University of Virginia Library

ACT I.

SCENE I.

Carey and Frances.
Frances.
Pray temper with patience your warm indignation,
And treat with more mercy my tender relation:
Because with your passions her whims interfere,
To her foibles, dear Carey, you're grossly severe.

Carey.
My patience, sweet Frances, I own is exhausted:
She will wed the first suitor by whom she's accosted,
Though in widowhood's dainty vagaries, her pride
Forbids her fair cousin to shine as a bride;
And keeps us, my Love, from that altar away,
Where Hymen with justice upbraids our delay.
But, in noble contempt of your unsettled dower,
Let us seize on the bliss that is plac'd in our power;
And, if such artful vanities yield her relief,
Leave my Lady to play off fresh fountains of grief,
While we, my sweet girl! pass our happier youth
In delights that are hallow'd by Nature and Truth:
Though my income is small, with your prudent direction,
Dear Fanny—

Frances.
I'm pleas'd with this proof of affection:
Yet before we our union, dear Carey, complete,
As your love is so ardent—let mine be discreet.
No honest return of regard should I feel,
Could I suffer your heart, in its generous zeal,
To abandon a portion your bride should obtain,
And hazard by hurry what patience will gain.
'Tis unlucky, my cousin, Sir Simon, forgot
To specify what he design'd as my lot:
But I know this omission, by which I am left,
At her Ladyship's mercy, of fortune bereft,
Was the work of Old Vellum, whose foresight and skill
Were employ'd for himself, when he made the Knight's will.
Yet her Ladyship says, that my cousin told her
The sum that he meant upon me to confer;
And though she delays, from a delicate whim,
Lest our marriage should seem disrespectful to him—

Carey.
Good God! my dear Fanny, how can you defend her?
To refinement and faith she's an empty pretender.
Have not twelve months elaps'd from Sir Simon's interment?
Yet her sorrow still bubbles in ludicrous ferment;
Though the farce of her grief, as our friends have all said,
Is address'd to the living much more than the dead;
And her vanity means, though she prizes not pelf,
To keep you unmarried, and marry herself.

Frances.
Indeed you mistake all her harmless intentions;
She will certainly give me the fortune she mentions;
I know her kind heart, and its pure inclination.

Carey.
Say rather, we know her absurd affectation:
And as for your portion, my dear, I as soon
Shall expect an estate to drop out of the moon,
As to see you receive from my Lady a shilling;
Allowing, indeed, that her heart may be willing,
She soon will have nothing, I fear, to bestow,
So profuse is she grown in her whimsical woe.
On the new Mausoleum what sums does she waste!
That fantastical fabric of barbarous taste;
Where all decorations that art can devise,
To adorn the proud tombs of the valiant and wise,
Are mix'd o'er the bones of a simple old cit,
Who display'd not a sparkle of valor or wit;
Who though rich, pass'd, I think, with small comfort through life,
A mere slave to the whims of his high-blooded wife.

Frances.
That preposterous vault I have view'd with concern!
And have cried and have laugh'd o'er Sir Simon's rich urn:
But at length, having study'd her Ladyship's trim,
And loving her virtue in spite of her whim,
I've a scheme, that, I think, with success will be crown'd,
On this folly itself her correction to found;
By indulging her foible, that foible to banish,
And make all her mournful absurdity vanish.

Carey.
To your judgment, dear Fanny, I often submit,
And much could I hope from your goodness and wit;
Yet I think you can't make, in her youth's giddy season,
Such a vain wanton widow a creature of reason.

Frances.
You judges of nature, and lords of creation,
Howe'er you pretend to profound speculation,
Are exceedingly apt your wise selves to deceive
In the judgments you pass on the daughters of Eve;
And most when you reckon, in every transaction,
One indelicate foible their sole spring of action.
My Lady Sophia you greatly mistake;
By nature she's neither a prude nor a rake:
At present, I own, she appears too demure;
But though her heart's tender, her bosom is pure:
To a strong understanding she makes no pretence,
But has many mild virtues, and does not want sense:
One foible alone has o'erclouded her mind,
The foible of seeming supremely refin'd:
But if I succeed, this slight fault she will mend,
And you'll find her a worthy agreeable friend.

