The poetical works of David Garrick, Esq. Now first collected into two volumes. With explanatory notes.: [pt.1]

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.

PROLOGUES and EPILOGUES.

I. EPILOGUE to * 1.1LETHE, or ESOP IN THE SHADES.

Spoken by Mrs. Clive and Mr. Raftor, in the Characters of Miss Lucy and Mr. Thomas† 1.2.

Thomas.

FArewel my cares; farewel domestick strife; How blest the husband! when reform'd the wife!

Lucy.

I'm not reform'd—

Tho.

Not reform'd, my dear!

Lucy.

No—

Tho.

No!

Lucy.

No! no! no! can't you hear?

Tho.

Then all my hopes are gone!

Lucy.

With all my heart; You may go too—I'm ready, sir, to part.

Tho.

Did you not promise, Lucy, to reform?

Lucy.

You promis'd too—and how did you perform? You well may drop your lip and change your saucy tone! Go, get you hence, you worthless drone!

Tho.

Pray follow, Lucy, do.

Lucy.

I'll follow straight, My pleasures—not you— When thou art gone, I'll ne'er on man rely; Next time, by golls, I'll taste before I buy: Contented now, the husband is retir'd; Like other wives, I'll stay, and be admir'd. And now, I'll chuse a lover to my goust, Irish and French I've try'd, but they'll not do, I must have British fare, and one of you. First, I'll beg leave to view the upper places— Ha! ha! they grin so, one can't distinguish faces. I'll pass the footmen; they're not worth my care; I married one—and lazy rogues they are! Next to the boxes let my eyes descend; I surely, there, shall find some one my friend— O lack! how fine they are! but we shall ne'er agree; They like themselves so well—they'll ne'er like me: Besides, of all things, I abhor a beau, For, when try'd, 'tis doubtful, whether man or no. Next, let me view my last resort—the Pit; Here's choice enough; the Merchant, Soldier, Cit, The surely Critic, and the threadbare Wit.

As for the Rakes, they are too common grown, For Men, who strive at all, are good at none: Nor will the Wit or surly Critic serve me; For, one would beat me; and the other starve me. The Merchant now and Soldier's left behind; To both I feel my heart somewhat inclin'd: Which shall I choose? Each has a noble soul! Which shall I have? I'll have 'em both, by goll. No doubt, you'll all approve my patriot passion; My heart is fix'd for Trade and Navigation: I hope you'll not refuse your gen'rous voice; Applaud me, Britons, and approve my choice.

II. EPILOGUE to the MOCK-DOCTOR* 1.3.

HOW happy chance may alter one's condition, Behold poor Gregory a rich physician! My axe is chang'd and dwindled to a pen, To trees once fatal, fatal now to men. No more shall woollen caps these looks disgrace, Of scanty bobs, full bottoms shall take place, Bespread my rump, and dignify my face. Ladies, survey me well behind, before, The Doctor now, plain Gregory no more. Declare your thoughts, are any of our tribe Better prepar'd to visit or prescribe? I've got my dress, have taken my degrees, Prepar'd at once to kill and take my fees. Ay, but says some, this Doctor scarce can read; Does he know when to blister, purge or bleed? Learning, 'tis true, like many more I want; But then, like many more, I prate and cant; For tho' my brethren may look wise and big, Their knowledge lies not in the head, but wig.

If this is granted, all may plainly see, That few in knowledge can compare with me.

(Stroaks his wig.

This night a female patient try'd my skill, And tho' I gave her neither slop nor pill, By other means I soon perform'd a cure, Miss could not talk—no common case I'm sure; Punch I prescrib'd the best specifick potion, To oil the tongue, and give that member motion; But soon as e'er I knew the maid's condition, I thought a pimp more proper than physician: In short, I brought the lovers face to face, The best prescription in a ticklish case; They married soon, and fell to bill and cooing, Which op'd her lips, and set her tongue a-going. Now, ladies, if you stand my friends, you're sure If love's your case, to find a speedy cure. I'm always yours, employ me as you please, Pimp or Physician, give me but my fees.

III. PROLOGUE to * 1.4PAMELA.

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

AS in the airy regions of romance, The advent'rous Knight sets out with shield and lance, Strait his disinterested valour flies To helpless Damsels, and to Beauty's cries; This only motive rising in his breast, The god-like plea—of innocence distress'd. Thus dares our Author Errant of to-night In Virtue's aid romantically fight; Sacred to Her, the champion pen he draws, Enough rewarded—to support her cause. To-night his honest labour means to prove, A low-born virtue worth a great man's love; An honest pride, where conscious honour glows; An artless innocence—whence truth still flows;

A sense proceeding but from nature's light, (For little knowledge serves us to be right) A merit greatly poor, that far outshines The glare of titles, or the wealth of mines. Such stedfast honesty should find success O'er the abandon'd authors of distress, O'er those who glory to betray a maid, Who welcome guilt, and make deceit a trade. Yet some there are less liable to blame, Who only want reflection to reclaim, Who bend unthinking to the Syren's voice, The reprobates of custom, not of choice; Who deaf to precept, plead example still, And think the mode indemnifies the ill. To such our Author offers this address, Not certain nor despairing of success; Amongst this cast of men he hopes to find Some converts—for the honour of mankind; On minds like these his morals may prevail, And who escap'd a Sermon, feel this Tale.

IV. EPILOGUE to the LYING VALET* 1.5.

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

THAT I'm a lying rogue, you all agree; And yet look round the world and you will see How many more my betters lye as fast as me. Against this vice we all are ever railing, And yet, so tempting is it, so prevailing, You'll find but few without this useful failing. Lady or Abigail, my Lord or Will, The lye goes round, and the ball's never still. My lies were harmless, told to shew my parts; And not like those when tongues belye their hearts. In all professions you will find this flaw; And in the greatest too, in physic and in law. The gouty serjeant cries, with formal pause, " Your plea is good, my friend, don't starve the cause." But when my Lord decrees for t'other side, Your costs of suit convince you—that he ly'd.

A Doctor comes, with formal wig and face; First feels your pulse, then thinks, and knows your case. " Your fever's slight, not dangerous, I assure you; " Keep warm, and repetatur baustus, sir, will cure you." Around the bed next day his friends are crying; The patient dies, the Doctor's paid for lying. The Poet, willing to secure the Pit, Gives out his play has humour, taste, and wit: The cause comes on, and, while the judges try, Each groan and catcall gives the bard the lye. Now let us ask, pray, what the ladies do? They too will fib a little, entre nous. " Lord! says the Prude, (her face behind her fan) " How can our sex have any joy in man? " As for my part, the best could ne'er deceive me, " And were the race extinct, 'twould never grieve me: " Their sight is odious! but their touch—O gad! " The thought of that's enough to drive one mad." Thus rails at man the squeamish Lady Dainty, Yet weds, at fifty-five, a rake of twenty. In short, a beau's intrigues, a lover's sighs, The courtier's promise, the rich widow's cries, And patriot's zeal, are seldom more than lies.

Sometimes you'll see a man belye his nation, Nor to his country shew the least relation. For instance now— A cleanly Dutchman, or a Frenchman grave, A sober German, or a Spaniard brave, An Englishman a coward or a slave. Mine, tho' a fibbing, was an honest art; I serv'd my master, play'd a faithful part: Rank me not, therefore, 'mongst the lying crew, For, tho' my tongue was false, my heart was true.

V. EPILOGUE to REGULUS* 1.6.

Spoken by Mrs. WOFFINGTON.

IF one could credit what these Poets tell us, These Greeks and Romans were surprizing fel∣lows. But when compar'd with heroes now-a-days, Who can believe one word our Author says?

To-night fam'd Regulus appear'd before ye, Brimfull of honour and his country's glory; So fraught with virtue and with patriot zeal, He laid down life to serve the public weal. Bless me! was ever man so wildly frantick! We have no patriots now are so romantick; We've no State Quixotes as they had of yore; Our Patriots huff, 'tis true, and rant and roar, And talk of this and that—but nothing more.

Their ladies too were form'd with strange in∣gredients; They lov'd their husbands, and were all obe∣dience:

And though their mates for many years would roam, The constant doves would stay till they come home.

Martia, if what they say can gain belief, For loss of husband almost dy'd with grief; And what is stranger still, they all agree That Regulus was turn'd of sixty-three. Would any modern lady break her heart, Because an aged spouse resolves to part? Would she to thwart his will be so uncivil? O no—the man might go to Carthage—or the devil. What mighty stuff compos'd these sons of free∣dom! The Classicks say (I'm told by those that read 'em) That they were mortals of such wond'rous merit, That e'en when old, they fought and liv'd with spirit. Romans at sixty-three, as I'm alive, Were better men than ours at thirty-five. In short, if all that's said and wrote be true, And they when old such mighty feats could do, O Lord! they play'd the devil sure at twenty-two!

Thus far with trifling jests to please the age, And to preserve the custom of the stage— And now let serious, nobler thoughts, impart The warmest wishes to each English heart;

May ev'ry Matron Marcia's truth approve, And ev'ry Maid like constant Clelia love! May ev'ry Decius find a faithful friend, And ev'ry Corvus meet the villain's end! May ev'ry Briton hold his Country dear, And Truth, not Party, ev'ry action steer! May Regulus's conduct point the way, And no false glitter lead our youths astray! May ev'ry virtue be transplanted home, And Britain boast the worth of ancient Rome!

VI. EPILOGUE to The ASTROLOGER* 1.7.

Spoken by Mrs. WOFFINGTON.

WELL, what's the sentence? What's our Au∣thor's fate? I fear his conj'ring scheme is out of date; For look but round 'mongst men of all condi∣tions, You'll find no conj'rers now but Politicians: Consulting stars is now quite out of fashion; Our wiser dames consult their inclination:

And as a sure defence against all ills, Are led by those unerring guides—their wills. No planet's aspect now controuls your birth, We are the stars alone preside on earth: I told our Author so—'twas true, he swore; The man is married—and could say no more.— Long have our senseless play-wrights, void of spirit, From Moliere's humour pilfer'd all their merit: Our Author scorn'd in foreign climes to roam, He thought some merit might be found at home. Upon the Patriot principle he stood, And, tho' his head may fail, his heart is good. But leaving him to mourn for scribbling crimes, I'll take his hint, and warn the present times.

A modish frenzy so corrupts the town, That nought but Alamode de France goes down: We all submit to this fantastic yoke, Like them we dress, we dance, we eat, we joke; From top to toe they change us at their will; All but our hearts—and those are British still. Rouze, rouze, for shame! This modish pest op∣pose! Nor meanly ape your vain insulting foes! To kill this fatal weed for ever toil, Nor let it e'er take root in British soil! Let low inglorious arts to France belong, The close deceit, false heart and double tongue!

Let us by noble, generous arts be known, By valour, wit, and honesty, our own! Produce your Worthies, Britain; and be taught, That none like Shakespeare writ, or Marlb'rough fought. By these to former heights your glories raise, Nor yield to France the Laurels or the Bays!

VII. PROLOGUE To the SUSPICIOUS HUSBAND* 1.8.

Spoken by Mr. RYAN.

WHILE other culprits brave it to the last, Nor beg for mercy 'till the judgment's past; Poets alone, as conscious of their crimes, Open their trials with imploring rhymes. Thus cram'd with flattery and low submission, Each trite dull Prologue is the bard's petition. A stale device to calm the critick's fury, And bribe at once the judges and the jury.

But what avail such poor repeated arts? The whimp'ring scribbler ne'er can touch your hearts: Nor ought an ill-tim'd pity to take place— Fast as they rise destroy th' increasing race: The vermin else will run the nation o'er— By saving one, you breed a million more.

Tho' disappointed Authors rail and rage, At fancy'd parties, and a senseless age, Yet still has justice triumph'd on the stage.

Thus speaks and thinks the Author of to-day, And saying this, has little more to say. He asks no friend his partial zeal to shew, Nor fears the groundless censures of a foe; He knows no friendship can protect the fool, Nor will an Audience be a party's tool. 'Tis inconsistent with a free-born sprit, To side with folly, or to injure merit. By your decision he must fall or stand, Nor, tho' he feels the lash, will blame the hand.

VIII. EPILOGUE to the same PLAY.

Spoken by Mrs. PRITCHARD.

THO' the young Smarts, I see, begin to sneer, And the old sinners cast a wicked leer: Be not alarm'd, ye Fair—you've nought to fear. No wanton hint, no loose ambiguous sense, Shall flatter vicious taste at your expence. Leaving for once those shameless arts in vogue, We give a Fable for the Epilogue.

An Ass there was, our Author bid me say, Who needs must write—he did—and wrote a Play. The parts were cast to various beasts and fowl: Their stage a barn—the Manager an Owl! The house was cramm'd at fix, with friends and foes; Rakes, Wits, and Criticks, Citizens, and Beaux. These characters appear'd in different shapes Of Tigers, Foxes, Horses, Bulls and Apes;

With others too, of lower rank and station:— A perfect abstract of the brute creation! Each, as he felt, mark'd out the Author's faults, And thus the Connoisseurs express'd their thoughts. The Critick-curs first snarl'd—the rules are broke! Time, Place, and Action, sacrific'd to joke! The Goats cry'd out, 'twas formal, dull, and chaste— Not writ for beasts of gallantry and taste! The Horned-Cattle were in piteous taking, At Fornication, Rapes, and Cuckold-making! The Tigers swore, he wanted fire and passion. The Apes condemn'd—because it was the fashion! The generous steeds allow him proper merit, Here mark'd his faults, and there approv'd his spirit: While brother bards bray'd forth with usual spleen, And, as they heard, exploded every scene. When Reynard's thoughts were ask'd, the shrugging sage, Fam'd for hypocrisy, and worn with age, Condemn'd the shameless licence of the stage. At which the Monkey skipp'd from box to box, And whisper'd round the judgment of the Fox, Abus'd the moderns, talk'd of Rome and Greece; Bilk'd every Box-keeper; and damn'd the piece.

Now, every Fable has a Moral to it: Be Churchman, Statesman, any thing—but Poet. In Law or Physick, quack in what you will; Cant and grimace conceal the want of skill. Secure in these his gravity may pass— But here no artifice can hide the Ass.

IX. EPILOGUE,* 1.9

Spoken by Mrs. WOFFINGTON, at the Opening of Drury-Lane Theatre, 1747.

SWEET doings truly! we are finely fobb'd! And at one stroke of all our pleasures robb'd! No beaux behind the scenes! 'tis innovation! Under the specious name of reformation! Public complaint, forsooth, is made a puff, Sense, order, decency, and such like stuff. But arguments like these are mere pretence, The beaux, 'tis known, ne'er give the least offence; Are men of chastest conduct, and amazing sense! Each actress now a lock'd-up nun must be, And priestly managers must keep the key. I know their selfish reasons; tho' they tell us, While smarts, and wits, and other pretty fellows, Murmur their passions to our flutt'ring hearts, The stage stands still, and we neglect our parts.

But how mistaken in this silly notion! We hear 'em talk without the least emotion; Just, as our tea, we sip each tender strain, Too weak to warm the heart, or reach the brain. If harmless, why are we debarr'd our rights? Damsels distress'd have ever found their knights. Shall we, the Dulcineas of the stage, In vain ask succour in this fighting age? Will you, Choice Spirits, who direct the town, Suffer such impositions to go down? Can it be thought this law will ever pass, While doors are only wood, and windows glass? Besides, our play-house guards are pamve men: Strike without fear; they must not strike again. Ev'n Fribble here, to draw his sword may ven∣ture, May curse the creters, beat his man and enter— The jealous Moor not roars in louder strains, Than all our Nymphs for loss of absent Swains. " We had been happy, tho' the House had fail'd, " Masters and all, had not this scheme pre∣vail'd. " For ever now farewell the plumed beaux, " Who make ambition—to consist in cloaths. " Farewel conquetry, and all Green-room joys, " Ear-thrilling whispers* 1.10, Deard's deluding toys,

" Soul-melting flatt'ry, which ev'n prudes can move, " Sighs—tears—and all the circumstance of love, " Farewell!— " But oh! ye dreadful criticks, whose rude throats " Can make both play'rs and masters change their notes, " 'Tis in your pow'r—you any lengths will run; " Help us; or else—our occupation's gone."

