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address

spoken by iss fontenelle on her benefit night, deceber 4th, 1793, at the theatre, dufries

still anxio to secure your partial favour,

and not less anxio, sure, this night, than ever,

a prologue, epilogue, or such atter,

&039;ould vap y bill, said i, if nothg better;

ught a poet, roosted near the skies,

told hi i ca to feast y curio eyes;

said, nothg like his works was ever prted;

and st, y prologue-bess slily hted

“a&039;a, let tell you,” h y an of rhys,

“i know your bent—these are no ughg tis:

can you—but, iss, i own i have y fears—

dislve pae, and sentintal tears;

with den sighs, and len-rounded sentence,

roe fro his sggish sbers, fell repentance;

pat venance as he takes his horrid stand,

wavg on high the detg brand,

callg the stors to bear hi o&039;er a guilty nd?”

i uld no ore—askance the creature eyeg,

“d&039;ye thk,” said i, “this face was ade for cryg?

i&039;ll ugh, that&039;s poz-nay ore, the world shall know it;

and , your servant! glooy aster poet!”

fir as y creed, sirs, &039;tis y fix&039;d belief,

that isery&039;s another word for grief:

i al thk— ay i be a bride!

that uch ughter, uch life enjoy&039;d

thou an of crazy care and ceaseless sigh,

still under bleak isfortune&039;s bstg eye;

doo&039;d to that rest task of an alive—

to ake three gueas do the work of five:

ugh isfortune&039;s face—the belda witch!

say, you&039;ll be rry, tho&039; you can&039;t be rich

thou other an of care, the wretch love,

who long with jiltish airs and arts hast strove;

who, as the boughs all teptgly project,

asur&039;st desperate thought—a rope—thy neck—

or, where the beetlg cliff o&039;erhangs the deep,

peerest to ditate the healg leap:

would&039;st thou be cur&039;d, thou silly, opg elf?