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My Lent'n Fridays, I cannot profane,
At Covent Garden, or at Drury Lane :
So sacred thus, no English jest there bides,
Yet sing of laughter, holding both his sides ;
Or sacred or profane, to please so pliant,
Now David's harp, then Polypheme the giant.
I'll hear wise Lords so mighty in debate,
Mourn the grey hairs of mighty northern Kate;
See noble Peers with fifts a porter drub,
And see a Peer that is n-a famous Scrub;
Gay coach, outside all gold, and paint, I'll find,
With groom in dirty boots, I'll see it lin'd,
While three fine gentlemen step up behind.
See ancient virgins weep for poor Jane Shore,
Yet turn the starving infant from their door;
Yet ’mongst small actions mixt, are noble deeds,
In fashions garden, flourish flowers and weeds;
Oh let me not in an unguarded hour,
E’er chuse the weed and fing away the flow'r ;
You know good manners or report belies you,
So with a Quaker's curtsey I'll surprise you.

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THE

WICKLOW MOUNTAINS.

ACT 1.

S C Ε Ν Ε Ι.

A Road.

Enter FRANKLIN and SERVANT.

FRANKLIN.

So, once again have I got up among the moun. tains of Wicklow; aye, yonder is the very cabin where I supped my bread and milk a little chubby-cheek'd yonker.-Ob, but I'm every hour to expect Mr. Donnybrook, by Sir Richard's advice, my guardian that is to be, and his charming daughter from Dublin.-William, remember you're not to drop my name here.

Serv. Never fear, Sir.

Frank. Well, return to the public-house where we stopt, open the portmanteau, and lay out my dress.

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