Then saints and angels shall agree

In one eternal jubilee ;

All Heaven shall echo with their hymns divine, And God himself with pleasure see

The whole creation in a chorus join.

CHORUS.

Consecrate the place and day

To music and Cecilia:

Let no rough winds approach, nor dare
Invade the hallow'd bounds,
Nor rudely shake the tuneful air,

Nor spoil the fleeting sounds;
Nor mournful sigh nor groan be heard,

But gladness dwell on every tongue, Whilst all, with voice and strings prepared, the loud harmonious song,

Keep up

And imitate the bless'd abode

In joy, and harmony, and love.

THE PLAY-HOUSE.

WHERE gentle Thames through stately channels And England's proud metropolis divides; [glides, A lofty fabric does the sight invade,

And stretches o'er the waves a pompous shade; Whence sudden shouts the neighbourhood surprise, And thundering claps and dreadful hissings rise.

Here thrifty R--' hires monarchs by the day, And keeps his mercenary kings in pay;

With deep-mouth'd actors fills the vacant scenes, And rakes the stews for goddesses and queens.

Here the lewd punk, with crowns and sceptres
Teaches her eyes a more majestic cast; [grac'd,
And hungry monarchs, with a numerous train
Of suppliant slaves, like Sancho, starve and reign.
But enter in, my Muse; the stage survey,
And all its pomp and pageantry display;
Trap-doors and pit-falls, from the' unfaithful
And magic walls encompass it around: [ground,
On either side maim'd temples fill our eyes,
And, intermix'd with brothel-houses, rise;
Disjointed palaces in order stand,

And groves, obedient to the mover's hand,
O'ershade the stage, and flourish at command,
A stamp makes broken towns and trees entire :
So when Amphion struck the vocal lyre,
He saw the spacious circuit all around
With crowding woods and rising cities crown'd.
But next the tiring-room survey, and see
False titles, and promiscuous quality,

Confus'dly swarm, from heroes and from queens,
To those that swing in clouds and fill machines.
Their various characters they choose with art,
The frowning bully fits the tyrant's part:
Swoln cheeks and swaggering belly make an host;
Pale meagre looks and hollow-voice, a ghost!
From careful brows and heavy downcast eyes,
Dull cits and thick-skull'd aldermen arise;
The comic tone, inspired by Congreve, draws
At every word, loud laughter and applause :
The whining dame continues as before,
Her character unchanged, and acts a whore.
Above the rest, the prince with haughty stalks
Magnificent in purple buskins walks;
The royal robes his awful shoulders grace;
Profuse of spangles and of copper-lace;

Officious rascals to his mighty thigh,
Guiltless of blood, the' unpointed weapon tie:
Then the gay glittering diadem put on,

Ponderous with brass, and starr'd with Bristol
His royal consort next consults her glass, [stone.
And out of twenty boxes culls a face;
The whitening first her ghastly looks besmears,
All pale and wan the' unfinish'd form
appears;
Till on her cheeks the blushing purple glows,
And a false virgin-modesty bestows.
Her ruddy lips the deep vermilion dyes;
Length to her brows the pencil's art supplies,
And with black bending arches shades her eyes.
Well pleased at length, the picture she beholds,
And spots it o'er with artificial molds;
Her countenance complete, the beaux she warms
With looks not hers; and, spite of nature, charms.
Thus artfully their persons they disguise,
Till the last flourish bids the curtain rise.
The prince then enters on the stage in state;
Behind, a guard of candle-snuffers wait:
There, swoln with empire, terrible and fierce,
He shakes the dome, and tears his lungs with verse:
His subjects tremble; the submissive pit,
Wrapp'd up in silence and attention, sit:
Till, freed at length, he lays aside the weight
Of public business and affairs of state;
Forgets his pomp, dead to ambition's fires,
And to some peaceful brandy-shop retires;
Where, in full gills, his anxious thoughts he drowns,
And quaffs away the care that waits on crowns.
The princess next her painted charms displays,
Where every look the pencil's art betrays;
The callow squire at distance feeds his eyes,
And silently, for paint and washes, dies.