Carey.
You may say of her purity what you think fit,
But her case one specific alone will admit.
Believe me, whene'er a young widow's so prim,
And by quaint affectation so cramp'd in each limb,
A new husband alone, by his pliant embrace,
Can restore her starch'd form to its natural grace:
Is this, my fair Quack! the new nostrum you've got?

Frances.
Indeed you shan't hear any part of my plot,
Till I know its success.

Carey.
Ah! my dear, I'm afraid
This is some coy device my request to evade,
And to keep the wish'd day of our wedding still distant.

Frances.
No; in truth, by the aid of a secret assistant,
I've a plan of great moment in high agitation,
Which may happily end all our various vexation:
Allow me three days for its perfect digestion,
And if in that time you will ask me no question,
I promise thenceforth, without murmur or strife,
To obey your commands for the rest of my life.

Carey.
I gladly subscribe to this bargain of bliss;
So allow me to seal the kind bond with a kiss!
Remember, three days; I can't add a day more,
And shall fancy those three in duration threescore.

Frances.
O they'll pass very quick:—much amus'd you will be
With the three rival Bards whom to-day we shall see;
To whom my sad cousin oblig'd me to write
For sepulchral inscriptions in praise of her Knight:
They have sent each an epitaph hither before 'em,
And are coming themselves with all solemn decorum.
As each, without contest, expects here the laurel,
On her Ladyship's judgment they'll probably quarrel:
As you know the whole group, you must wait on the choir,
To soothe the irascible sons of the Lyre.

Carey.
As to Facil and Trope, if they're hurt, I'll engage
That one glance of your eyes will extinguish their rage:
You will find them two chearful and good-humour'd lads;
And, whether their Pegasus gallops or pads,
It will please me, I own, if her Ladyship's fancies
May tend to recruit their declining finances:
But for splenetic Rumble, who, grandly absurd,
Never speaks without using a six-footed word,
I care not how much he is mortified here.

Frances.
But the length of his words hits her Ladyships' ear.

Carey.
His stiff phrases indeed may accord with her sorrow,
Yet his spleen will insult her ere this time to-morrow;
For often he'll call, with quaint arrogant vanity,
Every head but his own the abode of inanity:
Because a great author's defects he has caught,
He vainly pretends to his vigor of thought;
Though, on similar grounds, he as well might suppose,
That, because some dark spots may be seen on his nose,
His face has the lustre and force of the sun.

Frances.
In our chorus of Bards I am glad he is one,
For I'm curious, I own, the strange elf to survey;
Though I'm rather afraid of his wife, who, they say,
Reads all the rough verses her husband has penn'd,
Till she stuns every ear she can tempt to attend.
She's to come with her Poet.

Carey.
I fancy they're here,
For I think I've the hum of his rhymes in my ear.

Frances.
No, no; 'tis her Ladyship, mightily smitten
With the high-sounding epitaph Rumble has written.

Enter Lady Sophia (reading).
Lady Sophia.
“This doleful domicile of dust contains
“Sir Simon Sentiment's inert remains;
“Though Death's cold stroke infrigidate his frame,
“Commerce resounds his emporetic name.”
Ah, my friends, here is verse truly grand and pathetic!
How exceedingly fine is the word emporetic!—
Why, Carey! you seem quite untouch'd by its beauty;
Of friendship, I fear, you forget the last duty:
You two giddy creatures, though both tender-hearted,
Think more of yourselves than of my dear departed.

Carey.
As your Ladyship chuses to press me so hard,
I confess, though his memory still I regard,
That my thoughts from Sir Simon will frequently roam;
And I hope, when you've deck'd his funereal dome,
Your Ladyship's mind may, by Nature's direction,
Assume a more lively and chearful complexion;
That you'll mix once again—

Lady Sophia.
Never, Carey! no, never!
No time from his grave my devotion shall sever;
In my eye the fond tear of remembrance shall swim,
And each sigh of my soul shall be sacred to him!