X. EPILOGUE to the FOUNDLING* 1.11.

Spoken by Mrs. CIBBER.

I KNOW you all expect, from seeing me, An Epilogue, of strictest purity; Some formal lecture, spoke with prudish face, To shew our present joking, giggling race, True joy consists in—gravity and grace! But why am I for ever made the tool Of every squeamish, moralizing fool? Condemn'd to sorrow all my life, must I Ne'er make you laugh, because I make you cry? Madam (say they) your face denotes your heart, 'Tis your's to melt us in the mournful part. So from the looks, our hearts they prudish deem! Alas, poor souls!—we are not what we seem! Tho' prudence oft' our inclination smothers, We grave ones love a joke—as well as others. From such dull stuff, what profit can you reap? You cry—'tis very fine!—

(yawns)

and fall asleep.

••appy that bard, blest with uncommon art, Whose wit can chear, and not corrupt the heart! Happy that Play'r, whose skill can chase the spleen, And leave no worse inhabitant within. 'Mongst friends, our Author is a modest man, But wicked wits will cavil at his plan. Damn it (says one) this stuff will never pass, The Girl wants Nature, and the Rake's an ass. Had I, like Belmont, heard a damsel's cries, I would have pink'd her keeper, seiz'd the prize. Whipt to a coach, not valu'd tears a fardin, But drove away like smoke—to Covent-Garden; There to some house convenient would have car∣ry'd her, And then—dear soul!—the devil should have marry'd her. But this our Author thought too hard upon her, Besides, his spark, forsooth, must have some honour! * 1.12 The fool's a Fabulist!—and deals in fiction, Or he had giv'n him vice—without restriction. Of fable, all his characters partake, Sir Charles is virtuous—and for virtue's sake; Nor vain nor blust'ring is the Soldier writ, His Rake has conscience, modesty, and wit. The Ladies too!—how oddly they appear! His Prude is chaste, and his Coquet sincere:

In short, so strange a group ne'er trod the stage, At once to please, and satirize the age! For you, ye fair, his muse has chiefly sung, 'Tis you have touch'd his heart, and tun'd his tongue. The sex's champion, let the sex defend; A soothing Poet is a charming friend: Your favours here bestow'd, will meet reward, So as you love dear flatt'ry—save your Bard.

XI. OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK at the Opening of Drury-Lane Theatre, 8 Sept. 1750.

AS Heroes, States, and Kingdoms rise and sall, So (with the mighty to compare the small) Thro' int'rest, whim, or if you please thro' fate, We feel commotions in our mimic state: The sock and buskin fly from stage to stage; A year's alliance is with us—an age! And where's the wonder? All surprize must cease When we reflect how int'rest or caprice Makes real Kings break articles of peace.

Strengthen'd by new allies, our foes prepare; Cry havock! and let slip the dogs of war. To shake our souls, the * 1.13papers of the day Drew forth the adverse pow'r in dread array; A pow'r might strike the boldest with dismay.

Yet fearless still we take the field with spirit, Arm'd cap-a-pé in self-sufficient merit. Our ladies too, with souls and tongues untam'd, Fire up like Britons when the battle's nam'd: Each female heart pants for the glorious strife, From Hamlet's * 1.14 mother, to the Cobler's wife.† 1.15 Some few there are, whom paltry passions guide, Desert each day, and sly from side to side: Others, like Swiss, love fighting as their trade, For beat or beating—they must all be paid.

Sacred to SHAKESPEARE was this spot de∣sign'd, To pierce the heart, and humanize the mind. But if an empty House, the Actor's curse, Shews us our Lears and Hamlets lose their force; Unwilling we must change the nobler scene, And in our turn present you Harlequin; Quit Poets, and set Carpenters to work, Shew gaudy scenes, or mount the vaulting Turk: For tho' we Actors, one and all, agree Boldly to struggle for our—vanity, If want comes on, importance must retreat; Our first great ruling passion is—to eat. To keep the field, all methods we'll pursue; The conflict glorious! for we fight for you: And should we fail to gain the wish'd applause, At least we're vanquish'd in a noble cause.

XII. An OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE,

Spoken by Mrs. CLIVE, at Drury-Lane Theatre, October, 1750.

(Enters hastily, as if speaking to one who would oppose her.)

I'LL do't, by heav'n I will!—pray get you gone: What! all these janglings, and I not make one! Was ever woman offer'd so much wrong? These creatures here would have me hold my tongue! I'm so provok'd!—I hope you will excuse me: I must be heard—and beg you won't refuse me. While our mock heroes, not so wise as rash, With indignation hold the vengeful lash, And at each other throw alternate squibs, Compos'd of little wit—and some few fibs, I, Catherine Clive, come here t' attack 'em all, And aim alike at little* 1.16, and at tall† 1.17. But first, ere with the buskin chiefs I brave it, A story is at hand, and you shall have it.

Once on a time, two boys were throwing dirt; A gentle youth was one, and one was somewhat pert: Each to his master with his tale retreated, Who gravely heard their diff'rent parts re∣peated, How Tom was rude, and Jack, poor lad, ill∣treated. The master paus'd—to be unjust was loth; Call'd for a rod, and fairly whipt them both. In the same master's place, lo! here I stand, And for each culprit hold the lash in hand. First for our own—oh, 'tis a pretty youth! But out of fifty lies I'll sift some truth. 'Tis true, he's of a choleric disposition, And fiery parts make up his composition. How have I seen him rave when things mis∣carried! Indeed he's grown much tamer since he married. If he succeeds, what joys his fancy strike! And then he GETS—to which he's no dislike. Faults he has many—but I know no crimes; Yes, he has one—he contradicts sometimes:. And when he falls into his frantick fit, He blusters so, he makes e'en ME submit. So much for him—The other youth comes next, Who shews by what he says, poor soul, he's vext. He tells you tales how cruelly THIS treats us, To make you think the little monster beats us.

Would I have whin'd in melancholy phrase, * 1.18 How bouncing Bajazet retreats from Bayes? I, who am woman, would have stood the fray, At least not snivell'd thus, and run away! Should any Manager lift arm at me, I have a tyrant arm as well as he!— In fact, there has some little bouncing been, But who the bouncer was, enquire within. No matter who I now proclaim a peace, And hope henceforth hostilities will cease: No more shall either rack his brains to tease ye, But let the contest be—who most shall please ye.

XIII. EPILOGUE to GIL BLAS* 1.19.

Spoken by Mrs. PRITCHARD.

AS the success of Authors is uncertain, Till all is over, and down drops the curtain; Poets are puzzled in our dangerous times, How to address you in their after-rhymes. If they implore and beg with abject mind, Their meaness rather makes you sick than kind. And if they bounce and huff it to the town. Then you are up—and take the bullies down. Of beaux and politicks and such like stuff, And e'en of tawdry too, you've had enough— On all degrees from courtier to the cit, Such stale dull jokes have been so often writ, That nothing can be new—but decency and wit. Thus far our bard—The rest is mine to say, I am his friend, so, will attack his play.

How could his thoughtless head with any truth (If Spanish Dons are like our English youth) Make his wild rake so sink from upper life, To quit his mistress for a lawful wife! The Author might have married him—but then He should have had his mistress back again. This is the scheme our English Dons pursue, Tho' one's too much, there's taste in having two. As for the lady, I dislike her plan, With you, I'm sure, she had not pass'd for man. Had she with our young bloods contriv'd this freak, She had been blown and ruin'd in a week. And if of virtue they could not have trick'd her, They'd damn'd her for a fool—perhaps have kick'd her. But jest apart—for all our bard has wrote, Our most alluring bait's the petticoat. Before that magick shrine the proudest fall, 'Tis that enchanting circle draws in all. Let fools say what they will, experience teaches, 'Tis best to marry first—then wear the breeches.

XIV. PROLOGUE to TASTE:* 1.20

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK, in the Character of an Auctioneer.

BEFORE this Court I Peter Puff appear, A Briton born, and bred an Auctioneer; Who for myself, and eke a hundred others, My useful, honest, learned, bawling brothers, With much humility and fear implore ye, To lay our present desp'rate case before ye.—

'Tis said this night a certain wag intends To laugh at us, our calling, and our friends: If lords and ladies, and such dainty folks, Are cur'd of auction-hunting by his jokes; Should this odd doctrine spread throughout the land, Before you buy, be sure to understand,

Oh think on us what various ills will flow, When great ones only purchase—what they know. Why laugh at TASTE? It is a harmless fashion, And quite subdues each detrimental passion; The fair one's hearts will ne'er incline to man, While thus they rage for—china and japan. The Virtuoso too, and Connoisseur, Are ever decent, delicate, and pure; The smallest hair their looser thoughts might hold, Just warm when single—and when married cold; Their blood at sight of beauty gently flows; Their Venus must be old, and want a nose! No am'rous passion with deep knowledge thrives; 'Tis the complaint indeed of all our wives! 'Tis said Virtû to such a height is grown, All artists are encourag'd—but our own. Be not deceiv'd, I here declare on oath, I never yet sold goods of foreign growth: Ne'er sent commissions out to Greece or Rome; My best antiquities are made at home. I've Romans, Greeks, Italians near at hand, True Britons all—and living in the Strand. I ne'er for trinkets rack my pericranium, They furnish out my room from Herculaneum.

But hush— Should it be known that English are employ'd, Our manufacture is at once destroy'd;

No matter what our countrymen deserve, They'll thrive as antients, but as moderns starve. If we should fall, to you it will be owing; Farewel to Arts—they're going, going, going; The fatal hammer's in your hand, oh Town! Then set Us up—and knock the POET down.

No. XV. PROLOGUE to EUGENIA* 1.21.

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

TO damn or not—that is the question now, Whether 'tis best to deck the Poet's brow; With hands and hearts unanimous befriend him, Or take up arms, and by opposing end him? But hold, before you give the fatal word, I beg that I, as counsel, may be heard; And what few counsel ever yet have done, I'll take no bribe, and yet plead pro and con. First for the town and us—I see some danger, Should you too kindly treat this reverend stran∣ger; If such good folks, these wits of graver sort, Should here usurp a right to spoil your sport; And curb our stage so wanton, bold and free! To the strict limits of their purity; Should dare in theatres reform abuses, And turn our actresses to pious uses! Farewel the joyous spirit-stirring scene! Farewel the—the—you guess the thing I mean!

If this wise scheme, so sober and so new, Should pass with us, would it go down with you? Should we so often see your well-known faces? Or would the ladies send so fast for places;—

Now for the Author—His poetick brat Throughout the town occasions various chat; What say the snarlers?—'tis a French transla∣tion; That we deny, but plead an imitation* 1.22; Such as we hope will please a free-born nation. His muse, tho' much too grave to dress or dance, For some materials took a trip to France; She owns the debt, nor thinks she shall appear, Like our spruce youths, the worse for going there: Tho' she has dealt before in sportive song, This is her first stage-flight, and 'twould be wrong, Nay, poaching too, to kill your bards too young. Poets, like foxes, make best sport when old, The chace is good, when both are hard and bold; Do you, like other sportsmen then, take heed, If you destroy the whelps, you spoil the breed; Let him write on, acquire some little fame, Then hunt him, criticks, he'll be noble game.

XVI. PROLOGUE to the GAMESTER* 1.23.

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

LIKE fam'd La Mancha's knight, who, launce in hand, Mounted his steed to free th' enchanted land, Our Quixote bard sets forth a monster-taming, Arm'd at all points, to fight that hydra—gaming. Aloft on Pegasus he waves his pen, And hurls defiance at the caitiff's den. The first on fancy'd giants spent his rage, But this has more than windmills to engage. He combats passion, rooted in the soul, Whose powers at once delight ye and controul; Whose magic bondage each lost slave enjoys, Nor wishes freedom, tho' the spell destroys. To save our land from this magician's charms, And rescue maids and matrons from his arms, Our knight poetic comes—And oh, ye fair! This black enchanter's wicked arts beware! His subtle poison dims the brightest eyes, And at his touch, each grace and beauty dies.

Love, gentleness and joy, to rage give way, And the soft dove becomes a bird of prey. May this our bold advent'rer break the spell, And drive the daemon to his native hell.

Ye slaves of passion, and ye dupes of France, Wake all your pow'rs from this destructive trance! Shake off the shackles of this tyrant vice: Hear other calls than those of cards and dice! Be learn'd in nobler arts, than arts of play, And other debts than those of honour pay. No longer live insensible to shame, Lost to your country, families and same.

Could our romantic muse this work atchieve, Would there one honest heart in Britain grieve? T•…•…' attempt, tho' wild, would not in vain be made, If ev'ry honest hand would lend its aid.

XVII. PROLOGUE,

Spoken by Mr. FOOTE, at Drury-lane Theatre, October 1753.

THE many various objects that amuse These busy curious times, by way of news, Are plays, elections, murders, lott'ries, Jews; All these compounded fly throughout the na∣tion, And set the whole in one great fermentation! True British hearts the same high spirit shew, Be they to damn a farce, or sight a foe. One day for liberty the Briton fires, The next he flames—for Canning or for Squires* 1.24. In like extremes your laughing humour flows; Have ye not roar'd from Pit to Upper Rows, And all the jest was, what?—a fidler's nose† 1.25.

Pursue your mirth; each night the jest grows stronger, For as you fret the man, his nose looks longer. Among the trifles which occasion prate, Ev'n I, sometimes, am matter of debate. Whene'er my faults or follies are the question, Each draws his wit out, and begins dissection. Sir Peter Primrose, smirking o'er his tea, Sinks from himself, and politics, to me. Papers, boy!—here, Sir!—Tam, what news to∣day? Foote, sir, is advertis'd—what, run away? No, sir, he acts this week at Drury-lane; How's that, (cries Feeble Grub) Foote come again? I thought this fool had done his devil's dance; Was not he hang'd some months ago in France? Upstarts Machone, and thus the room harangu'd; 'Tis true, his friends gave out that he was hang'd, But to be sure 'twas all a hum, becase I have seen him since—and after such disgrace No gentleman would dare to shew his face. To him reply'd a sneering bonny Scot, Yew raisin reet, my frynd, haunged he was not, But neether you nor I caun tell how soon he'll gaung to pot. Thus each, as fancy drives, his wit displays; Such is the tax each son of folly pays.

On this, my scheme, they many names bestow, 'Tis fame, 'tis pride, nay werse—the pocket's low. I own I've pride, ambition, vanity, And what is still more strange, perhaps you'll see, Tho' not so great a portion of it—modesty. For you I'll curb each self-sufficient thought, And kiss the rod whene'er you point the fault. Many my passions are, tho' one my view, They all concenter—in the pleasing you.

