WRITTEN BY THE AUTHOR.

SPOKEN BY MR. MIDDLETON.

WHO wrote this play fome might be glad to know, And why a fecret---I'll attempt to fhew--

A certain youth, his name---no matter what,
Refolv'd to try if he could act or not,

And to be seen by all, by none be known,
Fixt on this project to deceive the town,
Cautious, or voice, or feature to expose,
Poor Mungo was the part our Novice chofe.
He locks his door, and smears his face with cork,
Looks in the glafs, laughs, and admires his works
He dances, fings, and all fo like a black,
An elbow chair, the hamper on his back;
Afks of the manager to take a trial,
And spouting decent, meets with no denial.
Up go the bills, the Padlock now the farce is,
So careful, even in black face he rehearses;
Curious to know who this fame stranger is,
We scan each tone and trace the footy phiz.
It's Mr. this---Lord that---conjecture, doubt,
Not one of us can make the younker out.
'The houfe is full, behind the culprit ftands,
Now fear appalls, now hope his breaft expands;
Peeps thro' the curtain, trembling cons his part,
The prompter's bell now ftrikes upon his heart.
Off plays the Overture; the piece begun
Up goes his hamper, Mungo marches on ;
He bows---confus'd, the loud applause he hears,
A generous public diffipates his fears,
Encouragement draws forth his latent powers,
And approbation falls in grateful fhowers.

Poor

Poor Mungo meeting with deferv'd fuccefs,
Now wipes his face, puts on his real dress,
Speaks in his natural voice, and Oh! furprize!
An old acquaintance ftands before our eyes.
Juft fo, the fearful author of our play,
Dreading the nettle, anxious for the Bay;
With timid prudence, has himself conceal'd,
And by fuccefs alone, can be reveal'd;
His fears exhibit fome small figns of grace,
Oh kindly bid him fhew his foolish face.
Yet if iil-natur'd folks should break his Tor,
I fear the bard will blubber like a boy;
But on this bafis ever will he trust,

A London audience is as kind as juft.

To please alone, he takes your two hours leifure, Wish to be pleas'd is half way meeting pleasure.

THE TOY.

ACT I

SCENE I.

A Room at the Toy Tavern.

Enter AIRCOURT and ift WAITER.

AIRCOURT.

ANY of our lads here at the Toy fince, Ned? ift Wait. Yes, your honor the crew of your pleasure barge dined with us laft Sunday.

Air. Is old Alibi, the Attorney, often down at Hampton Court?

ift Wait. Why, yes, Sir-he's now over at his house.

Air. Have you feen his ward, Mifs Sophia, lately? ift Wait. Ah, poor young Lady! he feldom lets her go out, but to church;-a charity for fome Gentleman, like your honor, to whip off to church with her.

Air. Why, Ned, I have fome notion ;-but to give you a fimile in your own way-the old black rafcal keeps her close as a cork in a bottle: which, to get out, I muftn't bolt inward, but turn fcrew round

VOL. II.

B