Carey.
Consider, dear Madam! that custom and reason
Prescribe to our sorrows a natural season;
You have mourn'd like a model of conjugal truth,
Now attend to the claims of your beauty and youth;
In the bloom of your graces—

Lady Sophia.
Hold, hold, you wild thing!
In your fancy, I find, gross ideas will spring;
'Tis the fault of you men;—ere I chasten'd his mind,
My Sir Simon himself to that failing inclin'd:
But I taught him to change the loose laugh of futility,
For the sweet melting tear of refin'd sensibility,
Till through his mild frame such pure tenderness ran—
To such delicate softness I brought the dear man—
He would weep o'er the withering leaf of a rose,
And smile at the thorn though it wounded his nose.—
Ah, my gentle Sir Simon!

Frances.
Indeed, he was such,
That your thoughts cannot dwell on his image too much.

Lady Sophia.
Your soothing, kind sympathy charms me, my dear:
I now trust you will wait till the end of next year;
Nor with Hymen's festivity, gross and indecent,
Profane our chaste sorrow, so graceful and recent.

Carey
(aside to Frances).
How can you so flatter her curst affectation?
Between you I'm really half mad with vexation.

Lady Sophia.
As you, my good girl! with such feeling attend,
When o'er the dear tomb of Sir Simon I bend,
That your thoughts may not roam when our duty we pay
To that most precious piece of inanimate clay,
That you may not omit o'er his ashes to sigh,
In considering what wedding-cloaths you must buy,
I've determin'd, my dear, as I think it your due,
To resign all my colour'd apparel to you;
To wear it again I indeed am unable,
And on earth while I linger my garb shall be sable.
[Speaking to a Servant behind the scene.]
Jenny, bring in the chest that I bid you prepare.

Frances
(aside to Carey).
What d'ye think of this singular present?

Carey.
O rare!
Her crisis is coming, without much delay;
There might have been doubts had she fix'd upon grey:
But a vow to wear black all the rest of her life
Is a strong indication she'll soon be a wife.

[Two Servants bring in a large Chest.]
Lady Sophia
(to Frances).
I have told you, my dear, that, refin'd in my joy,
The array of affection I ne'er could destroy:
These are garments unsoil'd, that I beg you to take,
Thus preserv'd for the conquest they help'd me to make.
In the sweet days of courtship these garments I wore,
Vain memorials of pleasure that now is no more!
Of those dear days of triumph you'll now see the trophy,
When Sir Simon first call'd me angelical Sophy:—
The fond recollection subdues my soft breast!

Frances.
Dear Madam, forbear then to open the chest!

Lady Sophia.
No, no, my good girl; I will shew you the whole,
And how colours express'd various shades in my soul;
In soft variegation I vied with the dove,
And reveal'd by my dress the gradations of love.
Here is, first, a cold brown—in this gown I was nice,
And repell'd my warm swain with the chillness of ice;
But growing more soft, in this azure attire
I allow'd him with hope to enliven desire;
In this pale lilach lutestring he found me relent;
And this rose-colour'd silk was the blush of consent.
O I ne'er shall forget—

Gerrard
(entering).
Would your Ladyship chuse
To receive Mr. Rumble?

Carey.
The Bard and his Muse!

Lady Sophia.
No, not for the wealth that's below the chaste moon,
Till I meet all the Bards in the sable saloon:
By his sudden arrival I'm sadly confounded,
And should faint if he saw me with colours surrounded!
To Miss Jasper's apartment away with this chest;—
Dear Frances, and Carey, pray wait on my guest,
Till my poor shatter'd nerves are a little compos'd,
And the fresh-bleeding wound of my bosom is clos'd.
Stay, Gerrard.—If cards should be call'd for to-night,
Place the new japann'd tables alone in my sight;
For the pool of Quadrille set the black-bugle dish,
And remember you bring us the ebony fish.