XVIII. PROLOGUE to VIRGINIA* 1.26.

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

PROLOGUES, like compliments, are loss of time, 'Tis penning bows, and making legs in rhime; 'Tis cringing at the door with simple grin, When we should shew the company within— So thinks our bard, who stiff in classic knowledge, Preserves too much the buckram of the college— Lord, sir, said I, an audience must be woo'd, And, lady-like, with flattery pursu'd, They nauseate fellows that are blunt and rude. Authors should learn to dance as well as write. Dance at my time of life! Zounds what a sight! Grown Gentlemen ('tis advertis'd) do learn by night. Your modern Prologues, and such whims as these, The Greeks ne'er knew—turn, turn to So∣phocles;

I read no Greek, sir—when I was at school, Terence had prologues—Terence was no fool: He had, but why? (reply'd the bard in rage) Exotic monsters had possess'd the stage, But we have none in this enlighten'd age! Your Btitons now, from gallery to pit, Can relish nought but sterling, attic wit: Here take my play, I meant it for instruction, If rhymes are wanting for its introduction, E'en let that nonsense be your own production. Off went the poet—it is now expedient, I speak as manager, and your obedient. I, as your cat'rer, would provide you dishes, Dress'd to your palate, season'd to your wishes— Say but you're tir'd with boil'd and roast at home, We too can send for nicities from Rome: To please your tastes will spare nor pains nor money, Discard sirloins, and get you maccaroni. Whate'er new gusto for a time may reign, Shakespeare and beef must have their turn again.

If novelties can please, to-night we've two— Tho' English both, yet spare 'em as they're new. To one at least your usual favour shew— A female asks it—can a man say no?— Should you indulge our * 1.27 novice yet unseen, And crown her with your hands a tragic queen;

Should you with smiles a confidence impart, To calm those fears which speak a feeling heart; Assist each struggle of ingenuous shame Which curbs a genius in its road to fame; With one wish more, her whole ambition ends; She hopes some merit, to deserve such friends.

XIX. EPILOGUE to the same PLAY.

Spoken by Mrs. CIBBER.

THE poet's pen can, like a conjurer's wand, Or kill, or raise his heroine at command: And I shall, spirit-like, before I sink, Not courteously enquire, but tell you what you think. From top to bottom, I shall make you stare, By hitting all your judgments to a hair!

And first with you above, I shall begin—

(Upper Gallery.

Good-natur'd souls, they're ready all to grin. Tho' twelve-pence seat you there, so near the cieling, The folks below can't boast a better feeling. No high-bred prudery in your region lurks, You boldly laugh and cry, as nature works.

Says John to Tom—(ay, there they sit together, As honest Britons as e'er trod on leather) " 'Tween you and I, my friend, 'tis very vild, " That old Vergenus should have stuck his child:

" I would have hang'd him for't, had I been ruler, " And duck'd that Apus too, by way of cooler." Some maiden dames, who hold the middle floor,

(Middle-gallery.

And fly from naughty man at forty-four; With turn'd up eyes, applaud Virginia's 'scape, And vow they'd do the same to shun a rape; So very chaste, they live in constant fears, And apprehension strengthens with their years.

Ye bucks, who from the pit your terrors send, Yet love distressed damsels to befriend; You think this tragic joke too far was carried; And wish, to set all right, the maid had married: You'd rather see (if so the fates had will'd) Ten wives be kind, than one poor virgin kill'd.

May I approach unto the boxes, pray— And there search out a judgment on the play? In vain, alas! I should attempt to find it— Fine ladies see a play, but never mind it— 'Tis vulgar to be mov'd by acted passion, Or form opinions, 'till they're fix'd by fashion.

Our author hopes, this fickle goddess, mode, With us will make, at least, nine days abode; To present pleasure he contracts his view, And leaves his future fame to time and you.

XX. PROLOGUE to BARBAROSSA.* 1.28

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK in the Character of a Country Boy.

Measter! Measter! IS not my measter here among ye, pray? Nay, speak; my measter wrote this fine new play. The actor-folks are making such a clatter! They want the pro-log. I know nought o' th' matter! He must be there among you; look about; A weezen, pale-fac'd man; do, find him out. Pray, measter, come, or all will fall to sheame: Call mister—hold—I must not tell his name.

Law! what a crowd is here! what noise and pother! Fine lads and lasses! one o' top o' t'other.

(Pointing to the rows of Pit and Gallery.

I could for ever here with wonder geaze! I ne'er saw church so full in all my days!

Your servunt, Surs!—what do you laugh for? Eh! You donna take me sure for one o' th' play? You should not flout an honest country-lad; You think me fool, and I think you half mad: You're all as strange as I, and stranger too, And if you laugh at me, I'll laugh at you.

(Laughing.

I donna like your London tricks, not I; And since you've rais'd my blood, I'll tell you why: And if you wull, since now I am before ye, For want of pro-log, I'll relate my story.

I came from country here to try my fate, And get a place among the rich and great; But troth I'm sick o' th' journey I ha' ta'en, I like it not—wou'd I were whoame again!

First, in the city I took up my station, And got a place with one of th' corporation, A round big man—he eat a plaguy deal, Zooks! he'd have beat five ploomen at a meal! But long with him I could not make abode, For, could you think't? he eat a great sea-toad! It came from Indies; 'twas as big as me; He call'd it belly-patch and capapee. Law! how I star'd! I thought—who knows but I, For want of monsters, may be made a pye; Rather than tarry here for bribe or gain, I'll back to whoame, and country fare again.

I left toad-eater; then I sarv'd a lord, And there they promis'd! but ne'er kept their word. While 'mong the great, this geaming work the trade is, They mind no more their servants, than their ladies.

A lady next, who lik'd a smart young lad, Hir'd me forthwith—but troth, I thought her mad. She turn'd the world top down, as I may say, She chang'd the day to neet, the neet to day! I was so sheam'd with all her freakish ways, She wore her gear so short, so low her stays, Fine folks shew all for nothing now-a-days!

Now I'm the poet's man—I find with wits, There's nothing sartain—nay, we eat by fits. Our meals, indeed, are slender—what of that? There are but three on's—measter, I, and cat. Did you but see us all, as I'm a sinner, You'd scarcely say which of the three was thinner.

My wages all depend on this night's piece, But should you find that all our swans are geese! E'feck I'll trust no more to measter's brain, But pack up all, and whistle whoame again.

XXI. EPILOGUE to the same PLAY,

Spoken by Mr. WOODWARD in the Character of a Fine Gentleman.

Enter—speaking without.

'PSHAW! damn your epilogue, and hold your tongue— Shall we of rank be told what's right and wrong? Had you ten epilogues, you should not speak 'em, Tho' he had writ 'em all in linguum Grecum. I'll do't, by all the gods! (you must excuse me) Tho' author, actors, audience, all abuse me!

(To the audience.

Behold a gentleman!—and that's enough! Laugh if you please—I'll take a pinch of snuff! I come to tell you (let it not surprise you) That I'm a wit—and worthy to advise you. How could you suffer that same country booby, That pro-logue speaking savage, that great looby,

To talk his nonsense?—give me leave to say, 'Twas low, damn'd low!—but save the fellow's play: Let the poor devil eat; allow him that, And give a meal to measter, mon, and cat; But why attack the fashions? senseless rogue! We have no joys but what result from vogue: The mode should all controll—nay, ev'ry passion, Sense, appetite, and all, give way to fashion: I hate as much as he, a turtle feast, But 'till the present turtle-rage has ceas'd, I'd ride a hundred miles to make myself a beast. I have no ears; yet op'ras I adore! Always prepar'd to die—to sleep—no more! The ladies too were carp'd at, and their dress, He wants 'em all ruff'd up like good queen Bess! They are, forsooth, too much expos'd and free: Were more expos'd, no ill effects I see, For more or less, 'tis all the same to me. Poor gaming too, was maul'd among the rest, That precious cordial to a high-life breast! When thoughts arise, I always game or drink, An English gentleman should never think— The reason's plain, which ev'ry soul might hit on— What trims a Frenchman, oversets a Briton. In us reflection breeds a sober sadness, Which always ends in politics or madness: I therefore now propose, by your command, That tragedies no more shall cloud this land;

Send o'er your Shakespeares to the sons of France, Let them grow grave—let us begin to dance! Banish your gloomy scenes to foreign climes, Reserve alone to bless these golden times, A Farce or two—and Woodward's panto∣mimes.

XXII. PROLOGUE to the FAIRIES* 1.29.

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

Enter—interrupting the Band of Musick.

A MOMENT stop your tuneful fingers, pray, While here, as usual, I my duty pay.

(To the audience.

Don't frown, my friends,

(to the band)

you soon shall melt again; But, if not there, is selt each dying strain, Poor I shall speak, and you will scrape in vain. To see me now, you think the strangest thing! For, like friend Benedict, I cannot sing: Yet in this prologue, cry but you Coraggio! I'll speak you both a jig and an adagio.

A Persian king, as Persian tales relate, Oft' went disguis'd, to hear the people prate; So, curious I, sometimes steal forth incog. To hear what critics croak of me—king Log. Three nights ago, I heard a tête à tête Which six'd, at once, our English Operas' sate:

One was a youth born here, but flush from Rome; The other born abroad, but here his home; And first the English foreigner began, Who thus address'd the foreign Englishman: An English Opera! 'tis not to be borne; I, both my country, and their music scorn, Oh, damn their Ally Croakers, and their Early Horn. Signor si—bat sons—wors recitativo: Il tutto, è bestiale e cativo, This said, I made my exit, full of terrors! And now ask mercy, for the following errors:

Excuse us first, for foolishly supposing; * 1.30 Your countryman could please you in com∣posing; An Op'ra too—play'd by an English band, Wrote in a language which you understand— I dare not say, WHO wrote it—I could tell ye, To soften matters—Signor Shakespearelli: This aukward drama (I confess th' offence) Is guilty too, of poetry and sense, And then the price we take—you'll all abuse it, So low, so unlike Op'ras—but excuse it, We'll mend that fault, whenever you shall chuse it. Our last mischance, and worse than all the rest, Which turns the whole performance to a jest, OUR singers are all well, and all will do their best.

But why should this rash fool, this Englishman, Attempt an op'ra?—'tis the strangest plan!

Struck with the wonders of his master's art* 1.31, Whose sacred dramas shake and melt the heart, Whose heav'n-born strains the coldest breast in∣spire, Whose chorus-thunder sets the soul on fire! Inflam'd, astonish'd, at those magic airs, When Sampson groans, and frantic Saul despairs, The pupil wrote—his work is now before ye, And waits your stamp of infamy, or glory! Yet, ere his errors and his faults are known, He says, those faults, those errors, are his own; If through the clouds appear some glimm'ring rays, They're sparks he caught from his great master's blaze!

XXIII. * 1.32PROLOGUE to BRITANNIA† 1.33,

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK, in the Character of a Sailor, fuddled and talking to himself.

He enters, singing.

WELL, if thou art, my boy, a little mellow? A sailor, half seas o'er—'s a pretty fellow! What cheer ho?

(to the pit)

Zounds, I carry too much sail— No—tight and trim—I scud before the gale

he staggers forward, then stops.

But softly tho'—the vessel seems to heel: Steady, steady, boy!—must not shew her keel.

And now, thus ballasted, what course to steer? Shall I again to sea, and bang Mounseer? Or shall I stay and toil with Sall and Sue— Dost love 'em, boy? By this right hand I do! A well-rigg'd girl is surely most inviting: There's nothing better, except flip and fighting: I must not skulk; my country now commands! Shall I turn in, when honour pipes all hands? What! shall we sons of beef and freedom stoop, Or lower our flag to slavery and soup? What! shall these parly-vous make such a racket, And shall not we, my boys, well trim their jacket? What! shall Old England be a Frenchman's butt? When'er he shuffles, we should always cut. I'll to 'em, faith—Avast! before I go, Have I not promis'd Sall to see a show?

Pulls out a Play-bill.

From this same paper we shall understand What work's to-night—I read your printed hand! First let's refresh a bit—for faith I need it; I'll take one sugar-plumb

Takes some tobacco.

and then I'll read it.

He reads the play-bill of Zara, which was acted that evening.

At the Theatre-Royal, Drury-Lane—
will be presen╌ta╌ted a tragedy called—
SARAH.

I'm glad 'tis Sarah, and a tragedy; For Sall will see her namesake, and for me, I'll sleep as sound, as if I were at sea.

I'll skip the names—I would not give a pin— Damn all their actors, except Harlequin.

To which will be added, a new Masque.

Zounds! why a masque? we sailors hate grimaces: Above board all, we scorn to hide our faces. But what is here, so very large and plain? BRI-TA-NIA—oh Britania!—good again. Huzza, boys! by the Royal George I swear, Tom coxen, and the crew, shall strait be there. All free-born souls must take Bri╌ta╌nia's part, And give her three round cheers, with hand and heart!

(Going off, he stops.

I wish you landmen, ho, would leave your tricks, Your factions, parties, and damn'd politics: And like us, honest tars drink, fight, and sing! True to yourselves, your country, and your king!

XXIV. PROLOGUE to The APPRENTICE* 1.34,

Spoken by Mr. MURPHY, dressed in black.

BEHOLD a wonder for theatric story! The culprit of this night, appears before ye. Before his judges dares these boards to tread, " With all his imperfections on his head!" Prologues precede the piece—in mournful verse; As undertakers—walk before the hearse. Whose doleful march may strike the harden'd mind, And wake its feelings—for the dead—behind. Trick'd out in black, thus actors try their art, To melt that rock of rocks, the critic's heart. No acted fears my vanity betray; I am indeed—what others only play. Thus far myself—The farce comes next in view; Tho' many are its faults, at least 'tis new. No mangled, pilfer'd scenes from France we shew, 'Tis English—English, sirs, from top to toe. Tho' coarse my colours, and my hand unskill'd, From real life my little cloth is fill'd.

My hero is a youth, by fate design'd For culling simples, but whose stage-struck mind, Nor fate could rule, nor his indentures bind. A place there is where such young Quixotes meet; 'Tis call'd the Spouting-Club;—a glorious treat! Where 'prentic'd Kings—alarm the gaping street! There Brutus starts and stares by midnight taper; Who all the day enacts—a woollen-draper. There Hamlet's ghost stalks forth with double fist: Cries out with hollow voice,—"List, list, O list!" And frightens Denmark's Prince—a young tobacconist. The spirit too, clear'd from his deadly white, Rises—a haberdasher to the sight! Not young attorneys—have this rage with∣stood, But change their pens for truncheons, ink for blood; And (strange reverse!) die for their country's good. Thro' all the town this folly you may trace; Myself am witness—'tis a common case.

I've further proofs, could ye but think I wrong ye; Look round—you'll find some spouting youths among ye.

To check these heroes, and their laurels crop, To bring 'em back to reason—and their shop, To raise an harmless laugh was all my aim, And, if I shun contempt, I seek not fame. Indulge this firstling, let me but begin, Nor nip me—in the buddings of my sin; Some hopes I cherish; in your smiles I read 'em; What'er my faults, your candour can exceed 'em.

XXV. PROLOGUE to FLORIZEL and PERDITA,* 1.35

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

TO various things the stage has been compar'd, As apt ideas strike each humorous bard: This night, for want of better simile, Let this our theatre a tavern be: The poets vintners, and the waiters we. So (as the cant and custom of the trade is) You're welcome, Gem'men, kindly welcome, La∣dies. To draw in customers, our bills are spread.

(Shewing a play-bill.

You cannot miss the sign, 'tis Shakespeare's Head. From this same head, this fountain-head di∣vine, For different palates springs a different wine!

In which no tricks, to strengthen, or to thin 'em— Neat as imported—no French brandy in 'em— Hence for the choicest spirits flows Champaign; Whose sparkling atoms shoot thro' ev'ry vein, Then mount, in magic vapours, to th' enrap∣tur'd brain! Hence flow for martial minds potations strong, And sweet love potions for the fair and young. For you, my hearts of oak, for your regale,

(To the Upper Gallery.

