Chapter VI: Prologue: To Zobeide,

A TRAGEDY; WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADDOCK, ESQ.

SPOKEN BY MR. QUICK, IN THE CHARACTER OF A SAILOR.

In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore The distant climate, and the savage shore; When wise astronomers to India steer, And quit for Venus many a brighter here; While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, Forsake the fair, and patiently—go simpling; Our bard into the general spirit enters, And fits his little frigate for adventures. With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden, He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading; Yet ere he lands he's order'd me before, To make an observation on the shore. Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast. Lord, what a sultry climate am I under! Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder: _Upper Gallery._ There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em— [_Pit._ Here trees of stately size—and billing turtles in 'em— [_Balconies._ Here ill-conditioned oranges abound— [_Stage._ And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground. [_Tasting them._ The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear: I heard a hissing—there are serpents here! O, there the people are—best keep my distance; Our Captain, gentle natives! craves assistance; Our ship's well-stored;—in yonder creek we've laid her, His Honour is no mercenary trader. This is his first adventure; lend him aid, And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, Equally fit for gallantry and war. What! no reply to promises so ample? I'd best step back—and order up a sample.

ELEGY.

ON THE DEATH OF A MAD DOG.

Good people all, of every sort,
Give ear unto my song,
And if you find it wondrous short—
It cannot hold you long.

In Islington there was a man
Of whom the world might say,
That still a godly race he ran—
Whene'er he went to pray.

A kind and gentle heart he had
To comfort friends and foes;
The naked every day he clad—
When he put on his clothes.

And in that town a dog was found,
As many dogs there be,
Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound,
And curs of low degree.

This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,
The dog, to gain some private ends,
Went mad, and bit the man!

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wondering neighbours ran,
And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;
And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied:
The man recover'd of the bite—
The dog it was that died.

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