perils of a wider sea,
Where pilots, bred in tempest, dread the rock,
And noblest vessels scarce sustain a shock;
All hands aloft, th' affrighted crew would try
Their wonted land-marks left behind to spy;
Then climb the dizzy mast to trace the fort,
And wish, alas, how vain! to ken the port;
As Ocean heav'd, their terrors would increase,
And he alone who rais'd could bid them cease.
She braves the perils of a wider sea,
Where pilots, bred in tempest, dread the rock,
And noblest vessels scarce sustain a shock;
All hands aloft, th' affrighted crew would try
Their wonted land-marks left behind to spy;
Then climb the dizzy mast to trace the fort,
And wish, alas, how vain! to ken the port;
As Ocean heav'd, their terrors would increase,
And he alone who rais'd could bid them cease.
Thus I, adventurous, quit the harbour'd strand,
Where late I coasted within sight of land,
While wind and tide, and blazing beacons near,
Prosper'd the voyage, and bade me boldly steer;
Yet thirst of honest fame no fears restrain,
But tempts the slightest skiff to try the main.
For this—your smiles in view, myself I gave
To this great deep—for treasures on a grave;
For this on dangerous service here I sail,
The motive glory, your applause the gale;
And if, oh transport! as I distant roam,
Thro' you I bring some little venture home,
All hail the varied pains and pleasures past,
Since to good moorings here I come at last.
Where late I coasted within sight of land,
While wind and tide, and blazing beacons near,
Prosper'd the voyage, and bade me boldly steer;
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But tempts the slightest skiff to try the main.
For this—your smiles in view, myself I gave
To this great deep—for treasures on a grave;
For this on dangerous service here I sail,
The motive glory, your applause the gale;
And if, oh transport! as I distant roam,
Thro' you I bring some little venture home,
All hail the varied pains and pleasures past,
Since to good moorings here I come at last.
The generous terrors which ever accompany true genius prevented the admirable Performer, for whom this was written, from delivering it after she had studied it for that purpose; the event, however, of that night's exhibition proved that her fears were wholly unnecessary, and the Author has some claim on the kindness of the town, for having been instrumental in removing from a distant theatre (where, though her value was known and cherished, she had not “room or verge enough”), to her only proper scene of action, (and within the general reach) one of the very first sources of their entertainment and delight.
EPILOGUE TO THE TRAGEDY OF THE FATAL INTERVIEW.
Pray don't be frighten'd—tho' I'm dead you know;
Grief took me off—the plot would have it so.
You saw me drop, where legions have been slain:
You see me here—well pleas'd to live again.
Grief took me off—the plot would have it so.
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You see me here—well pleas'd to live again.
This tragic Author has such comic ways!
Rise Ma'am—pray rise—the Epilogue—he says—
I rose—What miracles are work'd by bards!
Work'd too by—slight—like Jonas on the cards;
Expert the cheat, yet all a trick profess'd,
And he most pleases—who deceives you best.
Rise Ma'am—pray rise—the Epilogue—he says—
I rose—What miracles are work'd by bards!
Work'd too by—slight—like Jonas on the cards;
Expert the cheat, yet all a trick profess'd,
And he most pleases—who deceives you best.
Our Author tho', is a peculiar man,
Who kills his heroes on no hackney'd plan.
Your Blank-verse fate I've brav'd a hundred times,
And my last dying speech oft made in rhimes,
Endur'd Poetic murders by the score,
But seldom—broke my heart in Prose before.
'Twas no stock dagger gave to-night the blow,
No tragic tin—whose tricks full well you know.
Such weapons, blunted in our scenes of death,
Are grown unfit, to stop a lady's breath.
By Nature taught with other strokes to move,
Our modest bard no proud embroidery wove,
Pois'd no false poiniard to exact a start,
But drew a simple blade that reach'd the heart.
Instead of words—those bubbles in our bowl,
He touch'd the string that harrows up the soul;
Instead of pomps—he gave the true despair,
Which breathes a passion, and which looks a prayer!
Who kills his heroes on no hackney'd plan.
Your Blank-verse fate I've brav'd a hundred times,
And my last dying speech oft made in rhimes,
Endur'd Poetic murders by the score,
But seldom—broke my heart in Prose before.
'Twas no stock dagger gave to-night the blow,
No tragic tin—whose tricks full well you know.
Such weapons, blunted in our scenes of death,
Are grown unfit, to stop a lady's breath.
By Nature taught with other strokes to move,
Our modest bard no proud embroidery wove,
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But drew a simple blade that reach'd the heart.