There's good old English stingo, mild and stale. For high, luxurious souls, with luscious smack, There's Sir John Falstaff, is a butt of sack: And if the stronger liquors more invite ye, Bardolph is gin, and Pistol aqua-vitae. But should you call for Falstaff, where to find him. * 1.36 He's gone—nor left one cup of sack behind him.

Sunk in his elbow-chair, no more he'll roam; No more with merry wags to Eastcheap come; He's gone—to jest, and laugh, and give his sack at home. As for the learned Critics, brave and deep, Who catch at words, and catching fall asleep;

Who in the storms of passion—hum and haw! For such, our master will no liquor draw— So blindly thoughtful, and so darkly read, They take Tom Durfey's for the Shakespeare's Head.

A vintner once acquir'd both praise and gain, And sold much Perry for the best Champaign. Some rakes this precious stuff did so allure, They drank whole nights. What's that, when wine is pure? ' Come, fill a bumper, Jack,—I will, my Lord— ' Here's cream—damn'd fine—immense—upon my word. ' Sir William, what say you—The best, believe me— ' In this—Eh Jack—the Devil can't deceive me.' Thus the wise Critic too mistakes his wine, Cries out, with lifted eyes—'Tis great! di∣vine! Then jogs his neighbour, as the wonders strike him; This Shakespeare! Shakespeare! Oh, there's nothing like him!

In this night's various and enchanted cup, Some little Perry's mixt for filling up.

The five long acts, from which our three are taken, Stretch'd out to * 1.37sixteen years, lay by, forsaken. Lest then this precious liquor run to waste, 'Tis now confin'd and bottled for your taste. 'Tis my chief wish, my joy, my only plan, To lose no drop of that immortal man.

XXVI. A DIALOGUE Between an Actor and a Critick, By way of PROLOGUE to the TEMPEST* 1.38.

Heartly, the Actor,

Mr. HAVARD.

Wormwood, the Critic,

Mr. YATES.

Wormwood and Heartly.

Worm.

I say it is a shame, Mr. Heartly; and I am amazed that you let your good-nature talk thus, against the conviction of your understand∣ing.

Heart.

You won't let me talk, sir; if you would but have patience, and hear reason a little.

Worm.

I wish I could, sir; but you put me out of all patience, by having no reason to give me. I say that this frittering and sol fa-ing our best poets, is a damn'd thing. I have yet heard no reason to justify it, and I have no patience when I think of it.

Heart.

I see you have not—

Worm.

What! are we to be quivered and qua∣vered out of our senses? Give me Shakespeare, in all his force, vigour, and spirit! What! would you make an eunuch of him? No, Shake∣sporelli's for my money.

Heart.

Nay but, dear sir, hear me in my turn; or the truth, for which we are, or ought to be, so warmly fighting, will slip thro' our fingers.

Worm.

Will you hold it when you have it? I say, Mr. Heartly, while you let your good-na∣ture—

Heart.

And I say, Mr. Wormwood, while you are to be influenced and blown up by para∣graphs in news-papers, and insinuations in coffee∣houses, we can never come to a fair debate. They who write upon all subjects, without understand∣ing any, or will talk about musick, without ears or taste for it, are but very indifferent judges in our dispute.

Worm.

Well, come on, Mr. Sol-fa, then—Let you and I fight it out; or, to speak in the musical phrase, let us have a Duette together; I'll clear up my pipes, and have at you.—Hem, hem—

Heart.

With all my heart, tho' I'm afraid you'll make it a Solo, for you have not yet suffered the second part to come in.

Worm.

Ho! play away, sir—I'll be dumb—

Heart.

Let us calmly consider this complaint of your's: If it is well founded, I will submit with pleasure; if not, you will.

Worm.

Not submit with pleasure, I assure you; I never do.

Heart.

You will at least have this satisfaction, that the sentence which will be given, whether for or against you, will be as indisputable, as it will be just.

Worm.

I don't know what you mean: No∣thing's indisputable, that I please to contradict, and nothing's just, that I please to call in ques∣tion.

Heart.

Look round upon the court, and if you can reasonably except against any one of the jury, I will give up the cause before trial.

Worm.

O, ho! what, you are bribing the court before-hand with your flattery, are you?

Heart.

There you are out again: our coun∣trymen in a body, are no more to be flatter'd than bully'd, which I hope their enemies (who can do both) will be convinced of before they have done with them. But I wander from the ques∣tion. To the point, sir: what are your objec∣tions to this night's entertainment?

Worm.

I hate an Opera.

Heart.

I dislike tye-wigs; but should I throw your's into the fire, because I chuse to wear a bag?

Worm.

Woe be to your bag if you did.

Heart.

You hate musick, perhaps?

Worm.

Damnably, and dancing too.

Heart.

But why, pray?

Worm.

They pervert nature. Legs are made for walking, tongues for speaking; and there∣fore capering and quavering are unnatural and abominable.

Heart.

You like Shakespeare?

Worm.

Like him! adore him! worship him! There's no capering and quavering in his works.

Heart.

Have a care.

" The man that has no musick in himself, " Nor is not mov'd with concord of sweet sounds, " Is fit for treason, stratagems and spoils; " The motions of his spirit are dull as night, " And his affections dark as Erebus: " Let no such man be trusted."

Worm.

Fit for treason! dull as night! not to be trusted!—so you have proved me both a fool and a rebel.—Don't provoke me, Mr. Heartly, Shakespeare never wrote such stuff as that; 'tis foisted in by some fiddler or other.

Heart.

You pay the fiddlers (as you call them) a very great compliment.

Worm.

Did I? I am sorry for it; I did not mean it: were I to pay 'em—crabstick's the word.

Heart.

For shame, Mr. Wormwood! Let me ask you a question: would you chuse that

your country should be excelled in any thing by your neighbours?

Worm.

In manufactures—no—from the casting of cannon, to the making of pins; from the weaving of velvets, to the making of hop-sacks; but your capering and quavering only spoil us, and make us the jests, who should be the terrors of Europe.

Heart.

But English musick, Mr. Wormwood—

Worm.

English musick, or any musick, ener∣vates the body, weakens the mind, and lessens the courage.

Heart.

Quite the contrary.

Worm.

Prove that, and I'll learn the gamut immediately; nay, bespeak me a pair of pumps, and I'll make one at the dancing academy for grown gentlemen.

Heart.

Let us suppose an invasion!

Worm.

Ha, ha, ha! an invasion!—musick and an invasion! they are well coupled, truly!

Heart.

Patience, sir—I say, let us suppose ten thousand French landed.

Worm.

I had rather suppose 'em at the bot∣tom of the sea.

Heart.

So had I—but that ten thousand are upon the coast.

Worm.

The devil they are! What then?

Heart.

Why then, I say, let but Britons strike home, or God save the king, be sounded in the ears of five thousand brave Englishmen,

with a protestant prince at the head of 'em, and they'll drive every monsieur into the sea, and make 'em food for sprats and mackarel.

Worm.

Huzza! and so they will!—'Egad you're right; I'll say no more: Britons strike home! You have warm'd me and pleas'd me; nay, you have converted me. I'll get a place in the house, and be as hearty as the best of 'em for the musick of Old England! Sprats and mackarel! ha, ha, ha! that's good! excellent! I thank you for it; musick for ever! Britons strike home! God save the King!

Heart.

The last thing I have to say will touch you as nearly, Mr. Wormwood—

Worm.

You have touch'd me enough already; say no more; I am satisfy'd: I shall never forget sprats and mackarel.

Heart.

We may boast, sincerely boast, of many excellent English composers; and would not you permit your countrymen to have the same encouragement as foreigners?

Worm.

Encouragement! why I'll encourage them myself, man.

Heart.

Where can they shew their talents, unless upon the English stages? and, if the ma∣nagers of them will not give up a few nights to encourage English musick, our musical country∣men, Mr. Wormwood, would be of the number of those persons of merit, who are undeservedly neglected in this kingdom.

Worm.

But they shan't; I'll support 'em. I'll never more hearken to your club-speeches, and your dissertations, and news-paper essays. I see my error, but I'll make amends. Let us meet after it is over, and take a bottle to sprats and mackarel, eh, master Heartly, at the Shakes∣peare. I'll be with you. Britons strike home.

[Exit singing.

Heart.

Ha, ha, ha! Mr. Wormwood is now as much too violent in his zeal, as he was before in his prejudice. We expect not, ladies and gen∣tlemen, that this night's performance should meet with success, merely because it is English. You would be as incapable of conceiving, as we of urging, such false and contracted notions; yet, on the other hand, let not our musical brethren be cast off, because fashion, caprice, or manners, too refin'd, may have given you prejudices against them.

Musick is the younger sister of poetry, and can boast her charms and accomplishments. Suf∣fer not the younger then to be turned out of doors, while the elder is so warmly and deser∣vedly cherished.

If worthy, you'll protect her, tho' distrest, 'Tis the known maxim of a British breast, Those to befriend the most, who're most op∣prest.

XXVII. EPILOGUE to ATHELSTAN* 1.39.

Spoken by Mrs. CIBBER.

TO speak ten words, again I've fetch'd my breath; The tongue of woman struggles hard with death. Ten words? will that suffice? ten words—no more; We always give a thousand to the score.

What can provoke these wits their time to waste, To please that fickle, fleeting thing, call'd taste? It mocks all search, for substance has it none; Like Hamlet's ghost—'Tis here—'Tis there—'Tis gone. How very few about the stage agree! As men with different eyes a beauty see, So judge they of that stately dame—Queen Tragedy.

The Greek-read critic, as his mistress holds her, And having little love, for trifles scolds her: Excuses want of spirit, beauty, grace, But ne'er forgives her failing, time and place.

How do our sex of taste and judgment vary? Miss 'Bell adores, what's loath'd by lady Mary: The first in tenderness a very dove, Melts, like the feather'd snow, at Juliet's love: Then, sighing, turns to Romeo by her side, " Can you believe that men for love have dy'd?" Her ladyship, who vaults the courser's back, Leaps the barr'd gate, and calls you Tom and Jack; Detests these whinings, like a true virago; She's all for daggers! blood! blood! blood! Iago! A third, whose heart defies all perturbations, Yet dies for triumphs, funerals, coronations! Ne'er asks which tragedies succeed, or fail, But whose procession has the longest tail. The youths, to whom France gives a new belief, Who look with horror on a rump of beef: On Shakespeare's plays, with shrugg'd-up shoul∣ders stare, These plays? They're bloody murders, O barbare! And yet the man has merit—Entre nous, He'd been damn'd clever, had he read Bossû. Shakespeare read French! roars out a surly cit; When Shakespeare wrote, our valour match'd our wit: Had Britons then been fops, queen Bess had hang'd 'em; Those days, they never read the French—they bang'd 'em.

If taste evaporates by too high breeding. And eke is overlaid, by too deep reading; Left, then, in search of this, you lose your feeling, And barter native sense in foreign dealing; Be this neglected truth to Britons known, No tastes, no modes become you, but your own.

XXVIII. PROLOGUE to LILLIPUT* 1.40.

Spoken by Mr. WOODWARD.

BEHOLD a conjuror—that's something new— For as times go, my brethren are but few. I'm come with magic ring, and taper wand, To waft you far from this your native land. Ladies don't fear, my coach is large and easy, I know your humours, and will drive to please ye; Gently you'll ride as in a fairy dream, Your hoops unsqueez'd, and not a bean shall scream. What, still disorder'd!—well, I know your fright; You shall be back in time for cards to-night;

Swift as queen Mab within her hazle nut, I'll set you safely down at Lilliput. Away we go—ge'up—ladies keep your places, And gentlemen—for shame—don't screw your faces. Softly my imps and fiends—you critics there, Pray you sit still, or I can never steer, My devils are not the devils you need to fear. Hold fast my friends above, for faith we spin it; My usual rate's a thousand miles a minute. A statesman now, could tell how high we soar, Statesmen have been these airy jaunts before. I see the land—the folks—what limbs! what features! There's lords and ladies too—the pretty creatures!

Now to your sight these puppets I'll produce, Which may, if rightly heeded, turn to use; Puppets not made of wood, and play'd with wires, But flesh and blood, and full of strange desires. So strange, you'll scarce believe me should I tell, For giant vices may in pigmies dwell. Beware you lay not to the conj'ror's charge, That these in miniature are you in large: To you these little folks have no relation, As diff'rent in their manners as their nation, To shew your pranks requires no conjuration. Open your ears and eyes—your mouths be shut, England is vanish'd—

(waves his wand)

—Enter Lilliput.

[Strikes the curtain and sinks.

XXIX. PROLOGUE to the MALE-COQUETTE* 1.41; Or, 1757.

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

WHY to this farce this title giv'n, Of Seventeen hundred fifty-seven? Is it a register of fashions, Of follies, frailties, fav'rite passions? Or is't design'd to make appear How happy, good, and wise you were In this same memorable year? Sure, with our author wit was scarce, To crowd so many virtues in a farce. Perhaps 'tis made to make you stare, Like cloths hung out at country fair, On which strange monsters glare and grin, To draw the gaping bumpkins in. Tho' 'tis the genius of the age To catch the eye with title-page; Yet here we dare not so abuse ye— We have some monsters to amuse ye.

Ye slaves to fashion, dupes of chance, Whom fortune leads her fickle dance;

Who, as the dice shall smile or frown, Are rich and poor, and up and down; Whose minds eternal vigils keep; Who, like Macbeth, have murder'd sleep; Each modish vice this night shall rise, Like Banquo's ghost before your eyes; While conscious you shall start and roar, Hence horrid farce! we'll see no more. Ye ladies too, maids, widows, wives, Now tremble for your naughty lives. How will your hearts go pit-a-pat? " Bless me—Lord!—what's the fellow at? " Was poet e'er so rude before? " Why, sure, the brute will say no more— " Again!—O Gad! I cannot bear— " Here—you box-keeper—call my chair." Peace, ladies, 'tis a false alarm: To you our author means no harm; His female failings all are fictions, To which your lives are contradictions. Th' unnat'ral fool has drawn a plan, Where women like a worthless man, A fault ne'er heard of since the world began. This year he lets you steal away; But if the next you trip or stray, His muse, he vows, on you shall wait In Seventeen hundred fifty-eight.

XXX. PROLOGUE to the GAMESTERS* 1.42.

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

WHENE'ER the wits of France take pen in hand, To give a sketch of you and this our land, One settled maxim thro' the whole you see, To wit, their great superiority! Urge what you will, they still have this to say, That you who ape them, are less wise than they. 'Tis thus these well-bred letter-writers use us; They trip o'er here, with half an eye peruse us; Embrace us, eat our meat, and then—abuse us. When this same play was writ that's now before ye, The English stage had reach'd its point of glory! No paltry thefts disgrac'd this author's pen, He painted English manners, Englishmen; And form'd his taste on Shakespeare and Old Ben. Then were French fashions, farces, quite un∣known; Our wits wrote well, and all they writ their own.

These were the times when no infatuation, No vicious modes, no zeal for imitation, Had chang'd, deform'd, and sunk the British Nation. Should you be ever from yourselves estrang'd, The cock will crow to see the lion chang'd! To boast our liberty is weak and vain, While tyrant vices in our bosoms reign; Not liberty alone a nation saves, Corrupted freemen are the worst of slaves. Let Prussia's sons each English breast inflame, O be our spirit, as our cause, the same! And as our hearts with one Religion glow, Let us with all their ardour drive the foe, As heav'n had rais'd our arm, as heav'n had giv'n the blow! Would you rekindle all your antient fires, Extinguish first your modern vain desires. Still it is yours, your glories to retrieve; Lop but the branches, and the tree shall live: With these erect a pile for sacrifice! And in the midst—throw all your cards and dice; Then fire the heap; and as it sinks to earth, The British Genius shall have second birth! Shall Phoenix-like rise perfect from the flame; Spring from the dust, and mount again to fame!

