One nourished not, and t’other drew no blood: 
We now prescribe, like doctors in despair,
The diet your weak appetites can bear. 
Since hearty beef and mutton will not do,
Here’s julep-dance, ptisan of song and show: 
Give you strong sense, the liquor is too heady;
You’re come to farce,—­that’s asses milk,—­already. 
Some hopeful youths there are, of callow wit,
Who one day may be men, if heaven think fit;
Sound may serve such, ere they to sense are grown,
Like leading-strings, till they can walk alone.—­
But yet, to keep our friends in countenance, know,
The wise Italians first invented show;
Thence into France the noble pageant past: 
’Tis England’s credit to be cozened last. 
Freedom and zeal have choused you o’er and o’er; }
Pray give us leave to bubble you once more; }
You never were so cheaply fooled before:  }
We bring you change, to humour your disease;
Change for the worse has ever used to please: 
Then, ’tis the mode of France; without whose rules,
None must presume to set up here for fools. 
In France, the oldest man is always young,
Sees operas daily, learns the tunes so long,
Till foot, hand, head, keep time with every song: 
Each sings his part, echoing from pit and box,
With his hoarse voice, half harmony, half pox[1].
Le plus grand roi du monde is always ringing,
They show themselves good subjects by their singing: 
On that condition, set up every throat;
You whigs may sing, for you have changed your note. 
Cits and citesses, raise a joyful strain,
’Tis a good omen to begin a reign;
Voices may help your charter to restoring,
And get by singing, what you lost by roaring.

Footnote: 
1.  This practice continued at the opera of Paris in the time of Gay. 
   It could hardly have obtained any where else.

       “But, hark! the full orchestra strikes the strings,
     The hero struts, and the whole audience sings;
     My jarring ear harsh grating murmurs wound. 
     Hoarse and confused, like Babel’s mingled sound. 
     Hard chance had placed me near a noisy throat,
     That, in rough quavers, bellowed every note: 
     “Pray, Sir,” said I, “suspend awhile your song,
     The opera’s drowned, your lungs are wondrous strong;
     I wish to hear your Roland’s ranting strain,
     When he with rooted forests strews the plain.”—­
     “Monsieur assurement n’aime pas la musique.”
     Then turning round, he joined the ungrateful noise,
     And the loud chorus thundered with his voice.”
                         Epistle to the Right Hon. William Pulteney.

Names of the Persons, represented in the same
order as they appear first upon the stage.