In vain above Three Hundred Days have pass’d Between this joyful Twelfth Day and the last, No Scene like this has chear’d your Hearts and Eyes, Where shall we find such bliss beneath the Skies? All that Sir _William_ and my Lady ask, Is, that when all have well perform’d their Task, With silent pace, without your Shoes you’ll tread And each go peaceably, tho’ drunk to bed. _Air._ Hail! merry Monarch, hail! Like this may ev’ry annual Cake You merrier still and merrier make, ’Till Cakes themselves shall fail. _Recitativo._ May you all long your Places keep; May no makebate amongst you creep, With Peace destroying Tale. A HYMN to the LAUREAT, Introduced in the _Whitehall_ and _London_ Evening Posts, _Jan. 9._ thus Sir, _By giving a Place in your Paper to the following Unfashionable Hymn you will very much oblige Sir_, _your Humble servt._ _Cibber_, accept these feeble lays From an unskilfull muse, Who tries with artless Note, to praise What _envious men_ abuse. Nature and Art in thee combine; Thy Comedies excell: With Wit and Sense replete, they shine, And read politely well. Who sees th’ inconstant[1] _Loveless_ range, But mourns _Amanda’s_ fate? Each female Heart approves his change, And pants for such a state. When Lady _Betty_[2] treads the stage, All _modish_ prudes submit: What _Foppington_ adorns our age, With the same Grace and Wit? In _Townley_[3] see the _modern Wife_! How full of Vice! how blam’d! How ruin’d by the _modern Life_! How valu’d, when reclaim’d! May empty Journals weekly rail; May all dull bards repine: If Wit unequall’d shou’d prevail, The _Laurel’s_ justly thine. [1] _Love’s last shift._ [2] _Careless Husband._ [3] _Provok’d Husband._ To the Author of the _Whitehall Evening Post_. _Jan. 12._ SIR, As you are an impartial Writer, I dare say you will do justice on both sides. The Verses on the _Laureat_, in yours of _Saturday_ last, have occasion’d the following reply; which I hope you will give a Place to in your next, to show that we can be quick as well as smart, upon a proper occasion. And as I think it the lowest mark of a scoundrel to make bold with any man’s character in print, without subscribing the true name of the author; I therefore desire, if the _Laureat_ is concern’d enough to ask the question, that you will tell him my name, and where I live, till then I beg leave to be known by no other than that of your servant, _Francis Fair-play_. _Ah! hah! Sir ~Coll.~ is that thy way,_ _Thy own dull Praise to write?_ _And would’st thou stand so sure a lay?_ _No! that’s too stale a bite._