SUNDAY. A FRAGMENT.

HERVENIS, harping on the hackney'd text,
By disquisitions is so sore perplex'd,
He stammers, instantaneously is drawn
A bordered piece of inspiration lawn,
Which being thrice unto his nose apply'd,
Into his pineal gland the vapors glide;
And now again we hear the doctor roar
On subjects he dissected thrice before.
I own at church I very seldom pray,
For vicars, strangers to devotion, bray.
Sermons though flowing from the sacred lawn,
Are flimsy wires from reason's ingot drawn ;
And to confess the truth, another cause
My every prayer and adoration draws:
In all the glaring tinctures of the bow,
The ladies front me in celestial row;
(Tho' when black melancholy damps my joys,
I call them nature's trifles, airy toys;

Yet when the goddess Reason guides the strain,
I think them, what they are, a heavenly train ;)
The amorous rolling, the black sparkling eye,
The gentle hazle, and the optic sly;

The easy shape, the panting semi-globes,

The frankness which each latent charm disrobes;
The melting passions, and the sweet severe,
The easy amble, the majestic air ;

The tap'ring waste, the silver-mantled arms,
All is one vast variety of charms.

Say, who but sages stretch'd beyond their span,
Italian singers, or an unman'd man,

Can see elysium spread upon their brow,
And to a drowsy curate's sermon bow?

If (but 'tis seldom) no fair female face
Attracts my notice by some glowing grace,
Around the monuments I cast my eyes,
And see absurdities and nonsense rise.
Here rueful-visag'd angels seem to tell
With weeping eyes, a soul is gone to hell;
There a child's head supported by duck's wings,
With toothless mouth a hallelujah sings:

In fun'ral pile eternal marble burns,

And a good christian seems to sleep in urns.
A self-drawn curtain bids the reader see
An honourable Welchman's pedigree;
A rock of porph'ry darkens half the place,
And virtues blubber with no awkward grace;
Yet, strange to tell, in all the dreary gloom
That makes the sacred honors of the tomb,
No quarter'd coats above the bell appear,
No batter'd arms, or golden corsets there.

THE REVENGE,*

A BURLETTA;

Acted at Marylebone Gardens, 1770, with additional Songs.

I SWEAR by Styx, this usage is past bearing;
My lady Juno ranting, tearing, swearing!
Why, what the devil will my godship do,
If blows and thunder cannot tame a shrew ?

Among the MSS. of Chatterton in the British Museum, there is the first outline of this Burletta under the title of Amphitryon,' the dramatis persona of which are as follows:- Celestials, Jupiter, Mercury, Juno, Nox.- Mortals, Amphitryon, Sosia, Phocyon, Dorus, Alcmena, Phrygia. It differs in many instances from the printer's text. Chatterton is said to have received five guineas for The Revenge' from the Proprietor of Marylebone Gardens, when it was performed in July, 1770, nearly a year after his death. In Southey's Edition of his poems, the MS. is said to have been lost at the printing-office, but the present Editor has a distinct recollection of having observed a notice of its sale some six or seven years since, for the sum of ONE HUNDRED AND FIFTY POUNDS. Poor Chatterton!

Air.

Tho' the loud thunder rumbles,

Tho' storms rend the sky;
Yet louder she grumbles,
And swells the sharp cry.

Her jealousy teazing,
Disgusting her form:
Her music as pleasing
As pigs in a storm.
I fly her embraces,

To wenches more fair;
And leave her wry faces,

Cold sighs and despair.

Recitative.

And oh ye tedious minutes, steal away;
Come evening, close the folding doors of day;
Night, spread thy sable peticoat around,
And sow thy poppies on the slumb’ring ground;
Then raving into love, and drunk with charms,
I'll lose my Juno's tongue in Maia's arms.

Air.

Sighing,

Dying,

Lying,

Frying,

In the furnace of desire;

Creeping,

Sleeping,

Oh! how slow the hours retire!

When the busy heart is beating,
When the bosom's all on fire,
Oh! how welcome is the meeting!

Oh! how slow the hours retire !

Recitative.

But see my Fury comes; by Styx I tremble : I'll creep aside-'tis folly to dissemble.

Scene II.

JUNO, JUPITER.

JUNO.

Recitative.

See, see, my good man steals aside!
In spite of his thunder,

I make him knock under,

And own the superior right of a bride.

How happy the life

Of a governing wife,

Air.

How charming, how easy, the swift minutes pass; Let her do what she will,

The husband is still,

And but for his horns you would think him an ass. How happy the spouse

In his dignified brows;

How worthy with heroes and monarchs to class: Both above and below,

Experience will shew,

But take off the horns, and each hushand's an ass.