[Exeunt Lady Sophia and Gerrard.
Frances.
What the deuce shall I do with the wife of the Poet?
She may ruin my scheme, if she happen to know it:
She may pry—

Carey.
Never fear it! I'll venture a wager
That the rhymes of her husband will fully engage her:
You have seen a proud Bantam crow over a pen,
Where a small egg has dropt from his favorite hen,
He crows, and he flutters, and struts round the yard:
So engross'd by her joy is the wife of a Bard;
And by similar bustle attention she begs,
And crows o'er her partner's poetical eggs.
But here come little Partlet and old Chanticleer.

Enter Mr. and Mrs. Rumble.
Carey.
Mr. Rumble, I'm happy in seeing you here.
Mrs. Rumble,—Miss Jasper;—you know, Ma'am, her brother—
And you, Ladies, will soon be well known to each other.

Mr. Rumble.
Though we meet in the house of refin'd lamentation,
In your presence, I feel, Sir, some exhilaration;
Since I in this spot as a stranger appear,
I rejoice in a friend who domesticates here.
My Lady is lodg'd in a sumptuous mansion,
And I'm pleas'd with her park's evanescent expansion;
As my wife has a taste for the grand and stupendous,
I am glad I complied with her wish to attend us.

Miss Jasper.
You have had, Ma'am, I hope, an agreeable ride;
Our prospects are pleasant on every side,
And our roads are soo good—

Mrs. Rumble.
That you'll wonder to learn
We were stopt on our way by an odd overturn.

Miss Jasper.
Indeed! you surprize me. I hope that no harm
Has ensued from the accident, save your alarm—
But how could it happen?

Mrs. Rumble.
Sometimes, on the road,
My dear Mr. Rumble composes an ode;
For he says, in such motion his fancy shines most;
And all true lyric poets, you know, travel post:
But a chaise-boy, alas! is a sad ignoramus;
And the poor honest booby, whose blunder o'ercame us,
Mistook a Pindarical ejaculation
For a horrible, vulgar, profane execration,
And, turning to stare at my dear Mr. Rumble,
Drove against a steep hillock, which gave us a tumble.

Miss Jasper.
A most cruel event! whence, I fear, we may lose
The unfortunate fruit of the terrified Muse:
'Twas indeed most unlucky!

Mrs. Rumble.
Dear Ma'am, not at all:
Such a genius is not to be crush'd by a fall;
The accident brighten'd his fancy, and on it
He gallantly gave me an amorous sonnet.
As I know you love verse—

Mr. Rumble.
Mrs. Rumble, I vow
This display of my trifles I cannot allow;
You for ever mistake, to my endless vexation,
Gay Levity's sparkle for Wit's cornscation.

Mrs. Rumble.
Ah, you dear, modest man! in a napkin you'd hide
The talent my love must contemplate with pride;
As Miss Jasper, I'm sure, is a lady of taste,
She shall see some sweet things that I pack'd up in haste,
A few satires and odes—

[Takes out an enormous pocket-book stuffed with papers.
Mr. Rumble.
As you dread my displeasure,
Put up that red volume!

Mrs. Rumble.
What, bury my treasure!
Indeed I must read one sublime composition.

Mr. Rumble.
Mrs. Rumble! the part of a wife is submission—
Silly woman! to whom for my sins I am yok'd,
With pulveriz'd gravel you almost are choak'd;
And, fatigu'd with vehicular dilaceration,
You would murder my verses by rough recitation.

Mrs. Rumble.
No, indeed; do but hear me one stanza rehearse;
'Tis my favorite ode.

Mr. Rumble.
As you grow so perverse,
To preserve my own temper from exacerbation,
I must thus stop your organs of vociferation.

[Lays his hand on her lips.
Mrs. Rumble.
Well, my dear, I defer it to some fitter time,
And I kiss the sweet hand that has written such rhyme.

Miss Jasper.
Your connubial obedience, dear Ma'am, I admire;
But I'm sure your fatigues some refreshment require—
Give me leave to attend you.

Mrs. Rumble.
It gives me concern
To trouble you, Ma'am; but I hope to return
Your obliging attention, so kind and polite,
By a peep at a satire which ne'er saw the light.

