[1] Author of 58 Tragedies, only one of which, to the disgrace of our Theatres, has yet appeared.
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OF THE SAME.
By MRS. GEORGE ANNE BELLAMY.
“I was sitting one evening (as indeed I was wont to do when out of cash) astride the ballustrade of Westminster-bridge, with my favourite little dog under my arm. I had that day parted with my diamond windmill.—Life was never very dear to me—but a thousand thoughts then rushed into my heart, to jump this world, and spring into eternity.—I determined that my faithful Pompey should bear me company.—I pressed him close, and actually stretched out, fully resolved to plunge into the stream; when, luckily (ought I to call it so?) that charming fellow (for such he then was), Sir Cecil WRAY, catching hold of Pompey’s tail, pulled him back, and with him pulled back me.—In a moment I found myself in a clean hackney-coach, drawn by grey horses, with a remarkable civil coachman, fainting in my Cecil’s arms; and though I then lost a little diamond pin, yet (contrary to what I hear has been asserted) I NEVER prosecuted that gallant Baronet; who, in less than a fortnight after, with his usual wit and genius, dispatched me the following extempore poem:
While you prepar’d, dear Anne, on Styx to sail—
Lo! one dog sav’d you by another’s tail.
To which, in little more than a month, I penned, and sent the following reply:
You pinch’d my dog, ’tis true, and check’d my sail—
But then my pin—ah, there you squeezed my tail.
Ninth volume of Mrs. George Anne Bellamy’s Apology,
now preparing for the press.
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