XXXI. Part of a PROLOGUE to HARLEQUIN's INVASION* 1.43.

Spoken by Mr. KING.

BUT why a speaking Harlequin?—'tis wrong, The wits will say, to give the fool a tongue: When Lun† 1.44 appear'd, with matchless art and whim, He gave the pow'r of speech to ev'ry limb; Tho' mask'd and mute, convey'd his quick in∣tent, And told in frolic gestures all he meant. But now the motley coat, and sword of wood, Requires a tongue to make them understood.

XXXII. PROLOGUE to the DESART ISLAND* 1.45,

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK in the Character of a Drunken Poet.

ALL, all shall out—all that I know and feel; I will by heav'n—to higher powers appeal! No, no—they can't say that, with all their spite: Ay, you may frown—

(looking behind the scenes)

I'm at you, great and small; Your poet, players, manager and all!— These fools within here swear that I'm in liquor: My passion warms me—makes my utt'rance thicker: I totter too—but that's the gout and pain— French wines and living high have been my bane. From all temptations now I wisely steer me; Nor will I suffer one fine woman near me. And this I sacrifice to give you pleasure— For you I've coin'd my brains—and here's the treasure.

[Pulls out a manuscript.

A treasure this of profit and delight! And all thrown by for this damn'd stuff to-night:

This is a play would water ev'ry eye! If I but look upon't, it makes me cry: This play would tears from blood-stain'd soldiers draw, And melt the bowels of hard-hearted law! Would fore and aft the storm-proof sailor rake; Keep turtle-eating aldermen awake! Would the cold blood of ancient maidens thrill, And make ev'n pretty younger tongues lie still. This play not ev'n managers would refuse, Had heaven but giv'n 'em any brains to chuse!

[Puts up his manuscript.

Your hard to-night, bred in the ancient school, Designs and measures all by critic rule, 'Mongst friends—it goes no further—he's a fool. So very classic, and so very dull, His Desart Island is his own dear skull: No soul to make the play-house ring and rattle, No trumpets, thunder, ranting, storms, and battle! But all your fine poetic prittle prattle. The plot is this—A lady's cast away— Long before the beginning of the play, And they are taken by a fisherman, The lady and the child—'tis Bayes's plan— So on he blunders—he's an Irishman.

'Tis all alike—his comic stuff* 1.46 I mean; I hate all humour—it gives me the spleen; So damn 'em both with all my heart, unsight unseen. But shou'd you ruin him, still I'm undone— I've try'd all ways to bring my Phoenix on—

(Shewing his play again.

Flatter I can with any of our tribe— Can cut and slash—indeed I cannot bribe; What must I do then?—beg you to subscribe. Be kind ye boxes, galleries, and pit— 'Tis but a crown a piece, for all this wit: All sterling wit—to puff myself I hate— You'll ne'er supply your wants at such a rate! 'Tis worth your money, I would scorn to wrong ye— You smile consent—I'll send my hat among ye.

(Going, he returns.

So much beyond all praise your bounties swell! Not my own tongue your gra-ti-tude can tell— " A little flattery sometimes does well."

XXXIII. Conclusion to the PROLOGUE to POLLY HONEYCOMBE* 1.47.

Spoken by Mr. KING† 1.48.

THUS of our Polly having lightly spoke, Now for our Author! but without a joke. Tho' wits and journals, who ne'er fibb'd before, Have laid this bantling at a certain door, Where laying store of faults, they'd fain heap more; I now declare it as a serious truth, 'Tis the first folly of a simple youth, Caught and deluded by our harlot plays:— Then crush not in the shell this infant Bayes! Exert your favour to a young beginner, Nor use the strippling like a batter'd sinner!

XXXIV. EPILOGUE to POLLY HONEYCOMBE.

Spoken by Miss POPE.

Enter, as POLLY, laughing—Ha! ha! ha!—

MY poor Papa's in woeful agitation— While I, the cause, feel here,

[striking her bosom.]

no palpitation— We girls of reading, and superior notions, Who from the fountain-head drink love's sweet potions, Pity our parents, when such passion blinds 'em, One hears the good folks rave—One never minds 'em. Till these dear books infus'd their soft ingredi∣ents, Asham'd and fearful, I was all obedience. Then my good father did not storm in vain, I blush'd and cry'd—I'll ne'er do so again: But now no bugbears can my spirit tame, I've conquer'd fear—and almost conquer'd shame; So much these dear instructors change and win us, Without their light we ne'er should know what's in us: Here we at once supply our childish wants— Novels are hotbeds for your forward plants.

Not only sentiments refine the soul, But hence we learn to be the Smart and Drole; Each awkward circumstance for laughter serves, From nurse's nonsense to my mother's nerves:

Tho' parents tell us, that our genius lies In mending linnen and in making pies, I set such formal precepts at defiance That preach up prudence, neatness, and com∣pliance: Leap these old bounds, and boldly set the pattern, To be a Wit, Philosopher, and Slattern.

O! did all maids and wives my spirit feel, We'd make this topsy-turvy world to reel: Let us to arms! our fathers, husbands, dare! Novels will teach us all the art of war: Our tongues will serve for trumpet and for drum; I'll be your leader—General Honeycombe!

Too long has human nature gone astray, Daughters should govern, Parents should obey; Man should submit the moment that he weds, And hearts of oak should yield to wiser heads: I see you smile, bold Britons! but 'tis true: Beat you the French—but let your wives beat you.

XXXV. PROLOGUE to the EARL of ESSEX* 1.49.

Spoken by Mrs. PRITCHARD, in the Character of Queen Elizabeth.

If any here are Britons, but in name, Dead to their country's happiness and fame, Let 'em depart this moment—let 'em fly My awful presence, and my searching eye!

No more your Queen, but upright judge I come, To try your deeds abroad, your lives at home; Try you in ev'ry point, from small to great, Your wit, laws, fashions, valour, church and state! Search you, as Britons ne'er were search'd before: O tremble! for you hear the lion roar! Since that most glorious time that here I reign'd, An age and half!—what have you lost or gain'd? Your wit, whate'er your poets sing or swear, Since Shakespeare's time, is somewhat worse for wear: Your laws are good, your lawyers good of course; The streams are surely clear, when clear the source:

In greater store these blessings now are sent ye; Where I had one attorney, you have twenty. Fa hions, ye fair, deserve nor praise, nor b'ame, Unless they rise as foes to sense or shame; Wear ruffs or gauze, but let your skill be such, Rather to shew too little than too much. As for your valour—here my lips I close— Let those who best have prov'd it—speak—your foes. Your morals, church, and state are still behind, But soft—prophetic fury fills my mind. I see thro' time—behold a youthful hand* 1.50, Holding the sceptre of this happy land; Whose heart with justice, love, and virtue fraught, Born amongst Britons, and by Britons taught; Shall make the barking tongues of faction cease, And weave the garland of domestic peace. Long shall he reign—no storms to beat his breast, Unruly passions, that disturb'd my rest! Shall live, the blessings he bestows to share, Reap all my glory, but without my care.

XXXVI. EPILOGUE to EDGAR and EMMELINE* 1.51.

Spoken by Mrs. YATES.

OLD times, old fashions, and the fairies gone; Let us return, good folks, to sixty-one; To this blest time, ye fair, of female glory, When pleasures unforbidden lie before ye! No sp'rits to fright you now, no guardian elves, Your wise directors are—your own dear selves. And every fair one feels from old to young, While these your guides—you never can do wrong. Weak were the sex of yore, their pleasures few; How much more wise, more spirited are you! Would any Lady Jane, or Lady Mary, Ere they did this or that, consult a fairy? Would they permit this saucy pigmy crew, For each small slip to pinch 'em black and blue? Well may you shudder, for with all your charms, Were this the case, good heav'n, what necks and arms!

Thus did they serve our grandames heretofore: The very thought must make us moderns sore!

Did their poor hearts for cards and dancing beat, These elves rais'd blisters on their hands and feet. Though Loo the game, and fiddles play'd most sweetly, They could not squeeze dear Pam, nor foot Moll Peatly. Were wives with husbands but a little wilful, Were they at that same Loo a little skilful; Did they with pretty fellows laugh or sport, Wear ruffs too small, or petticoats too short; Did they, no matter how, disturb their cloaths, Or, over-lillied, add a little rose! These spiteful fairies rattled round their beds, And put strange frightful nonsense in their heads! Nay, while the husband snor'd, and prudish aunt, Had the fond wife but met the dear gallant; Tho' lock'd the door, and all as still as night, Pop thro' the key-hole whips the fairy sprite, Trips round the room—"my husband!" madam cries— " The devil!—where!" the frighted beau re∣plies, Jumps thro' the window—she calls out in vain; He, cur'd of love, and cool'd with drenching rain, Swears—'d—n him if he'll e'er intrigue again!' These were the tricks of old. But all allow, No childish fears disturb our fair ones now. Ladies, for all this trifling, 'twould be best To keep a little fairy in your breast; Not one that should with modern passions war, But just to tweak you—when you go too far.

XXXVII. EPILOGUE to the ANDRIA.

Acted at Hackney School* 1.52.

DAVUS speaks.

'BUT why act plays?'—some formal Greybeard cries; I'll answer that, who am not over-wise: To learn their lessons, and to play the fool, Are the two great concerns of boys at school; And our good masters, prudently discerning, How much we lean to folly, more than learning, Contriv'd these plays, by which the veriest dunce May learn his book, and play the fool, at once. For Greek and Latin we have small devotion, Terence himself goes down a sickly potion; But set us once to act him, never fear us; Our qualms are gone, 'tis you are sick who hear us. Ne'er may our actors, when they quit the school, Tread the great stage of life to play the fool. No partial friends can there our faults conceal, Should we play characters we cannot feel. If we act law—are judges!—then are We Like Justice, blind—as council, we may see Enough to know the colour of a fee.

In Physic—Practice is our best adviser, The more we're puzzled, we must seem the wiser. If war's our trade, and we vain, blust'ring, young, Should, Thraso-like, fight battles with our tongue, Soon 'twould appear how ill these airs became us; The foe comes on—quid nunc? quin redeamus. In short, be what we may, experience teaches This truth—One deed is worth a thousand speeches. John Moody of Sir Wronghead well has told it, He can speak stawtly, but he canna' hawld it. This for myself and school!—Now let me say, Why with these English rhimes we close our play: Ladies, for you they're meant—I feel, to you, Small as I am, that great respect is due: Quit of my Grecian servitude, I crave Still to be English Davus—and your slave. To succour helpless damsels is my plan, If you should want me, ladies, I'm your man. Should stubborn age your tender hearts provoke, " I soften rocks, and bend the knotted oak:" Or should false swains for other nymphs forsake ye, Stay a few years, and I'll be proud to take ye. If in your smiles we approbation read, 'Tis done already—I'm a man indeed.

XXXVIII. PROLOGUE

Spoken at Drury-Lane, June 4th, 1761, on closing the Season.

WHILE all is Feasting, Mirth, Illumination, And but one wish goes thro' this happy nation; While songs of triumph mark the golden time, Accept, for once, our grateful thanks in rhime, In plain, but honest language, void of art; Simplicity's the rhet'ric of the heart. We shun poetic ornaments; we scorn 'em; Your bounties want no fiction to adorn 'em: Tho' in continu'd streams your favours flow'd, We still have ask'd, and you have still bestow'd; Have granted each petition o'er and o'er, Yet we, like other beggars—ask for more. What can we ask, blest with such favours past? This only—that those favours still may last.

May this day's joy return with many a year, And, when it comes, with added joys appear! May Art and Science reach the topmost heights, May ev'ry muse prepare for nobler flights! May every blessing every hour encrease, And all be crown'd with that chief blessing, PEACE!

May he, that BRITON BORN* 1.53, who glads all hearts, Who to this land unbounded love imparts, Unites each party, every art befriends, And ev'n to this poor spot a smile extends; May he in Fame our warmest hopes outrun, As you in happiness—for both are one! O may the Summer answer to the Spring, And that it may, good heav'n—LONG LIVE THE KING!

XXXIX. EPILOGUE to ALL IN THE WRONG* 1.54.

Spoken by Mrs. YATES.

BLESS me, this summer work is so fatiguing! And then our play's so bustling, so intriguing! Such missing, sighing, scolding, all together, These love affairs suit best in colder weather.

At this warm time these writers should not treat you With too much love and passion—for they heat you; Poets like weavers should with taste and reason Adapt their various goods to every season— For the hot months the fanciful and slight,— For mind and body something cool and light: Authors themselves, indeed, neglect this rule, Dress warm in summer, and at Christmas cool. I told our author, that these five act plays Were rich brocades unfit for sultry days. Were you a cook, said I, would you prepare Large hams and roasted surloins for your fare? Their very smoke would pall a city glutton— A tragedy! would make you all unbutton! Both appetites now ask for daintier picking, Farce,—Pantomime,—cold lamb,—or white∣legg'd chicken. At Ranelagh,—fine rolls and butter see! Signior Tenducci, and the best green tea— Italian singing is as light as feather, Beard is too loud, too powerful for this weather. Vauxhall more solidly regales your palates, Good wine, cantatas, cold boil'd beef and bal∣lads. What shall we do your different tastes to hit? You relish satire

[to the pit]

you ragouts of wit—

[To the Boxes.

Your taste is humour and high-season'd joke,

[First gallery.

You call for hornpipes, and for hearts of oak,

[Second gallery.

O could I wish and have—A conjuring man Once told my fortune—and he charm'd this fan— Said with a flirt—I might enjoy my wish! If so, I'll give you, Sirs, an English dish. If I like Harlequin have power o'er men, I'll flirt and wish, and wish and flirt again— Come then a song

(flirts and musick is heard)

in∣deed! I see 'twill do; Take heed gallants, I'll play the deuce with—you— Whene'er I please, will charm you to my fight, And tear a fan with flirting every night.

Singers then entered and sung the following song.

YE critics above, and ye critics below, Ye finer-spun critics who keep the mid row, Oh, tarry one moment, I'll sing you a song, Shall prove that like us—You are all in the wrong.

Sing tantara rara, wrong all, wrong all, Sing tantara rara, all wrong.

Ye poets who mount on the fam'd winged steed, Of prancing, and wincing, and kicking take heed;

For when by those hornets, the critics, he's stung, You are thrown in the dirt—And are all in the wrong.

Sing Tantara rara, &c.

Ye actors who act what these writers have writ, Pray stick to your poet, and spare your own wit; For when, with your own, you unbridle your tongue, I'll hold ten to one—You are all in the wrong.

Sing Tantara rara, &c.

Ye knaves who make news for the foolish to read, Who print daily slanders, the hungry to feed; For a while you mislead 'em, the news-hunting throng, But the pillory proves—You are all in the wrong.

Sing Tantara rara, &c.

Ye grave politicians, so deep and so wise, With your hums, and your shrugs, and your up∣lifted eyes, The road that you travel is tedious and long, But I pray you jog on—You are all in the wrong.

Sing Tantara rara, &c.

Ye happy fond husbands, and fond happy wives, Let never suspicions embitter your lives; Let your prudence be stout, and your faith be as strong; Who watch, or who catch—They are all in the wrong.

Sing Tantara rara, &c.

Ye unmarried folks, be not bought or be sold; Let age avoid youth, and the young ones the old; For they'll soon get together, the young with the young, And then my wise old ones—You're all in the wrong.

Sing Tantara rara, &c.