[Exit Miss Jasper with Mrs. Rumble.
Carey.
Mr. Rumble, you're blest in an excellent wife,
That superlative prize in the lott'ry of life;
The vow of the altar she rises above,
And adds admiration to duty and love.

Mr. Rumble.
My wife has, I think, the right feminine nerve:
Her sex was created to wonder and serve;
As their minds have from nature no ponderous powers,
They have nothing to do but to venerate ours.

Carey.
O fie! can you estimate woman so low?
To our fair female authors pray think what we owe.

Mr. Rumble.
I cannot read one, Sir, without oscitation:
They don't understand antithetic vibration;
Their ideas have nothing of height and profundity,
Their conceptions want vigor, their periods rotundity;
Their truth is too stale, or too feeble their fiction,
And I cannot endure their anomalous diction:
But enough of these garrulous wasters of ink—
Her Ladyship likes my inscription, I think;
That lugubrious poem no critic shall garble,
And, I trust, you can shew it me graven on marble.

Carey.
It would please me to give you that pleasure, dear Sir;
But, in truth, on this point there's a little demur,
Her Ladyship means to consult on the case.

Mr. Rumble.
What, Sir! is my poem expos'd to disgrace?
Her critical quacks does this woman engage,
To slash my sound verse with empirical rage?

Carey.
Believe me, good Sir, all the homage that's due
To poetical genius she offers to you;
But her Ladyship's love for Sir Simon is such,
She thinks that he cannot be honour'd too much;
And, to give all his virtues their due celebration,
She from diverse poetical pens of our nation
Has a cargo of epitaphs.

Mr. Rumble.
Hah! is it so!
Are there rivals to shoot in Apollo's strong bow?
This should have been told me before;—but no matter:
My concurrents, perhaps, may more lavishly flatter,
Yet in funeral song they can't equal my tone;
Where Pope has miscarried, I triumph alone.—
Pray who are these Bards that with me are to cope?

Carey.
I think you're acquainted with Facil and Trope.

Mr. Rumble.
What, Facil! whose verse is the thread of tenuity,
That fellow distinguish'd by flippant fatuity,
Who nonsense and rhyme can incessantly mingle,
A poet—if poetry's only a jingle.

Carey.
Poor Facil wants force; yet may frequently please
By a light airy mixture of mirth and of ease;
But Trope's lofty muse has a higher pretension.

Mr. Rumble.
Sir! Trope is a rhymer devoid of invention,
Who talks in a high strutting style of the stars,
And the eagle of Jove, and the chariot of Mars;
And pompously tells, in elaborate lines,
That now the moon glistens, and now the sun shines.

Carey.
How severe, my good friend, are you Bards to each other!
Yet if each would indulgently look on a brother,
For your general honor—

Mr. Rumble.
I cannot agree
That these fellows have aught homogeneous with me;
To contend with such scribblers I deem a disgrace,
And my dignity bids me abandon the place:
With her Ladyship's judgment I mean not to quarrel,
But shall leave her to crown any monkey with laurel.

Carey.
Mr. Rumble! in points so exceedingly nice
I do not presume to obtrude my advice;
But allow me to mention, before you depart,
What may tend to encourage your liberal art.
Sir Simon, you know, had a passion for fame,
And left a large sum to eternize his name
By some structure of note; yet he never said what:
So a grand Mausoleum is rais'd on this spot,
At so vast an expence that my Lady, I find,
Has surpast what the Knight for the building design'd;
The superfluous cost, be it great as it may,
From her own private purse she designs to defray;
Though an annual fund by the will is adjusted,
With the guidance of which she is also entrusted;
But from this, as I hear, she has form'd an intention
To give the best epitaph-writer a pension.

Mr. Rumble.
Has she so!—'tis a gracious, effulgent design;
I protest, of her judgment I highly opine.
Her face has been chiefly the subject of praise;
But a splendor of intellect now she displays.
I cannot abruptly depart from a scene
Whose mistress discovers the mind of a queen,
Nor rudely desert, though my time is precarious,
A lady whose graces are so multifarious:
But pray, lest some puppy should here circumvent me,
To her Ladyship can't you directly present me?
Though I fear, since my fall, I am hardly so clean as
A Bard should be seen by a female Mæcenas.

