Your breasts no more the fire of beauty warms,
But wicked wealth usurps the power of charms,
What pains to get the gaudy things you hate,
To swell in show, and be a wretch in state.
At plays you ogle, at the ring you how;
E'en churches are no sanctuaries now:
There golden idols all your vows receive,
She is no goddess that has nought to give.
Oh, may once more the happy age appear,
When words were artless, and the thoughts sincere;
When gold and grandeur were unenvy'd things,
And courts less coveted than groves and springs:
Love then shall only mourn when truth complains,
And constancy feel transport in its chains:
Sighs with success their own soft anguish tell,
And eyes shall utter what the lips conceal:
Virtue again to its bright station climb,
And beauty fear no enemy but time;
The fair shall listen to desert alone,
And every Lucia find a Cato's son.
C. Whittingham, Printer, Chiswick.
CORRECTLY GIVEN, FROM COPIES USED IN THE THEATRES,
THOMAS DIBDIN,
OF THE THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE.
Author of several Dramatic Pieces, &c.
Printed at the Chiswick Press,.
BY C. WHITTINGHAM;
FOR WHITTINGHAM AND ARLISS, PATERNOSTER
THE COUNT OF NARBONNE
Was the last dramatic production of Mr. Jephson, and is pronounced by able critics to be his best. Its first appearance was at Covent Garden Theatre in 1780; when its success was much heightened by the fine acting of Henderson, and the introduction of the present Mrs. S. Kemble, then Miss Satchell, whose youth, beauty, and talent, gave an irresistible interest to the character of Adelaide.
It will easily be discovered that this play is a close imitation of Lord Orford's celebrated ronance, the CASTLE OF OTRANTO.
OF all who strive to please the public ear,
Most bold is he who dares attempt it here:
Where four tribunals, a tremendous show,
Plain folk above, and finer folk below,
All sit to try an anxious author's cause,
Each by its own, and all by diff'rent laws.
This beauteous circle, friends to polish'd verse,
Admires soft sentiments in language terse;
While the stern pit all ornament disdains,
And loves deep pathos, and sublimer strains.
The middle order, free from critic pride,
Take genuine nature for their faithful guide;
At ears and eyes they drink the full delight,
And judge but as they feel of wrong and right:
While those above them, honest souls! delight in
Processions, bustle, trumpets, drums, and fighting.
Hard as it is, we think our play to-night
Has something fit for ev'ry appetite.
For tender souls are tender griefs prepar'd,
And scenes of direr woe for breasts more hard;
[To the Boxes. [To the Pit. [To the middle Gallery.
By interesting your passions, we must try
To bribe the heart while we defraud the eye;
And though no trumpets sound, nor drums will rattle,
You, friends, shall hear of a most desp'rate battle.
Thus provident for all, we trust you'll own, Our poet's zeal may for some faults atone. In this, at least, he hopes you'll all agree, To shield him from the critic's treachery; Who, with sly rules upon your judgment stealing, Would set your pride against your honest feeling; Would shame the gen'rous drops that swell your eyes, And teach you your own virtues to despise.
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