Ye soldiers and sailors who bravely have fought, Who honour, and glory, and laurels have brought; Let your foes but appear, you'll be at them ding∣dong, And if they come near you—They're all in the wrong.

Sing Tantara rara, &c.

Ye judges of taste to our labours be kind, Our errors are many, pray wink or be blind; Still find your way hither, to glad us each night, And our note we will change to—You're all in the right.

Sing tantara rara, right all, right all, Sing Tantarara, right all.

XL. EPILOGUE to HECUBA* 1.55.

Spoken by Miss BRIDE.

STRIPP'D of my tragic weeds, and rais'd from death, In freedom's land, again, I draw my breath: Tho' late a Trojan ghost, in Charon's ferry, I'm now an English girl, alive, and merry! Hey! Presto! I'm in Greece a maiden slain. Now! stranger still! a maid in Drury-lane!

No more by barb'rous men, and laws confin'd, I claim my native right—to speak my mind. Tho' poring pedants should applaud this piece, Behold a champion—foe profest of Greece! I throw my gauntlet to the critic race:

(Throws down her glove.

Come forth, bold Grecians!—Meet me face to face! Come forth, ye men of learning, at my call! Learning! a little feeling's worth it all! And you of Taste, and Fashion, I defy!

(Throws down another glove.

But hold—you hate the Greek as much as I;

Then, let us join our force, and boldly speak— That English, ev'ry thing surpasses Greek. Kill a young virgin, to resist unable! Kill her, like house-lamb, for a dead man's table! Well may you tremble, ladies, and look pale! Do you not shudder, parents, at this tale? You sacrifice a daughter now and then, To rich, old, wither'd, half-departed men; With us, there's no compulsive law, that can Make a live girl to wed a quite dead man! Had I been wedded to some ancient King! I mean a Grecian—Ancient's not the thing; Then had our bard made ample reparation! Then had you seen a Grecian Coronation! Sneer not, ye critics, at this rage for show, That honest hearts at Coronations glow* 1.56! Nor snarl that our faint copies glad their eyes, When from the thing itself such blessings rise.

XLI. PROLOGUE upon PROLOGUES to The MUSICAL LADY* 1.57.

Spoken by Mr. KING.

AN old trite proverb let me quote! As is your cloth, so cut your coat.— To suit our Author and his Farce, Short let me be! for wit is scarce. Nor would I shew it, had I any, The reasons why are strong and many. Should I have wit, the piece have none. A flash in pan with empty gun. The piece is sure to be undone. A tavern with a gaudy sign Whose bush is better than the wine, May cheat you once—Will that device, Neat as imported, cheat you twice?

'Tis wrong to raise your expectations: Poets be dull in dedications! Dulness in these to wit prefer— But there indeed you seldom err. In prologues, prefaces, be flat! A silver button spoils your hat. A thread-bare coat might jokes escape, Did not the blockheads lace the cape.

A case in point to this before ye, Allow me, pray, to tell a story!

To turn the penny, once, a wit, Upon a curious fancy hit; Hung out a board, on which he boasted, Dinner for Three-pence! Boil'd and roasted! The hungry read, and in they trip With eager eye and smacking lip: " Here, bring this boil'd and roasted, pray!" —Enter Potatoes—dress'd each way. All star'd and rose, the house forsook, And damn'd the dinner—kick'd the cook, My landlord sound (poor Patrick Kelly) There was no joking with the belly.

These facts laid down, then thus I reason: —Wit in a prologue's out of season— Yet still will you for jokes sit watching, Like Cock-lane folks for Fanny's scratching* 1.58, And here my simile's so fit! For Prologues are but Ghosts of wit; Which mean to shew their art and skill, And scratch you to their Author's will.

In short, for reasons great and small, 'Tis better to have none at all: Prologues and Ghosts—a paltry trade! So let them both at once be laid! Say but the word -give your commands— We'll tie OUR prologue-monger's hands: Confine these culprits

(holding up his hands)

bind 'em tight, Nor Girls can scratch, nor Fools can write.

THE FARMER'S RETURN FROM LONDON. AN INTERLUDE* 1.59.

PERSONS of the INTERLUDE.

• ...

  Farmer,

  Mr. GARRICK.

  Wife,

  Mrs. BRADSHAW.

• Children,

  Sally,

  Miss HEATH.

  Dick,

  Master POPE.

  Ralph,

  Master CAPE.

SCENE, The Farmer's Kitchen.

XLII. THE Farmer's Return from London.

Enter WIFE (hastily.)

WHERE are you, my children?—why Sally, Dick, Raaph!

Enter Children running.

Your father is come! heaven bless him! and safe.

Enter FARMER.

O Jahn! my heart dances with joy thou art come.

FARMER.

And troth so does mine, for I love thee and whoam.

(Kisses)

WIFE.

Now kiss all your children—and now me agen.

(Kisses)

O bless thy sweet face! for one kiss, gi' me ten.

FARMER.

Keep some for anon, Dame! you quoite stop my breath! You kill me wi' koindness; you buss me to death:

Enough, love!—enough is as good as a feeast: Let's ha' some refreshment for me and my beeast. Dick, get me a poipe.

[Exit Dick]

Raaph, go to the mare; Gi' poor wench some oaats.

[Exit Ralph]

Dame, reach me a chair. Sal, draw me some aal, to wash the dirt down,

(Exit Sal.

And then I will tell you—of London fine town.

(Sits down.

WIFE.

O Jahn! you've been from me, the lord knows how long! Yo've been with the false ones, and done me some wrong:

FARMER.

By the zooks but I han't; so hold thy fool's tongue. Some tittups I saw, and they maade me to stare! Trick'd noice out for saale, like our cattle at fair: So tempting, so fine! and i'cod very cheap; But, Bridget, I know, as we sow we must reeap, And a cunning old ram will avoid rotten sheep.

Enter Dick, with a pipe and a candle, and Sal, with some ale.

WIFE.

But London, dear Jahn!

FARMER.

Is a fine hugeous city! Where the geese are all swans, and the fools are all witty.

WIFE.

Did you see ony Wits?

FARMER.

I look'd up and down, But 'twas labour in vain; they were all out of town. I ask'd for the maakers o' news, and such things! Who know all the secrets of kingdoms, and kings! So busy were they, and such matters about, That six days in the seven they never stir out. Koind souls! with our freedom they make such a fuss, That they lose it themselves to bestow upon us.

WIFE.

But was't thou at Court, Jahn? What there hast thou seen?

FARMER.

I saw 'em—heav'n bless 'em—you know who I mean. I heard their healths pray'd for, agen and agen, With proviso that One may be sick now and then. Some looks speak their hearts, as it were with a tongue— O Dame! I'll be damn'd if they e'er do us wrong: Here's to 'em—bless 'em boath!—do you take the jug; Woud't do their hearts good—I'd swallow the mug.

(Drinks.)

Come, pledge me, my boy.

(To Dick)

Hold, lad, hast nothing to say?

DICK.

Here, Daddy, here's to 'em!

(Drinks)

FARMER.

Well said, Dick, boy!

DICK.

Huzza!

WIFE.

What more didst thou see, to beget admiraation?

FARMER.

The city's fine show: but first the Crownation! 'Twas thof all the world had been there with their spouses; There was street within street, and houses on houses! I thought from above, (when the folk fill'd the pleaces) The streets pav'd with heads, and the walls made of feaces! Such justling and bustling! 'twas worth all the pother. I hope from my soul, I shall ne'er see another.

SAL.

Dad, what did you see at the pleays, and the shows?

FARMER.

What did I see at the pleays and the shows? Why bouncing and grinning, and a pow'r of fine cloaths:

From top to the bottom 'twas all 'chanted ground, Gold, painting, and musick, and blaazing all round! Above 'twas like Bedlam, all roaring and rat∣tling! Below, the fine folk were all curts'ying and prattling: Strange jumble together—Turks, Christians, and Jews! At the Temple of Folly, all crowd to the pews. Here too doizen'd out, where those same freakish ladies, Who keep open market,—tho' smuggling their treade is. I saw a new pleay too—They call'd it The School— I thought it pure stuff—but I thought like a fool— 'Twas The School of* 1.60—pize on it!—my mem'ry is naught— The greaat ones dislik'd it; they heate to be taught: The cratticks too grumbled; I'll tell you for whoy, They wanted to laugh—and were ready to croy.

WIFE.

Pray what are your cratticks?

FARMER.

Like watchmen in town, Lame, feeble, half-blind, yet they knock poets down.

Like old Justice Wormwood—a crattick's a man, That can't sin himself, and he heates those that can. I ne'er went to opras! I thought it too grand, For poor folk to like what they don't understand. The top joke of all, and what pleas'd me the moast, Some wise ones and I sat up with a ghoast.

WIFE and CHILDREN.

A ghoast!—

(starting.)

FARMER.

Yes, a ghoast!

WIFE.

I shall swoond away, love!

FARMER.

Odzooks! thou'rt as bad as thy betters above! With her nails, and her knuckles, she answer'd so noice! For Yes she knock'd Once, and for No she knock'd Twoice. I ask'd her one thing—

WIFE.

What thing?

FARMER.

If yo', Dame, was true?

WIFE.

And the poor soul knock'd one.

FARMER.

By the zounds it was two.

WIFE.

I'll not be abus'd, Jahn.

(Cries)

FARMER.

Come, prithee no croying, The ghoast, among friends, was much giv'n to loying.

WIFE.

I'll tear out her eyes—

FARMER.

I thought, Dame, of matching Your neails against hers—for you're both good at scratching. They may talk of the country, but, I say, in town, Their throats are much woider, to swallow things down. I'll uphold, in a week—by my troth I don't joke— That our little Sall shall fright all the town folk. Come, get me some supper—But first let me peep At the rest of my children—my calves and my sheep.

(Going)

WIFE.

Ah! Jahn!

FARMER.

Nay, chear up; let not ghoasts trouble thee— Bridget! look in thy glass—and there thou may'st see, I defie mortal man to make cuckold o' me.

[Exeunt.

XLIII. EPILOGUE to ELVIRA* 1.61.

Spoken by Mrs. CIBBER.

LADIES and Gentlemen—'tis so ill bred— We have no Epilogue, because I'm dead; For he, our bard, with frenzy-rolling eye, Swears you shan't laugh, when he has made you cry. At which I gave his sleeve a gentle pull, Suppose they should not cry, and should be dull; In such a case, 'twould surely do no harm, A little lively nonsense taken warm; On critic stomachs delicate and queasy, 'Twill ev'n make a heavy meal sit easy. The town hates Epilogues—it is not true, I answer'd that for you—and you—and you—

[To Pit, Boxes, and 1st Gal.

They call for Epilogues and hornpipes too.

[To the Upper Gal.

Madam, the critics say,—to you they're civil, Here, if they have 'em not, they'll play the devil. Out of this house, sir, and to you alone, They'll smile, cry bravo! charming!—Here they groan:

A single critic will not frown, look big, Harmless and pliant as a single twig, But crouded here they change, and 'tis not odd, For twigs, when bundled up, become a rod. Critics to bards, like beauties to each other, When tete-a-tete their enmity they smother; " Kiss me, my dear—how do you? -charming creature! " What shape! what bloom! what spirit in each feature! " You flatter me—'pon honor, no.—You do— " My friend—my—Dear sincerely yours—adieu!" But when at routs, the dear friends change their tone; I speak of foreign ladies, not our own. Will you permit, good firs, these gloomy folk To give all tragedy without one joke? They gravely tell us, Tragedy's design'd To purge the passions, purify the mind; To which I say, to strike those blockheads dumb, With physic always give a sugar plumb; I love these sugar-plumbs in prose or rhimes; No one is merrier than myself sometimes; Yet I, poor I, with tears and constant moan, Am melted down almost to skin and bone: This night, in sighs and sobs I drew my breath; Love, marriage, treason, prison, poison, death, Were scarce sufficient to complete my fate; Two children were thrown in to make up weight.

With all these sufferings, is it not provoking, To be deny'd at last a little joking? If they will make new laws, for mirth's sake break 'em, Roar out for Epilogues, and let me speak 'em.

XLIV. ADDRESS to the TOWN,

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK* 1.62 in the Character of the Busy Body.

SINCE my good friends, tho' late, are pleas'd at last, I bear with patience all my suff'rings past; To you who saw my suff'rings, it is clear, I bought my secrets most confounded dear. To any gentleman not over nice, I'll sell 'em all again, and at half price† 1.63. Would I had been among you! for no doubt, You all have secrets, could I find them out. Each has a secret fitted to his fancy; My friends above there—honest John and Nancy!

How well their secrets with their passions suit, Hearts full of love, and pockets full of fruit, Each jolly sailor thus his mistress grapples, They look, and laugh, and love, and—eat their apples. So good or wise this precious town is growing, There's scarce a secret here, that's worth the knowing; Nay, where a hungry mind expects a feast, 'Mongst politicians—it will get the least. They promise much—seem full—stare, nod and pout, But tap 'em, and the devil a drop comes out. In short, I'll give this busy business over, Where much is felt, and little to discover; But should the ladies wish, or want t' employ me, I should be proud and pleas'd if they would try me. To manage meetings, or to slip a letter, There's no French millener can do it better. As for the gentleman—the rake, or beau— I would not give 'em that—for all they know; Indeed for secrets there are none excel 'em, But then they make 'em, and when made, they tell 'em. There is one secret still remains behind, Which ever did, and will distract my mind— I'd give up all for that—nay, fix for ever, To find the secret—to deserve your favour.

XLV. PROLOGUE,

Spoken by Mr. LOVE, on opening the new Theatre on Richmond-Green* 1.64.

THE ship now launch'd with necessaries stor'd, Rigg'd, mann'd, well built, and a rich freight on board, All ready, tight and trim, from head to poop, And by commission make a royal sloop; May heav'n from tempests, rocks, and privateers, Preserve The Richmond!—give her, boys, three cheers!

(three huzzas behind.

Queen Mab, our Shakespeare says, and I believe him, In sleep haunts each vain mortal to deceive him; As in her hazle nut she lightly trips, By turns o'er eyes, ears, fingers, nose, and lips, Each quicken'd sense such sweet enchantment seizes, We hear, see, smell, taste, touch—whate'er she pleases. Look round this house, and various proof you'll see, Strong glaring proofs, that Mab has been with me.

She caught me napping, knew where I was vain, And tickled every fibre of my brain: Deep in my musing (deep as I was able) Methought I saw her driving tow'rds my table, She whisk'd her chariot o'er my books and shelves, And at my standish stopp'd her tiny elves: What are you scribbling there?—quick, let me see! Poh!—leave this nonsense, and along with me. I grinning bow'd—Bright star of Lilliput, Shall I not crowd you in your bazle nut? She smil'd, and shewing me a large-siz'd hamper, Get into this, my friend, and then we'll scamper; I for this frolick wanting quick digestion, Sent to my tongue, post-haste, another question; But crack she went, before that I could ask it, She, in her stage—I, Faltsaff, in the basket: She wav'd her wand, then burst in fits of laughter, To see me rowling, bowling, tumbling after; And I laugh'd too. Could you of laughing fail To see a Minnow towing of a whale? At last we rested on a hill hard by, With a sweet vale to feast the glutton eye: I'll shew you more, she said, to charm and move us, And to the gardens, quick as thought, she drove us; Then pointing to the shade—there, there they are, Of this most happy isle the happiest pair! Oh! may those virtuous raptures never cease, Nor public cares disturb their private peace!

