E AUTHOR BY AN UNKNOWN HAND, AND PROPOSED TO BE SPOKEN BY
MRS MOUNTFORD, DRESSED LIKE AN OFFICER[1].

Bright beauties, who in awful circle sit,
And you, grave synod of the dreadful pit,
And you the upper-tire of pop-gun wit,

Pray ease me of my wonder, if you may;
Is all this crowd barely to see the play;
Or is't the poet's execution-day?

His breath is in your hands I will presume,
But I advise you to defer his doom,
Till you have got a better in his room;

And don't maliciously combine together,
As if in spite and spleen you were come hither;
For he has kept the pen, tho' lost the feather[2].

And, on my honour, ladies, I avow,
This play was writ in charity to you;
For such a dearth of wit who ever knew?

Sure 'tis a judgment on this sinful nation,
For the abuse of so great dispensation;
And, therefore, I resolve to change vocation.

For want of petticoat, I've put on buff,
To try what may be got by lying rough:
How think you, sirs? is it not well enough?

Of bully-critics I a troop would lead;
But, one replied,--Thank you, there's no such need,
I at Groom-Porter's, sir, can safer bleed.

Another, who the name of danger loaths,
Vow'd he would go, and swore me forty oaths,
But that his horses were in body-clothes.

A third cried,--Damn my blood, I'll be content
To push my fortune, if the parliament
Would but recal claret from banishment.

A fourth (and I have done) made this excuse--
I'd draw my sword in Ireland, sir, to chuse;
Had not their women gouty legs, and wore no shoes.

Well, I may march, thought I, and fight, and trudge,
But, of these blades, the devil a man will budge;
They there would fight, e'en just as here they judge.

Here they will pay for leave to find a fault;
But, when their honour calls, they can't be bought;
Honour in danger, blood, and wounds is sought.

Lost virtue, whither fled? or where's thy dwelling
Who can reveal? at least, 'tis past my telling,
Unless thou art embarked for Inniskilling.

On carrion-tits those sparks denounce their rage,
In boot of wisp and Leinster frise engage;
What would you do in such an equipage[3]?

The siege of Derry does you gallants threaten;
Not out of errant shame of being beaten,
As fear of wanting meat, or being eaten.

Were wit like honour, to be won by fighting,
How few just judges would there be of writing!
Then