A pil to Tonny Ashton
Play-house Puld down.
OM Y Blood boiles, my Spirit's all in fire;
Passion's in pomp, nor can the Flames flly
To sie my dear my Native Countery gone,
And English dreg lay on the fun'ral stone,
The Dayes hath been, o may they yet Return!
And Heav'n raise burry'd Scotland, from her Urn,
when such vile vermine, puny Rogues as yow
Did to a Scot, with lowly Rev'rance bow,
But now, ah me ? we live in fatal Dayes,
Oppress'd with Taxes, Tonny, and his Playes,
The very Scum, and Scandel of the Isle,
Hector our Men, and our fair fex beguile;
Ann must our Nation, still be treated thus,
What's Commedy to yow, proves Tragedy to us
What can our peerage, and our Gentray say,
To see this Fine Epilogue of a Play.
Tell me ye Stroler ? black with every Crime,
Varlet below the dignity of rhime,
How many D--------Is, put yow on the plot?
Your Soul with anguish burn, your Carcass rot
Where ever Ladies, at their tea Converss,
They'l hate thy name, base Actor of the Farce,
Thy wretcheed name but ah that Words too Mild,
shall be a Bogle to the crying Child,
Theres Tony the Child Stealer cries the Nurse,
The Child will Tremble, and the Maids will Curse,
Child Stealing Rogue, ,who Drains us of our Money,
Wee'l Change that Word a Cheat, unto these Words
O had our Country, never seen thy Face !
Champion of Vice, and Strangers unto Grace,
You've brought Play -house and prison to Disgrace.
F I N I S.
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Date of publication:
1728 shelfmark: L.C.Fol.76(105)
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