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How hard the fate is of the scribbling drudge,
Who writes to all when yet so few can judge!
Wit, like religion, once divine was thought,
And 'the dull crowd believ'd as they were taught,
Now each fanatic fool presumes t' explain
The text, and does the sacred writ profane :
For while your wils each other's fall pursue,
The fops usurp the pow'r belongs to you.
You think you're challeng’d in each new play bill,
And here you come for trial of yoar skill;
Where, fencer like, you one another burt,
While with your wounds you make the rabble sport.
Others there are that have the brutal will
To murder a poor play, but want the skill.
They love to fight, but seldom have the wit
To spy the place where they may thrust and bit;
And therefore, like some bully of the town,
Ne'er stand to draw, but knock the poet down.
With these, like hogs in gardens, it succeeds,
They root up all, and know not flow'rs from weeds.
As for you, sparks, that hither come each day,
To act your own, and not to mind our play,
Rehearse your usual follies to the pit,
And with loud nonsense drown the stage's wit;
Talk of your clothes, your last debauches tell,
And willy bargains to each other sell;
Glout on the silly she, who, for your sake,
Can vanity and noise for love mistake;
l'ill the coquette sung in the next lampoon
Is by her jealous friends sent out of town.
For in this duelling, intriguing age,
The love you make is like the war you wage,
You're still prevented e'er you come t'engage.
But 'tis not to such trifling foes as you,
The nighty Alexander deigns to sue;

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Ye Persians of the pit he does despise,
But to the map of sense for aid he flies;
On their experienc'd arms he now depends,
Nor fears he odds, if they but prove his friends :
For as be once a little bandful chose,
The num'rous armies of the world t’ oppose,
So back'd by you, who understand the rules,
He hopes to rout the mighty host of fools.

As originally acted, 1677. Alexander the Great.

Mr. Hart. Clytus

Mr. Mohun. Lysimachus

Mr. Griffin. Hephestion.

Mr. Clarke. Cassander

Mr. Kynaston. Polyperchon

Mr. Goodman. Thessalus

Mr. Wiltshire. Perdiccas

Mr. Lydall. Eumenes

Mr. Watson. Meleager.

Mr. Perin. Aristander

Mr. Coysh. Sysigambis

Mrs. Cory. Statira.

Mrs. Bowtell. Roxana .

Mrs. Marshall. Parisatis

Mrs. Baker.

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Drury Lane, 1800. Covent Garden, 1815. Alexander the Great Mr. Kemble. Mr. Betly. Clytus.

Mr. Bensly. Mr. Egerton. Lysimachus Mr. Barrymore. Mr. Abbott. Hephestion. Mr. C. Kemble. Mr. Hamerton. Cassander

Mr. Palmer. Mr. Barrymore. Polyperchon Mr. Caulfield. Mr. Creswell. Thessalus,

Mr. Maddocks. Mr. Jefferies. Perdiccas

Mr. Whitfield. Mr. Claremont. Eumenes .

Mr. Benson. Mr. King. Aristander. Mr. Packer. Mr. Chapman.

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Sysigambis . Mrs. Hopkins. Miss Logan.

Mrs. Powell. Miss Foote.

Mrs. Siddons. Mrs. Renaud. Parisatis.

Miss Miller. Miss Bristow. Attendants, Slaves, Guards, &c.


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SCENE I. The Gardens of SEMIRAMIS. Enter HEPHESTION and LYSIMACHUS, fighting;

Clytus parting them. Cly. What, are you madmen? this a time for quarPat up, I say—or, by the gods that form’d me, [rel? He who refuses makes a foe of Clytus.

Lys. I have his sword. Cly. But must not have his life. Lys. Must not? old Clylus ! Cly. Hair-brain'd boy, you must not. Heph. Lend me thy sword, thou father of the war, Thoa far-fam'd guard of Alexander's life : Curse on this weak, unexecuting arm ! Lend it, old Clytus, to redeem my fame; Lysimachus is brave, and else will scorn me. Lys. There, take thy sword; and since thou’rt bent

on death, Know 'tis thy glory that thou dy'st by me.

Cly. Slay thee, Lysimachus; Hephestion, hold; I bar you both; my body interpos'd,

Now let me see which of you dares to strike.
By Jove, you've stirr'd the old man !-that rash arm
That first advances, moves against the gods
And our great king, whose deputy I stand.

Lys, Some prop’rer time must terminate our quarrel.
Heph. And cure the bleeding wounds my honour

Cly. Some proprer time! 'tis false- -no bour is
No time should see a brave man do amiss. (proper;
Say what's the noble cause of all this madness?
What vast ambition blows the dang'rous fire?
Why a vain, smiling, whining, coz’ning woman.
By all my triumphs! in the heat of youth,
When towns were sack'd, and beauties prostrate lay,
When my blood boil'd, and nature work'd me high,
Clytus ne'er bow'd his body to such shame;
I knew 'em, and despis'd their cobweb arts.
The whole sex is not worth a soldier's thought.

Lys. Our cause of quarrel may to thee seern light; But know a less has set the world in arms.

Cly. Yes, Troy, they tell us, by a woman fell; Curse on the sex, they are the bane of virtue! Death! P'd rather this right arm were lost, Tban that the king should hear of your imprudenceWhat! on a day thus set apart for iriumph!

Lys. We were indeed to blame. Cly. The memorable day! When our hot master, whose impatient soul Outrides the sun, and sighs for other worlds To spread his conquests, and diffuse his glory; Now bids the trumpet for awhile be silent, And plays with monarchs, whom he us’d to drive; Shall we by broils awake him into rage, And rouse the lion, that bas ceas'd to roar? Lys. Clytus, thou’rt right-put ap thy sword, He

phestion: Had passion not eclips'd the light of reason, Untold we might this consequence have seen.

Heph. Why has not reason pow'r to conquer love? Why are we thus enslav’d?

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