The mild irresolution of her eyes.

Curious to mark how frequent they repose,

In brief eclipse and momentary close-

Ah! seest thou not an ambush'd Cupid there,

Too tim'rous of his charge, with jealous care

Veils and unveils those beams of heavenly light,

Too full, too fatal else, for mortal sight?

Nor yet, such pleasing vengeance fond to meet,

In pard'ning dimples hope a safe retreat.

What though her peaceful breast should ne'er allow

Subduing frowns to arm her altered brow,

By Love, I swear, and by his gentle wiles,

More fatal still the mercy of her smiles!

Thus lovely, thus adorn'd, possessing all

Of bright or fair that can to woman fall,

The height of vanity, might well be thought

Prerogative in her, and Nature's fault.

Yet gentle Amoret, in mind supreme

As well as charms, rejects the vainer theme;

And, half mistrustful of her beauty's store,

She barbs with wit those darts too keen before:-

Read in all knowledge that her sex should reach,

Though Greville, or the Muse, should deign to teach,

Fond to improve, nor timorous to discern

How far it is a woman's grace to learn;

In Millar's dialect she would not prove

Apollo's priestess, but Apollo's love,

Graced by those signs which truth delights to own,

The timid blush, and mild submitted tone:

Whate'er she says, though sense appear throughout,

Displays the tender hue of female doubt;

Deck'd with that charm, how lovely wit appears,

How graceful science, when that robe she wears!

Such too her talents, and her bent of mind,

As speak a sprightly heart by thought refined:

A taste for mirth, by contemplation school'd,

A turn for ridicule, by candour ruled,

A scorn of folly, which she tries to hide;

An awe of talent, which she owns with pride!

Peace, idle Muse! no more thy strain prolong,

But yield a theme, thy warmest praises wrong;

Just to her merit, though thou canst not raise

Thy feeble verse, behold th' acknowledged praise

Has spread conviction through the envious train,

And cast a fatal gloom o'er Scandal's reign!

And lo! each pallid hag, with blister'd tongue,

Mutters assent to all thy zeal has sung-

Owns all the colours just- the outline true:

Thee my inspirer, and my model- CREWE!

PROLOGUE

WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK -

A SCHOOL for Scandal! tell me, I beseech you,

Needs there a school this modish art to teach you?

No need of lessons now, the knowing think;

We might as well be taught to eat and drink.

Caused by a dearth of scandal, should the vapours

Distress our fair ones- let them read the papers;

Their powerful mixtures such disorders hit;

Crave what you will- there's quantum sufficit.

"Lord!" cries my Lady Wormwood (who loves tattle,

And puts much salt and pepper in her prattle),

Just risen at noon, all night at cards when threshing

Strong tea and scandal- "Bless me, how refreshing!

Give me the papers, Lisp- how bold and free! [Sips.

Last night Lord L. [Sips.] was caught with Lady D.

For aching heads what charming sal volatile! [Sips.

If Mrs. B. will still continue flirting,

We hope she'll DRAW, or we'll UNDRAW the curtain.

Fine satire, poz- in public all abuse it,

But, by ourselves [Sips.], our praise we can't refuse it.

Now, Lisp, read you- there, at that dash and star."

"Yes, ma'am- A certain Lord had best beware,

Who lives not twenty miles from Grosvenor Square;

For should he Lady W. find willing,

Wormwood is bitter"- "Oh! that's me! the villain!

Throw it behind the fire, and never more

Let that vile paper come within my door."

Thus at our friends we laugh, who feel the dart;

To reach our feelings, we ourselves must smart.

Is our young bard so young, to think that he

Can stop the full spring-tide of calumny?

Knows he the world so little, and its trade?

Alas! the devil's sooner raised than laid.

So strong, so swift, the monster there's no gagging:

Cut Scandal's head off, still the tongue is wagging.

Proud of your smiles once lavishly bestow'd,

Again our young Don Quixote takes the road;

To show his gratitude he draws his pen,

And seeks his hydra, Scandal, in his den.

For your applause all perils he would through-

He'll fight- that's write- a cavalliero true,

Till every drop of blood- that's ink- is spilt for you.

ACT I

SCENE I.- LADY SNEERWELL'S Dressing-room -

LADY SNEERWELL discovered at her toilet;

SNAKE drinking chocolate. -

LADY SNEER. The paragraphs, you say, Mr. Snake, were all inserted?

SNAKE. They were, madam; and, as I copied them myself in a feigned

hand, there can be no suspicion whence they came.

LADY SNEER. Did you circulate the report of Lady Brittle's intrigue

with Captain Boastall?

SNAKE. That's in as fine a train as your ladyship could wish. In the

common course of things, I think it must reach Mrs. Clackitt's

ears within four-and-twenty hours; and then, you know, the

business is as good as done.

LADY SNEER. Why, truly, Mrs. Clackitt has a very pretty talent, and

a great deal of industry.

SNAKE. True, madam, and has been tolerably successful in her day. To

my knowledge, she has been the cause of six matches being broken

off, and three sons being disinherited; of four forced

elopements, and as many close confinements; nine separate

maintenances, and two divorces. Nay, I have more than once

traced her causing a tete-a-tete in the "Town and Country

Magazine," when the parties, perhaps, had never seen each

other's face before in the course of their lives.