She sigh'd—and like the lightning was she seen To drive her chariot o'er this fav'rite green; Strait to this spot—where she infus'd such things Might turn the heads of twenty play-house kings. But fear, dispersing all my golden dream, And I just entering on this fairy-scheme; With wild surprize I cast my eyes about, Delusion ends, and now I wake to doubt: O may the dream be realiz'd by you! Your frowns or smiles can make this false or true.

XLVI. The OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,

Spoken by Mr. KING at the Opening of Drury-Lane Theatre, September 1765.

[Enter, reading a Subscription.]

I'M right—your servant, sirs—th' Address is plain— To the high court of critics, Drury-lane. Two ladies, sisters, women of condition, Have sent by me, their courier, a petition. Who are these ladies should the curious ask? See their broad seal, a dagger and a mask! Here, Brass, take this. I answer to the name, Am at their call, and for your service came.

'Tis sign'd, as you may plainly see, Thalia and Melpomene, Alias, Tragedy and Comedy. Poor souls! they're angry; and to hint is treason That angry ladies have not always reason; In classic language they complain of wrong, Which thus I change to mine, the vulgar tongue. They set forth at large, that their case is so sad, That poor Comedy weeps, and that Tragedy's mad; That Op'ra, their rival, heretofore maid of ho∣nour, Has got to your hearts, and has ta'en much upon her; That this foreign minx has engross'd all your favours, And fritter'd their passions and humour to qua∣vers; That she walks cheek by jole, and won't hold up her tail; So humbly they beg, that you'll send her to jail; There strip her, and whip her, then send her away, And, bound as in duty, for ever they'll pray. My mistresses mettled, so high in their blood, Would scratch poor Op'ra's eyes out, if they could. Suppose, your honours, to avoid a fuss, And save the pulling caps, adjust it thus.

When Tragedy has barrow'd up the soul, Flung'd deep her dagger, or toss'd off her bowl; When grief, rage, murder, strew the palace round, Musick should pour her balm into the wound; Or, when the Comic Lass has shook your sides, That laughter swell'd so high, burst out in tides, Then Musick, with its sweet enchanting strain, Should to its banks lure back the tide again. But how shall we your various fancies bind, When ev'ry Briton has a diff'rent mind? Musick's a harlot, (thus Tom Surly spoke) Whose charms will bend our honest Hearts of Oak! What are the Romans now, once brave and free? Nothing but tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee. Read Shakspur (cries his wife) he'll blunt your satire, Who has not musick in his soul's a traitor. Ev'n savage beasts are mov'd by musick's touch; And you, my dear, to be unmov'd—is much. Mammy is right (lisps Miss)—you're wrong, my Daddy; I'd hear for ever, sir, Through the Wood Laddie* 1.65. How's this! roars out a bard, in tragic pride, This catgut p st comes on with mighty stride; In Musick's lulling magick we are bound; Like yawning, spreads the epidemick sound, " For when one yawns, by turns we yawn all round."

XLVII. PROLOGUE to DAPHNE and AMINTOR* 1.66.

Spoken by Mr. POWELL.

A SKILFUL cook this useful art will boast, To hash and mince, as well as boil and roast; Our cook to-night has for your fare made bold To hash a piece of ven'son that was cold† 1.67; With fresh ingredients seasons high the stew, And hopes the guests will heartily fall to.

Leaving the piece to answer for itself, We beg your favour for a little elf‡ 1.68; A young one, and a good one; yet no sinner; And though a female, has no mischief in her: Tho' oft with syren song she charm'd your ears, She now has other hopes, and other fears: She hopes, not yet content with what is done, To find more ways into your hearts than one. A passion long she hid, 'till out it broke, And thus, with blushing diffidence, she spoke:

" What joys, what raptures in my breast would spring, " Had I but leave to act, as well as sing! " Though young I am, and difficult the trade is, " In time, I'll do as much as other ladies."

Ye giant wits, who run a tilt at all, Who spare nor sex, nor age, nor great nor small, Should you, fell criticks! like the French wild beast* 1.69, With gluttony refin'd on damsels feast—

Spare ours awhile!—let her some substance get; Plumpt high with fame—she's scarce a mouthful yet. Or would ye, ladies, strike these giants dumb, You can protect her from their fee-faw-fum! Though humble now, how soon would she be vain, Should you but cry—Bravo!—we'll come again! To raise your smiles were it her happy lot, For smiles are honest when the hands are not; Should you our little songstress kindly treat, With gratitude her little heart would beat; What raptures for a female, and so young, To have a double right to use her tongue!

XLVIII. PROLOGUE,

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK before Much ado about Nothing, acted by Command of his Majesty* 1.70.

WITH doubt—joy—apprehension almost dumb, Once more to face this awful court I come; Lest Benedict should suffer by my fear, Before he enters, I myself am here.

I'm told (what flatt'ry to my heart!) that you* 1.71 Have wish'd to see me, nay have press'd it too, Alas! 'twill prove another much ado. I, like a boy who long has truant play'd, No lessons got, no exercises made, On bloody Monday take my fearful stand, And often eye the birchen-scepter'd hand. 'Tis twice twelve years since first the stage I trod, Enjoy'd your smiles, and felt the critics rod; A very nine-pin I, my stage-life through, Knock'd down by wits, set up again by you. In four and twenty years the spirits cool; Is it not long enough to play the fool? To prove it is, permit me to repeat What late I heard in passing thro' the street: A youth of parts, with ladies by his side, Thus cock'd his glass, and through it shot my pride: ' 'Tis he, by Jove! grown quite a clumsy fellow; ' He's fit for nothing—but a Punchinello.' ' O yes, for comic scenes, Sir John—no further; ' He's much too fat—for battles, rape, and mur∣ther!' Worn in the service, you my faults will spare, And make allowance for the wear and tear.

The Chelsea pensioner, who, rich in scars, Fights o'er in prattle all his former wars; Tho' past the service, may the young ones teach, To march—present—to fire—and mount the breach.

Should the drum beat to arms, at first he'll grieve For wooden leg, lost eye—and armless sleeve; Then cocks his hat, looks fierce, and swells his chest; 'Tis for my King, and, zounds, I'll do my best!

XLIX. PROLOGUE to the CLANDESTINE MAR∣RIAGE* 1.72.

Spoken by Mr. HOLLAND.

POETS and painters, who from nature draw Their best and richest stores, have made this law: That each should neighbourly assist his brother, And steal with decency from one another. To-night, your matchless Hogarth gives the thought, Which from his canvas to the stage is brought. And who so fit to warm the poet's mind, As he who pictur'd morals and mankind? But not the same their characters and scenes; Both labour for one end, by different means:

Each, as it suits him, takes a separate road, Their one great object, Marriage A-la-mode! Where Titles deign with Cits to have and hold, And change rich blood for more substantial gold! And honour'd trade from interest turns aside, To hazard happiness for titled pride. The painter dead, yet still he charms the eye; While England lives, his fame can never die: But he, who struts his hour upon the stage, Can scarce extend his fame for half an age; Nor pen nor pencil can the Actor save, The art, and artist, share one common grave.

O let me drop one tributary tear On poor Jack Falstaff's grave, and Juliet's bier* 1.73! You to their worth must testimony give; 'Tis in your hearts alone their fame can live. Still as the scenes of life will shift away, The strong impressions of their art decay. Your children cannot feel what you have known; They'll boast of Quins and Cibbers of their own: The greatest glory of our happy sew, Is to be felt, and be approv'd by YOU.

L. EPILOGUE to the CLANDESTINE MAR∣RIAGE.

CHARACTERS of the EPILOGUE.

Lord Minum

Mr. Dodd.

Colonel Trill

Mr. Vernon.

Sir Patrick Mahony

Mr. Moody.

Miss Crotchet

Mrs. Abington.

Mrs. Quaver

Mrs. Lee.

First Lady

Mrs. Bradshaw.

Second Lady

Miss Mills.

Third Lady

Mrs. Dorman.

SCENE, An Assembly.

Several Persons at Cards, at different Tables; among the rest Col. Trill, Lord Minum, Mrs. Quaver, Sir Patrick Mahony.

At the Quadrille Table.

Col. T.

LADIES, with leave—

2d Lady.

Pass!

3d Lady.

Pass!

Mrs. Qu.

You must do more.

Col. T.

Indeed I can't.

Mrs. Qu.

I play in Hearts.

Col. T.

Encore!

2d Lady.

What luck?

Col. T.

To-night at Drury-lane is play'd A comedy, and toute nouvelle—a Spade! Is not Miss Crotchet at the play?

Mrs. Qu.

My niece Has made a party, sir, to damn the piece.

At the Whist Table.

Ld. Min.

I hate a play-house—trump!—it makes me sick.

1st Lady.

We're two by honours, ma'am.

Ld. Min.

And we the odd trick. Pray do you know the author, Colonel Trill?

Col. T.

I know no poets, heav'n be prais'd—Spadille!

1st Lady.

I'll tell you who, my lord!

(whispers my lord)

Ld. Min.

What he again? " And dwell such daring souls in little men?" Be whose it will, they down our throats will cram it.

Col. T.

O no.—I have a Club—the best—we'll damn it.

Mrs. Qu.

O bravo, Colonel! musick is my flame.

Ld. Min.

And mine, by Jupiter! We've won the game.

Col. T.

What, do you love all musick?

Mrs. Qu.

No, not Handel's. And nasty Plays—

Ld. Min.

Are fit for Goths and Vandals.

(Rise from the table and pay.)

At the Piquette Table.

Sir Pat.

Well, faith and troth! that Shakspeare was no fool!

Col. T.

I'm glad you like him, sir!—So ends the Pool!

(Pay and rise from table.)

SONG by the Colonel.

I hate all their nonsense, Their Shakespeares and Johnsons, Their plays, and their play-house, and bards: 'Tis singing, not saying; A fig for all playing, But playing, as we do, at cards!

I love to see Jonas, Am pleas'd too with Comus; Each well the spectator rewards. So clever, so neat in Their tricks and their cheating! Like them we would fain deal our cards.

Sir Pat.

King Lare is touching!—And how fine to see Ould Hamlet's ghost!—"To be, or not to be." What are your op'ras to Othello's roar? Oh he's an angel of a blackamoor!

Ld. Min.

What, when he choaks his wife?

Col. T.

And calls her whore?

Sir Pat.

King Richard calls his horse—and then Macbeth, Whene'er he murders—takes away the breath. My blood runs cold at ev'ry syllable, To see the dagger—that's invisible.

(All laugh.)

Sir Pat.

Laugh if you please, a pretty play—

Ld. Min.

Is pretty.

Sir Pat.

And when there's wit in't—

Col T.

To be sure 'tis witty.

Sir Pat.

I love the play-house now—so light and gay, With all those candles,* 1.74 they have ta••en away!

(All laugh)

For all your game, what makes it so much brighter?

Col. T.

Put out the light, and then—

Ld. Min.

'Tis so much lighter.

Sir Pat.

Pray do you mane, sirs, more than you express?

Col. T.

Just as it happens—

Ld. Min.

Either more or less.

Mrs. Qu.

An't you asham'd, sir?

[to Sir Pat.]

Sir Pat.

Me! I seldom blush. For little Shakespeare, faith! I'd take a push!

Ld. Min.

News, news! here comes Miss Crotchet from the play.

Enter Miss Crotchet.

Mrs. Qu.

Well, Crotchet, what's the news?

Miss Cro.

We've lost the day.

Col. T.

Tell us, dear miss, all you have heard and seen.

Miss Cro.

I'm tir'd—a chair—here, take my ca∣puchin!

Ld. Min.

And isn't damn'd, miss?

Miss Cro.

No, my lord, not quite: But we shall damn it.

Col. T.

When?

Miss Cro.

To-morrow night. There is a party of us, all of fashion, Resolv'd to exterminate this vulgar pas∣sion: A play-house, what a place! I must forswear it. A little mischief only makes one bear it. Such crowds of city folks!—so rude and pressing! And their horse-laughs, so hideously distressing! Whene'er we hiss'd, they frown'd and fell a swearing, Like their own Guildhall Giants, fierce and staring!

Col. T.

What said the folks of fashion? were they cross?

Ld. Min.

The rest have no more judgment than my horse.

Miss Cro.

Lord Grimly swore 'twas execrable stuff. Says one, Why so, my lord?—my lord took snuff. In the first Act Lord George began to doze, And criticis'd the Author—through his nose; So loud indeed, that as his lordship snor'd, The Pit turn'd round, and all the brutes encor'd. Some lords, indeed, approv'd the Au∣thor's jokes.

Ld. Min.

We have among us, miss, some foolish folks.

Miss Cro.

Says poor Lord Simper—Well now, to my mind, The piece is good; but he's both deaf and blind.

Sir Pat.

Upon my soul a very pretty story! And quality appears in all its glory! There was some merit in the piece, no doubt;

Miss Cro.

O, to be sure! if one could find it out.

Col. T.

But tell us, miss, the subject of the play.

Miss Cro.

Why, 'twas a marriage—yes, a mar∣riage—Stay! A Lord, an Aunt, two Sisters, and a Merchant— A Baronet, ten Lawyers, a fat Serjeant,

Are all produc'd—to talk with one another; And about something make a mighty pother; They all go in, and out, and to, and fro; And talk, and quarrel—as they come and go. Then go to bed, and then get up—and then Scream, saint, scold, kiss—and go to bed again.

(All laugh)

Such is the play—your judgment! never sham it.

Col. T.

O damn it!

Mrs. Qu.

Damn it!

1st Lady.

Damn it!

Miss Cro.

Damn it!

Ld. Min.

Damn it!

Sir Pat.

Well, faith, you speak your minds, and I'll be free— Good night! this company's too good for me.

(Going.)

Col. T.

Your judgment, dear Sir Patrick, make us proud.

(All laugh.)

Sir. Pat.

Laugh if you please, but pray don't laugh too loud.

[Exit.

RECITATIVE.

Col. T.

Now the barbarian's gone, miss, tune your tongue, And let us raise our spirits high with song!

RECITATIVE.

Miss Cro.

Colonel, de tout mon coeur—I've one in petto, Which you shall join, and make it a Duetto.

RECITATIVE.

Ld. Min.

Bella Signora, et Amico mio! I too will join, and then we'll make a Trio.

Col. T.

Come all and join the full-mouth'd Chorns, And drive all Tragedy and Comedy be∣fore us.

All the Company rise, and advance to the Front of the Stage.

AIR.

Col. T.

Would you ever go to see a Tragedy?

Miss Cro.

Never, never.

Col. T.

A Comedy?

Ld. M.

Never, never, Live for ever! Tweedle-dum, and Tweedle-dee.

Col. T.

Ld. M. and Miss Cro. Live for ever! Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee!

CHORUS.

Would you ever go to see, &c.

LI. PROLOGUE For the opening of the Bristol Theatre,

Spoken by Mr. POWELL* 1.75.

BEFORE you see, one of your stage directors, Or, if you please, one of those strange projec∣tors, Whose heated brain in fatal magic bound, Seeks for that stone which never can be found: But in projection comes the dreadful stroke, The glasses burst, and all is bounce and smoke! Tho' doubtful still our fate—I bite my thumbs, And my heart fails me—for projection comes: Your smiles would chase our fears—still I could dream, Rich as a Nabob, with my golden scheme! That all the world's a stage, you can't deny; And what's our stage?—a shop—I'll tell you why. You are the customers, the tradesmen we; And well for us, you pay, before you see: We give no trust, a ready money trade; Should you stop payment, we are bankrupts made.

