288 The Friendless Actress. [^SBtT. 



And where is that play-going colonel of thine, 



So famed for old wit, and so famed for new wine ; 



Who fills all the country with lisping young sinners— 



Who never choaks woman or man with his dinners — 



Whom none of the sex to the altar can bring— 



Who, less than a lord, is as wise as a king — 



Who will love, drink, and dun, and do all things but lend ?— 



In short, pretty Foote, have you lost your old friend ? 



And where is that exquisite saver of shillings. 

 With his tinder-box soul, and his cooings and billings ? 

 - The puppy ! to think that his pair of white eyes, 

 And his kid-covered fingers, could hold such a prize ! 

 Be banged to both coxcombs ! the deaf and the dumb — 

 The man of new wine, and the man of new rum ! 

 But brains and old women no lawyers can mend; 

 So you kicked Peagreen ofF, much too green for a friend ! 



Sweet actresses ! think of this fruit of your labours. 

 When you scamper from home after fiddles and tabors ! 

 See the beauty that kindled a blaze in each breast. 

 From the cit in the east, to the lord in the west— 

 Who has flirted in Juliets, in Imogens blubbered. 

 By Richards been jilted, by Jaffiers been slobbered— 

 Who has made Rogers blush, and Charles Kemble bend — 

 More shame for the world— at a loss for a friend ! 



You may play Desdemonas to ragged Othellos, 

 With neither their eyes nor their pantaloons fellows ; 

 You may walk en chemise with undone Mrs. Shore, 

 And rant till your'e hoarse at your length on the floor ; 

 Spoil dozens of dresses, break hundreds of laces. 

 And disfigure your own by all horrid stage faces ; 

 Or gaze upon ghosts, with your hair all on end ; — 

 And yet, for your pains, be in want of a friend ! 



You may smile from a throne on a courtful of knights ; 



You may walk in a churchyard in all kinds of frights ; 



You may play in a stable, or dance on a green — 



To-day be Pope Joan, and to-morrow a queen ; 



May ride on a moon-beam, and sing like a fairy ; 



May feed your own sheep, or be maid of a dairy ; 



May play all that England's worst blockheads have penned ; — 



And yet come to your exit in want of a friend ! 



Betwixt Bristol and Bath, at five shillings a night. 



You may fly, dance, and die with the speed of a sprite ; 



You may romp Little Pickles, Paul Prys, and Tom Thumbs ; 



Be the victim, in short, of all nonsense that comes ; 



Be sea-sick, and land-sick, and tired as a hound. 



And wish you were banished, or wish you were drowned ; 



And wish Diamond hanged — for he's hopeless to mend — 



And yet, like sweet Foote, be in want of a friend ! 