Carey.
Never fear!—in your coat there is not so much dust
As to blind the bright eye that to merit is just.
If you'll step in this room, which is call'd the Apollo,
And wait a few minutes, I'll speedily-follow,
And acquaint you how soon we may hope for admission;—
My Lady loves form, in her present condition:
To amuse yourself there you'll, however, be able,
For you'll find all the epitaphs rang'd on the table.

Mr. Rumble.
Are they so!—it is well!—I indeed love to slash
An inane poetaster's incongruous trash.

[Exit.
Carey.
There I'll venture to leave the old cynical Rumble,
The prey he has seiz'd to growl over and mumble.
If this Bard, whom my Lady regards as her darling,
Has infus'd in his brothers his talent of snarling,
I think she will find little room to admire
The harmony form'd by her Lyrical Choir.—
But lo! the kind Muse an example now sends,
That two mortals at once may be poets and friends.

Enter Facil and Trope.
Carey.
My dear lads of Parnassus! you're welcome together;
I am glad you associate, like birds of a feather,
That fools may not cry, “Every Bard hates a brother,
“And Poets, like Pike, are the prey of each other.”
How fare ye, my friends? have you prosper'd of late?
I hope each has rais'd his Parnassian estate!
In our last conversation I heard ye lament
That your farms on the mountain produc'd a low rent.

Facil.
In truth 'tis a niggardly foil, at the best,
As I and my brother can truly attest;
But with hopes of a new golden æra, my friend,
On your patroness here we are come to attend:
To encourage the arts she has spirit and sense,
And we're told, my dear Carey, her wealth is immense.

Trope.
In fortune and soul she's a queen, 'tis agreed,
And of genius as fond as Christina the Swede;
For the Public's dull taste she, we trust, will console us,
And make our poor Helicon rich as Pactolus.

Facil.
Perhaps, my dear Carey, we owe to your care
The favor of this truly liberal Fair:
You are, doubtless, appriz'd that my Lady requires—

Carey.
I know she has paid due respect to your lyres;
Yet, indeed, on that title no thanks can I claim;
You're indebted alone to your common friend, Fame:
Her Ladyship knows with what spirit you write,
And has begg'd your two Muses to honor her Knight;
And, I trust, to your mutual advantage and joy,
She'll reward the rare talents she wish'd to employ.
But be not too sanguine;—I know how you Bards
Build the fabric of Hope like a castle of cards:
Entre nous, our good Lady is odd in her taste,
Tho' her mind is, no doubt, with munificence grac'd;
Perhaps to one Bard she'll be lavishly kind,
And appear to the other as utterly blind.
Then let each be prepar'd.

Facil.
So we are, my good friend,
And by mutual support shall each other defend:
To tell you a secret, we both wrote in haste,
And strangers alike to her Ladyship's taste;
But agreed, as our purses are equally low,
To divide what on either she deigns to bestow.

Carey.
The compact is friendly; I wish from my heart
That all who pursue the poetical art
Would learn, from you two, their mean rage to suppress,
And not rave at the sight of a rival's success.

Facil.
There, indeed, they may copy from Trope and from me:
From envy, thank Heaven! we are happily free;
We rally each other as much as we please;—
I laugh at his figures—he laughs at my ease;
Yet with rancour we ne'er try each other to hit,
But value Benevolence far above Wit.
The art we still doat on has ruin'd us both;
Yet to quit the deceiver we're equally loth:
From Commerce and Law we were led to retire
By the splendid illusions that wait on the Lyre;
And though each has obtain'd a fair portion of praise,
We have no golden fruit in our chaplet of bays;
Still we look without spleen on our gains and our losses,
Each endear'd to the other by similar crosses.

Carey.
In truth, my dear Bards, you're good-humour is rare;
You're philosophers both, and a singular pair:
With what excellent temper I've heard you rehearse
A malicious burlesque of your innocent verse!

