'Tis all opinion, at the best,

The Rambler this truth rests upon,
Open to all he stands confest,

But influenced he is by none.

A HINT TO PLAYERS.

JANUARY AND MAY;

OR, LORD ERSKINE AND MISS CHESTER versus CHARLEY CALCRAFT.

Sweet company-next time I do protest, Sir,

I'd walk to Dublin ere I'd ride to Chester.

DEAN SWIFT.

AN EPISTLE FROM C. CALCRAFT, ESQUIRE, TO OLD JOLLY, THE FOXHUNTER.

Dear Jolly I write-'tis because I am lazy;

The subject, no doubt, will most surely amaze ye;
You know how of late I have ta'en to the ladies,
And love (some say lust) my particular trade is.

I have had, and you know it, a trifling disaster
Since from Wareham I ventur'd a journey to Chester;
The road was so rough, the approaches so strong,

I got in the wrong box, and soon found all was wrong.
Unable to drive, at a loss to get forward,

I found my young filly quite restive, untoward,
I dismounted, sore gall'd, and remain as a jest here,
And never again will ride forward to Chester.

But what do you think-we who lead hearty lives,
And on Saturday night toast our "Sweethearts and Wives"
Can get a good lesson. The Haymarket finds hay,
Which Love can repose on by night or by day.
Lord Erskine, you know him, in love quite a fury,
He advocates lust as a Trial by Jury;

The latter has made him immortal in fame,
And the former will give him an amorous name:
It is true he sold birch-brooms, and to Gretna Green
Tript in petticoats-always a Chancellor's screen:

It is true that he swore his wife tript on the sly,
Then swore that all he swore was a d-d lie.
All this may be right, but friend Jolly 'tis wrong
His Lordship should weep at the tale of a song.
He wept with the audience, so says the Old Times;
('Twas kind thus to weep for Miss Chester's sweet crimes)
Ilis tears in the box flow'd like torrents of rain,
But Erskine recover'd himself once again ;
And to cure his disaster with love ever green,

Hobbled after the play to a farcical scene.

Ife enter'd the greenroom-his whitey-brown wig
Made each actress appear as a silent stuck pig,

Whilst his Lordship commenc'd (and they d-d the old bore)
A tale of youth's progress, told twenty times o'er.

On Chester he lavish'd his graces and airs;
(What a pity his head should be wanting of hairs);
He kiss'd her-salt tears o'er her bosom did flow,
For water is all he has left to bestow.

In a stream of delight the lady went frisking,
Blessing every old man, and old Chancellor Erskine.
Now Jolly, what means this? Has Chester forgotten
The battles of Venus we often have fought in ?
When I was so happy, though vanquish'd of course
(Want of personal prowess was paid by my purse);
And thus I am shelter'd from infamous shame,
Per example the feats of the great Angouleme.
It seems unto me that if money's expedient,
The person of Chester is always obedient;
I have rode three to one for a develish time,
And never again will stake odds on a prime.
In the name of all London I solemn protest here
For riding light weight the road's best unto Chester.

C. C. C.

BENDOW, Printer, 9, Castle Street, Leicester Square, London.