Instead of words—those bubbles in our bowl,
He touch'd the string that harrows up the soul;
Instead of pomps—he gave the true despair,
Which breathes a passion, and which looks a prayer!
No trump indeed presag'd a battle near,
He owns, no plumage nodded o'er the bier;
He call'd not even the mantle to his aid,
That useful engine to our bustling-trade;
But spoke to Parent, Husband, Sister, Wife,
The genuine language of domestic life,
Told a chaste tale of family distress,
And less had pleas'd you, had he pain'd you less:
He rouz'd the grief which ornaments conceal,
The bosom'd pang, which all who saw may feel.
He owns, no plumage nodded o'er the bier;
He call'd not even the mantle to his aid,
That useful engine to our bustling-trade;
But spoke to Parent, Husband, Sister, Wife,
The genuine language of domestic life,
Told a chaste tale of family distress,
And less had pleas'd you, had he pain'd you less:
He rouz'd the grief which ornaments conceal,
The bosom'd pang, which all who saw may feel.
Oh then forgive, if for “the suits of woe,”
He wak'd a sorrow “that surpasseth shew;”
And think—howe'er the charms of Verse succeed,
A death in Prose resembles Death indeed.
He wak'd a sorrow “that surpasseth shew;”
And think—howe'er the charms of Verse succeed,
A death in Prose resembles Death indeed.
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For me—devoted to your gentle sway,
I live to please you, die but to obey;
Kill or am kill'd—all ways am sav'd or slain,
And now but beg my life—to die for you again!
I live to please you, die but to obey;
Kill or am kill'd—all ways am sav'd or slain,
And now but beg my life—to die for you again!
PROLOGUE FOR THE FIRST APPEARANCE OF MRS. SIMPSON.
When Nature's favourite from the scene withdraws,
Hard is the task to plead a stranger's cause;
When Siddons, honour'd, lov'd, rever'd, departs,
Ah! who may claim her empire in your hearts?
Where still enthron'd, her worth, her talents shine,
The fairest image of the richest shrine;
Where fondly cherish'd all her powers we trace,
The truth of action and the charm of face,
Transcendant manners, conduct void of blame,
And Cibber's genius join'd to Pritchard's fame.
Hard is the task to plead a stranger's cause;
When Siddons, honour'd, lov'd, rever'd, departs,
Ah! who may claim her empire in your hearts?
Where still enthron'd, her worth, her talents shine,
The fairest image of the richest shrine;
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The truth of action and the charm of face,
Transcendant manners, conduct void of blame,
And Cibber's genius join'd to Pritchard's fame.
Yet, no usurper she who sues to-night,
No bold invader of another's right;
A lawful potentate, whose genial sway
According hearts in distant realms obey,
In ancient York, she held supreme command,
But takes your sceptre with a trembling hand:
Hither invited, anxious she appears,
The conscious victim of her generous fears,
And tho' array'd in laurels comes the fair,
(The Northern world ne'er knew a brighter star)
And tho' some generous hopes her heart assail
A thousand modest terrors still prevail;
In vain we tell her Siddons 'self you rear'd,
Her hopes expanded and her spirits chear'd,
Fenc'd from each wind the flower and bade it grow,
Delighted, nurs'd, and saw its blossoms blow;
Vain too we urge that merit well supplies,
The towering stature and heroic size,
As vain the candour we have felt we praise,
You only you can hush the storms you raise:
And since the Sun which lately gilt our skies
At length retires, in other worlds to rise,
This gentle planet may ascend our sphere,
And by your sanction fix her orbit here,
On this fair spot diffuse a milder glow
And thus reflect the radiance you bestow.
No bold invader of another's right;
A lawful potentate, whose genial sway
According hearts in distant realms obey,
In ancient York, she held supreme command,
But takes your sceptre with a trembling hand:
Hither invited, anxious she appears,
The conscious victim of her generous fears,
And tho' array'd in laurels comes the fair,
(The Northern world ne'er knew a brighter star)
And tho' some generous hopes her heart assail
A thousand modest terrors still prevail;
In vain we tell her Siddons 'self you rear'd,
Her hopes expanded and her spirits chear'd,
Fenc'd from each wind the flower and bade it grow,
Delighted, nurs'd, and saw its blossoms blow;
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The towering stature and heroic size,
As vain the candour we have felt we praise,
You only you can hush the storms you raise:
And since the Sun which lately gilt our skies
At length retires, in other worlds to rise,
This gentle planet may ascend our sphere,
And by your sanction fix her orbit here,
On this fair spot diffuse a milder glow
And thus reflect the radiance you bestow.