Facil.
O, with me 'tis a rule not to quarrel with those
Who attack what I scribble in rhyme or in prose;
To skirmish with you, how unjust should I be,
If, perchance, of my verses you don't think with me;
When, to tell you the truth, I'm so various an elf,
I have twenty opinions about them myself!

Carey.
What an honest confession!

Facil.
'Tis perfectly true;
Yet my works, I must own, I too rarely review;
And too quick in their birth are the brats of my brain:
My Muse is no parent inur'd to long pain,
Who dandles a rickety chit while it lives,
And loves it the more for the trouble it gives;
She with lively dispatch, like a provident mother,
Soon as one child is born thinks of rearing another.—
But enough of a jade that is merely ideal;
Let us talk of a female, kind, lovely, and real;
An inspirer of something much sweeter than verse,
And, I hope, with a few thousand pounds in her purse:
I allude, my good friend, to Miss Jasper, your flame;
But, perhaps, she no longer is known by that name,
And has wisely exchang'd it for Carey.

Carey.
Not so;
The day of our wedding you'll certainly know,
As I hope that your Muse will the altar attend
With a rapturous ode on the bliss of your friend.

Facil.
I accept the gay office with infinite glee;—
But at present, I hope, the fair Nymph we shall see:
Trope and I were the intimate friends of her brother;
What a genius was he!—I ne'er knew such another:
At school we first saw him his talent display;
I remember he modell'd our figures in clay.
The trade of a sculptor we thought not his fate,
But suppos'd he'd have half of Sir Simon's estate!

Carey.
So he would, had not Vellum's more provident care,
When he made the Knight's will, nam'd himself as his heir.
My Lady, indeed, has the rents for her life,
But to Vellum yields half if again she's a wife;
And if without issue her Ladyship dies,
All this ample estate is old Latitat's prize.

Facil.
And what says poor Jasper, that spirited lad?
Faith, I think such a will might have driven him mad!
Though engag'd by his art, he, I'm sure, must be nettled;
But in Russia, they say, he is happily settled.

Carey.
When a generous mind has embrac'd a fine art,
With Fortune's vain gifts it can readily part;
From the world's dirty cares it detaches itself,
To contend for a prize far superior to pelf;
And looks with contempt (I am sure that you feel it)
Upon heart-hard'ning gold, and the villains who steal it.
Such a mind, from his childhood, your friend has possest;
And in Russia, I hear, he is busy and blest;
For a patroness there, of imperial spirit,
The munificent Catherine, honors his merit.

Facil.
I protest, in the different realms of the earth,
There is no friend, like woman, to genius and worth!

Trope.
I wish you and I may a Catherine find.
In the widow whose Knight in our verse is enshrin'd!

Facil.
You perhaps, my dear Carey, can tell us some news:
Has her Ladyship told you her thoughts of our Muse?

Carey.
One thing, my good friends, I can tell you at present,
But I fear you'll not think it exceedingly pleasant;
Yet it's certainly fit you should instantly know it,
And, indeed, emulation inspirits a poet:
Nay, look not so grave!—'tis a rival—that's all,
A candidate come at her Ladyship's call.

Facil.
A rival! who is it?

Trope.
A rival! pray who?

Carey.
One, I'll venture to say, fully known to you two,
A Bard whose pretensions are not very humble.

Facil.
You surely don't mean the pedantical Rumble?

Carey.
Even so! that long-winded loud Stentor of song;
And the ladies all think that his language is strong.

Trope.
'Tis as strong and as knotty as Hercules' club,
And as rough as the roll of the old Cynic's tub.

Carey.
Hush! hush!—in this chamber the Bear is inclos'd,
Growling over the epitaphs you have compos'd.

Facil.
Is he so!—introduce us.—I long to partake
In the courteous remarks that his candor will make.

Carey.
O, if such is your wish, to our guest I'll present you;
But I fancy his comments will quickly content you.

Facil.
As for me, I defy him to give me vexation;
And Trope will delight in some retaliation.