PROLOGUE TO THE ORPHAN OF CHINA.
From Hiersall gazing on his Georgian star,
To daring Jeff'ries balancing in air,
The law supreme that governs human kind,
Pleasure to give and take we still shall find,
Social the source whence all our passions flow,
Mutual is every joy and every woe:
Nor e'er to self we stint the liberal flame,
Which gilds the path of glory or of fame.
To daring Jeff'ries balancing in air,
The law supreme that governs human kind,
Pleasure to give and take we still shall find,
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Mutual is every joy and every woe:
Nor e'er to self we stint the liberal flame,
Which gilds the path of glory or of fame.
Hence, Sirs, each glowing purpose of the soul,
And parts, as sung the bard, but serve the whole:
Hence issues forth “indebted and discharged,”
The generous feeling and the thought enlarged.
Hence young Ambition spreads her proudest sail,
Power climbs the mountain, and Peace decks the vale;
Hence Sculpture bids the soften'd marble warm,
And Painting emulates life's vivid form:
Music her voice, and Poesy her lyre,
With equal incense feed the social fire.
Love breathes his vow, Compassion drops her tear,
Pleasure and Pain both pay their homage here:
The world's great drama this fair truth can tell,
Not for themselves alone, would men excel.
And parts, as sung the bard, but serve the whole:
Hence issues forth “indebted and discharged,”
The generous feeling and the thought enlarged.
Hence young Ambition spreads her proudest sail,
Power climbs the mountain, and Peace decks the vale;
Hence Sculpture bids the soften'd marble warm,
And Painting emulates life's vivid form:
Music her voice, and Poesy her lyre,
With equal incense feed the social fire.
Love breathes his vow, Compassion drops her tear,
Pleasure and Pain both pay their homage here:
The world's great drama this fair truth can tell,
Not for themselves alone, would men excel.
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To-night, no less obedient to the power
Of social pleasure, we devote the hour,
To cheer the gale that chills the coming spring,
To melt the snow yet lodged on Winter's wing;
Like lovers, we, by moon-light woo the heart,
And try the powers that grace the scenic art!
Friendship for this calls Candour to our stage,
Who brings no catcall, bids no party rage:
The shining rows that grace this little round,
Will fright our heroes with no fearful sound;
Arm'd with no terrors do our critics sit,
To rowl the thunder of a London pit:
No awful phalanx sedulous to blame,
Blasts the fair rose-buds of our private fame:
The full-grown flowers, which on her summit grow,
Conscious we quit, to crop the shrubs below.
All our kind Gods too, are from malice free,
Our members ne'er divide, but all agree;
And tho' both sexes on our edicts wait,
In a full house we dread no harsh debate;
A zeal to please ye animates us all;
And should we fail, your smiles would break our fall:
Yet if we please not, our best hopes we maim,
“Self-love and social,” we shall feel “the same.”
Of social pleasure, we devote the hour,
To cheer the gale that chills the coming spring,
To melt the snow yet lodged on Winter's wing;
Like lovers, we, by moon-light woo the heart,
And try the powers that grace the scenic art!
Friendship for this calls Candour to our stage,
Who brings no catcall, bids no party rage:
The shining rows that grace this little round,
Will fright our heroes with no fearful sound;
Arm'd with no terrors do our critics sit,
To rowl the thunder of a London pit:
No awful phalanx sedulous to blame,
Blasts the fair rose-buds of our private fame:
The full-grown flowers, which on her summit grow,
Conscious we quit, to crop the shrubs below.
All our kind Gods too, are from malice free,
Our members ne'er divide, but all agree;
And tho' both sexes on our edicts wait,
In a full house we dread no harsh debate;
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And should we fail, your smiles would break our fall:
Yet if we please not, our best hopes we maim,
“Self-love and social,” we shall feel “the same.”
EPILOGUE.
Well, Dames and Sirs, we've had rare doings here,
Princes in van, conspirators in rear!
To-night you've seen what patriots were of yore,
Tyrants you've heard declaim, and Tartars roar:
Nor dare ye now deny they were indeed
A race of mortals wond'rous apt to bleed.
The dames of China were so fond of death,
Maids, on their wedding night, gave up their breath,
And husbands (Ladies how unlike your own)
Stole off, before the honey-moon was down.
Your Eastern bridegrooms offered up their wives,
Whene'er the general welfare claim'd their lives;
Each beauteous victim, at her Lord's command,
Took the dire instrument of fate in hand,
Amidst the red-hot pile undaunted stood,
Burnt, hung, or drowned, for the public good.
“Do die, my dear,” the tender husband said,
“This for thy country,”—then struck off her head.
Untimely deaths were then, indeed, so common,
Woman for sport kill'd man, as man kill'd woman.
A bowl of poison was the virgin's end,
She drank it off—and call'd it Virtue's friend,
Bent her white bosom to the patriot blow,
And saw the streams of life unheeded flow.
Then whisper'd her kind Lord—but not to save her,
Give him the blade:—he thank'd her for the favour,
“Take it my dearest—soft!—you know the rest,”
The good man seiz'd and plung'd it in his breast;
Then side by side, most lovingly they lye,
Kiss and expire without one dastard sigh.
Princes in van, conspirators in rear!
To-night you've seen what patriots were of yore,
Tyrants you've heard declaim, and Tartars roar:
Nor dare ye now deny they were indeed
A race of mortals wond'rous apt to bleed.
The dames of China were so fond of death,
Maids, on their wedding night, gave up their breath,
And husbands (Ladies how unlike your own)
Stole off, before the honey-moon was down.
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Whene'er the general welfare claim'd their lives;
Each beauteous victim, at her Lord's command,
Took the dire instrument of fate in hand,
Amidst the red-hot pile undaunted stood,
Burnt, hung, or drowned, for the public good.
“Do die, my dear,” the tender husband said,
“This for thy country,”—then struck off her head.
Untimely deaths were then, indeed, so common,
Woman for sport kill'd man, as man kill'd woman.
A bowl of poison was the virgin's end,
She drank it off—and call'd it Virtue's friend,
Bent her white bosom to the patriot blow,
And saw the streams of life unheeded flow.
Then whisper'd her kind Lord—but not to save her,
Give him the blade:—he thank'd her for the favour,
“Take it my dearest—soft!—you know the rest,”
The good man seiz'd and plung'd it in his breast;
Then side by side, most lovingly they lye,
Kiss and expire without one dastard sigh.
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To Britons turn we from such tribes as these,
Britons, who please to live, and live to please;
Our English dames, such killing customs hate,
And born to conquer, ne'er submit to fate.
Should some deep ruin on their country press,
Too generous they—to leave her in distress.
Instead of dying—they like patriots stout,
Boldly live on, and tire the mischief out.
Or if some off'ring the stern fates require,
They nobly spare—their husbands to the fire,
“Yes, ye lov'd Lords”—We give ye up, they cry,
“'Tis for the general good ye all should die;”
Alas, sad widows, sure our hearts will break!
But we will bear it for our country's sake.
“Yet, oh dear martyrs, what we still must dread,
“Is lest the state again should bid us—wed.”
Britons, who please to live, and live to please;
Our English dames, such killing customs hate,
And born to conquer, ne'er submit to fate.
Should some deep ruin on their country press,
Too generous they—to leave her in distress.
Instead of dying—they like patriots stout,
Boldly live on, and tire the mischief out.
Or if some off'ring the stern fates require,
They nobly spare—their husbands to the fire,
“Yes, ye lov'd Lords”—We give ye up, they cry,
“'Tis for the general good ye all should die;”
Alas, sad widows, sure our hearts will break!
But we will bear it for our country's sake.
“Yet, oh dear martyrs, what we still must dread,
“Is lest the state again should bid us—wed.”
Ye pride of Albion, your's the graceful art,
To point with nicer skill the potent dart;
Your's the soft privilege, whole ranks to kill,
And make death lovely, tho' no blood ye spill;
Ye, like the chalky cliffs that guard our coast,
Assert your skies, and are yourselves an host;
Tho' of young roses are your fetters made,
In vain would lion man their force evade:
Tho' your triumphant car is drawn by doves,
And to the wheels your captives tied by loves.
Not vex'd Ixion e'er was bound so fast,
And while you frown the punishment must last.
Fame, life, and death, are in your conquering eyes;
And of each polish'd art your smiles the prize:
O, for our toils, in every beauteous face,
Those fair rewards of pleasing may we trace.
To point with nicer skill the potent dart;
Your's the soft privilege, whole ranks to kill,
And make death lovely, tho' no blood ye spill;
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Assert your skies, and are yourselves an host;
Tho' of young roses are your fetters made,
In vain would lion man their force evade:
Tho' your triumphant car is drawn by doves,
And to the wheels your captives tied by loves.
Not vex'd Ixion e'er was bound so fast,
And while you frown the punishment must last.
Fame, life, and death, are in your conquering eyes;
And of each polish'd art your smiles the prize:
O, for our toils, in every beauteous face,
Those fair rewards of pleasing may we trace.
| Miscellanies (1785) | |