To feast your minds, and sooth each worldly care, We largely traffic in Dramatic Ware; Then swells our shop, a warehouse to your eyes; And we from small retailers, merchants rise! From Shakespeare's golden mines we'll fetch the ore, And land his riches on this happy shore! For we theatric merchants never quit His boundless stores of universal wit! But we in vain shall richly laden come, Unless deep water brings us safely home; Unless your favour in full tides will flow, Ship, crew, and cargo, to the bottom go! Indulge us then, and from our hearts receive Our warmest wishes—all we have to give. May honour'd commerce, with her sails unfurl'd, Still bring you treasures from each distant world; From east to west extend this city's name, Still to her sons encreasing wealth with fame. And may this merit be our honest boast, To give you pleasure, and no virtue lost.

LII. ADDRESS to the TOWN, by way of EPI∣LOGUE to the COUNTRY GIRL* 1.76.

Spoken by Miss REYNOLDS.

BUT you good gentry, what say you to this? You are to judge me—have I done amiss? I've reasons will convince ye all, and strong ones, Except old folks, who hanker after young ones: Bud was so passionate, and grown so thrifty, 'Twas a sad life!—and then, he was near fifty. I'm but nineteen—my husband too is young, So soft, so gentle, such a winning tongue! Have I, pray ladies speak, done very wrong? As for poor Bud, 'twas honest to deceive him! More virtuous sure to cheat him, than to grieve him. Great folk, I know, will call me simple slut, Marry for love, they cry; the country put! Marriage with them's a fashion—soon grows cool; But I'm for loving always, like a fool. With half my fortune I would rather part, Than be all finery with an aching heart. For these strange aukward notions don't abuse me, And as I know no better—pray excuse me!

LIII. EPILOGUE to the EARL of WARWICK* 1.77.

Spoken by Mrs. YATES.

EXHAUSTED quite with prisons, racks, and death, Permit me here to take a little breath! You who have seen my actions, know their springs, Say, are we women such insipid things? Say, lords of the creation, mighty men! In what have you surpass'd us? where? and when? I come to know to whom the palm is due: To us weak vessels, or to stronger you? Against your conqu'ring swords I draw—my fan. Come on—now parry Marg'ret† 1.78, if you can.

(Sets herself in a posture of defence.

Stand up, ye boasters!

(to the pit)

don't there sneaking sit; Are you for pleasure, politicks, or wit? The Boxes smile to see me scold the Pit.

Their turn is next—and, tho' I will not wrong 'em, A woeful havock there will be among 'em. You, our best friends, love, cherish, and respect us; Not take our fortunes, marry, and neglect us. You think, indeed, that, as you please, you rule us, And with a strange importance often school us! Yet let each citizen describe a brother, I'll tell you what you say of one another. My neighbour leads, poor soul, a woeful life, A worthy man—but govern'd by his wife! How say you? what, all silent! then 'tis true: We rule the city—now, great sirs, to you.

(To the Boxes.

What is your boast? Would you like me have done, To free a captive wife, or save a son? Rather than run such dangers of your lives, You'd leave your children, and lock up your wives. When with your noblest deeds a nation rings, You are but puppets, and we play the strings. We plan no battles—true—but out of fight, Crack goes the fan—and armies halt or fight! You have the advantage, ladies! wisely reap it, And let me hint the only way to keep it: Let men of mean ideas have their fill, Frown, bounce, stride, strut, while you with happy skill,

Like anglers, use the finest silken thread; Give line enough—nor check a tugging head: The fish will flounder; you, with gentle hand, And soft degrees, must bring the trout to land: A more specific nostrum cannot be— Probatum est—and never fails with me.

LIV. PROLOGUE to CYMON* 1.79.

For New-Year's Day.

Spoken by Mr. KING.

I COME, obedient to my brethren's call, From top to bottom to salute you all; Warmly to wish, before our piece you view, A happy year—to you—you—you—and you!

Boxes, pit, 1st gall. 2d gall.

From you the play'rs enjoy, and feel it here, The merry Christmas and the happy year.

There is a good old saying, pray attend it; As you begin the year, you'll surely end it. Should any one this night incline to evil, He'll play for twelve long months the very devil!

Should any married dame exert her tongue, She'll sing, the zodiac round, the same sweet song: And should the husband join his musick too, Why then 'tis cat and dog the whole year through. Ye sons of law and physic, for your ease, Be sure, this day, you never take your fees: Can't you refuse?—then the disease grows strong, You'll have two itching palms, Lord knows how long! Writers of news by this strange fate are bound, They fib to-day, and fib the whole year round. You wits assembled here, both great and small, Set not this night afloat—your critick gall; If you should snarl, and not incline to laughter, What sweet companions for a twelvemonth after! You must be muzzled for this night at least; Our author has a right this day to feast: He has not touch'd one bit as yet—Remember, 'Tis a long fast from now, to next December. 'Tis holiday! you are our patrons now;

(To the upper gallery.

If you but grin, the criticks won't bow-wow. As for the plot, wit, humour, language—I Beg you such trifles kindly to pass by; The most essential part, which something means, As dresses, dances, sinkings, flyings, scenes! They'll make you stare!—nay, there is such a thing! Will make you stare still more—for I must sing!

And should your taste and ears be over-nice, Alas! you'll spoil my singing in a trice. If you should growl, my notes will alter soon, I can't be in—if you are out of tune. Permit my fears your favour to bespeak, My part's a strong one, and poor I but weak* 1.80. If you but smile, I'm firm; if frown, I stumble; Scarce well of one, spare me a second tumble!

LV. EPILOGUE To the ENGLISH MERCHANT* 1.81.

Enter Lady Alton (Mrs. ABINGTON) in a pas∣sion; Spatter (Mr. KING) following.

L. Alt.

I'LL hear no more, thou wretch! at∣tend to reason! A woman of my rank! 'tis petty treason! Hear reason, blockhead! Reason! what is that? Bid me wear pattens, and a high-crown'd hat!

Won't you begone? What won't you? What's your view?

Spatter.

Humbly to serve the tuneful Nine in you. I must invoke you—

L. Alt.

I renounce such things; Not Phoebus now, but Vengeance sweeps the strings: My mind is discord all! I scorn, detest All human kind!—you more than all the rest.

Spatter.

I humbly thank you, ma'am; but weigh the matter.

L. Alt.

I won't hear reason! and I hate you, Spatter! Myself, and ev'ry thing.

Spatter.

That I deny; You love a little mischief, so do I; And mischief I have for you.

L. Alt.

How? where? when? Will you stab Falbridge?

Spatter.

Yes, ma'am—with my pen.

L. Alt.

Let loose, my Spatter, 'till to death you've stung 'em, That green-ey'd monster, Jealousy, among 'em.

Spatter.

To dash at all, the spirit of my trade is, Men, Women, Children, Parsons, Lords and La∣dies. There will be danger.

L. Alt.

And there shall be pay. Take my purse, Spatter!

(Gives it him.

Spatter.

In an honest way.

(Smiles and takes it.

L. Alt.

Should my Lord beat you—

Spatter.

Let them laugh that win! For all my bruises, here's gold-beater's skin.

(Chinking the purse.

L. Alt.

Nay, should he kill you—

Spatter.

Ma'am!

L. Alt.

My kindness meant To pay your merit with a monument.

Spatter.

Your kindness, Lady, takes away my breath; We'll stop, with your good leave, on this side death.

L. Alt.

Attack Amelia, both in verse and prose: Your wit can make a nettle of a rose.

Spatter.

A stinging nettle for his Lordship's breast; And to my stars and dashes leave the rest. I'll make 'em miserable, never fear; Pout in a month, and part in half a year. I know my genius, and can trust my plan; I'll break a woman's heart with any man.

L. Alt.

Thanks, thanks, dear Spatter! be severe and bold!

Spatter.

No qualms of conscience with a purse of gold; Tho' pill'ries threaten, and tho' crabsticks fall, Your's are my heart, soul, pen, ears, bones, and all.

[Exit Spatter.

Lady Alton alone.

Thus to the winds at once my cares I scatter— O 'tis a charming rascal, this same Spatter! His precious mischief makes the storm subside! My anger, thank my stars! all rose from pride. Pride should belong to us alone of fashion; And let the mob take love, that vulgar passion! Love, pity, tenderness, are only made For poets, Abigails, and folks in trade; Some cits about their feelings make a fuss, And some are better bred—who live with us; How low Lord Falbridge is! he takes a wife, To love, and cherish, and be fix'd for life! Thinks marriage is a comfortable state, No pleasure like a vartuous tete-à-tete! Do our Lords Justice, for I would not wrong 'em, There are not many such poor souis among 'em. Our turtles from the town will fly with speed, And I'll foretell the vulgar life they'll lead. With love and ease grown fat, they face all wea∣ther, And, farmers both, trudge arm in arm together: Now view their stock, now in their nurs'ry prattle, For ever with their children, or their cattle. Like the dull mill-horse, in one round they keep, They walk, talk, fondle, dine, and fall asleep: Their custom always in the afternoon, He bright as Sol, and she the chaste full Moon!

Wak'd with their coffee, madam first begins, She rubs her eyes, his Lordship rubs his shins; She sips, and smirks—"Next week's our wed∣ding-day, " Married seven years!—and ev'ry hour

(yawns)

more gay!" " True, Emmy,

(cries my Lord)

the blessing lies, " Our hearts in ev'ry thing

(yawns)

so sympa∣thize!" The day thus spent, my Lord for musick calls; He thrums the bass, to which my Lady squalls; The children join, which so delights these ninnies, The brats seem all Guarduccis—Lovatinies. —What means this qualm? Why, sure, while I'm despising, That vulgar passion, Envy, is not rising! O no!—Contempt is struggling to burst out: I'll give it vent at Lady Scalpem's route.

[Exit hastily.

Notes

• * 1.1

  By Mr. Garrick first acted April 1740 (before the Author's appearance on the stage) at Drury-lane, for the benefit of Mr. Giffard. This performance was a sketch of the very popular Drama afterwards so frequently represented at Drury-lane Theatre. In its first state it contained only the outlines of some of the characters.
• † 1.2

  See The Virgin Unmask'd by Fielding.
• * 1.3

  Printed in the Gentleman's Magazine, Sept. 1740, with the signature G. The same Letter is added to several other Pieces afterwards acknowledged by Mr. Garrick.
• * 1.4

  A Comedy by Mr. Love, first acted at Goodman's Fields, Nov. 1741. In this Play, which is founded on Richardson's very popular Novel, Mr. Garrick performed, and, as is gene∣nerally imagined, wrote the character of Jack Spatter.
• * 1.5

  Farce, by Mr. Garrick; first acted in Goodman's Fields, Nov. 1741.
• * 1.6

  A Tragedy, by Mr. Havard, acted first Time February 1744, at Drury-lane Theatre.
• * 1.7

  A Comedy, by Mr. Ralph, acted at Drury-lane, April 1744. In an Advertisement prefixed to this Play, the Author complains that ten years had elapsed before it could obtain the favour of a representation; that he was not unknown to the great, nor destitute of private friends; and having devoted the most serious of his studies to the service of the publick, he had some reason to expect the public favour. Yet that the receipts of the house upon the first night were but twenty-one pounds; and when the Manager risqued a second to give the Author a chance for a Benefit, he was obliged to shut up his doors for want of an audience. Biog. Dramatica, Vol. ii. p. 22.
• * 1.8

  A Comedy, by Dr. Benjamin Hoadley, acted first Time at Covent Garden Theatre, Feb. 1747.
• * 1.9

  This Epilogue in a late collection has been erroneously ascribed to Dr. Johnson, who wrote only the Prologue on this occasion.
• * 1.10

  A famous toyman in Pall-mall.
• * 1.11

  A Comedy by Mr. Moore, acted at Drury-lane, February 1748.
• * 1.12

  Mr. Moore was the Author of The Fables for the Female Sex.
• * 1.13

  In which papers was this paragraph:—

  "We hear that Mr. Quin, Mrs. Cibber, Mr. Barry, Mr. Macklin, and Mrs. Wof∣fington, are engaged at Covent-Garden Theatre for the ensuing season."

  —On the part of Drury-lane Theatre it was no∣tified, That two celebrated Actors from Dublin were engaged to perform there; also Miss Bellamy and a new Actress, Signor Fausan, the comic dancer, and his wife, and a Gentleman to sing, who has not been on any stage.
• * 1.14

  Mrs. Pritchard.
• † 1.15

  Mrs. Clive.
• * 1.16

  Mr. Garrick.
• † 1.17

  Mr. Barry.
• * 1.18

  A line in the Prologue spoken at Covent-Garden by Mr. Barry.
• * 1.19

  A Comedy by Mr. Moore, acted at Drury-Lane, February 1751.
• * 1.20

  A Comedy in Two Acts, by Mr. Foote, acted at Drury-Lane, January 1752.
• * 1.21

  A Tragedy by Dr. Francis, acted at Drury-lane, February 1752.
• * 1.22

  Eugenia was little more than a free translation of a French Comedy called Cenia.
• * 1.23

  A Tragedy, by Mr. Moore, acted at Drury-lane, January 1753.
• * 1.24

  Elizabeth Canning, who at this time engaged the attention of the publick, by a story of a pretended robbery by Mary Squires, a Gipsey.
• † 1.25

  The person here meant is Mons. Cervetti, who has been a standing joke, with the upper gallery, for a long time pail, on account of the length of his nose; but, as I am informed, no feature of his mind is out of proportion, unless it be that his good qualities are extraordinary, I take this opportunity to mention, that it is cruel to render him uneasy in the business, in which he is eminert, and in which he must get a livelihood.
• * 1.26

  A Tragedy, by Mr. Crisp, acted at Drury-lane, February 1754.
• * 1.27

  This was Mrs. Graham, since the celebrated Mrs. Yates. The part she performed was ••••ilia.
• * 1.28

  A Tragedy, by Dr. Browne, acted at Drury-lane, De∣cember 1754.
• * 1.29

  An English Opera, by Mr. Garrick, taken from Midsum∣mer N ght's Dream, acted at Drury-lane, February 1755.
• * 1.30

  It was composed by Mr. Smith.
• * 1.31

  Mr. Smith was a pupil of Handell, and afterwards his successor in the management of the Oratorios.
• * 1.32

  This prologue was written by Mr. Garrick and Mr. Mal∣let; and the copy inserted here, which was taken in short-hand, as it was spoke on the third night, and corrected the fourth, dif∣fers from the copy that has been printed and prefix'd to the Masque.
• † 1.33

  A Masque, by Mr. Mallet, acted at Drury-lane, May 1755.
• * 1.34

  A Farce, by Mr. Murphy, acted at Drury-lane, January 1756.
• * 1.35

  A Dramatick Pastoral, altered by Mr. Garrick, and acted at Drury-Lane, January 1756.
• * 1.36

  Mr. Quin had then left the stage.
• * 1.37

  The action of the Winter's Tale, as written by Shakes∣peare, comprehends sixteen years.
• * 1.38

  An Opera, by Mr. Garrick, acted at Drury-lane, Feb. 1756.
• * 1.39

  A Tragedy, by Dr. Brown, acted at Drury-lane, Feb. 1756.
• * 1.40

  A Farce, by Mr. Garrick, acted at Drury-lane, Decem∣ber 1756.
• * 1.41

  A Farce, by Mr. Garrick, acted at Mr. Woodward's Be∣nefit, Drury-lane, March 24, 1757.
• * 1.42

  A Comedy altered from Shirley, by Mr. Garrick, and acted at Drury-lane, December 1757.
• * 1.43

  A Pantomime by Mr. Garrick, acted at Drury-lane, De∣cember 1759.
• † 1.44

  The name assumed by Mr. Rich when he performed Har∣lequin.
• * 1.45

  A Dramatic Poem, by Mr. Murphy, acted at Drury-lane, January 1760.
• * 1.46

  On the same Evening The way to keep Him in three Acts was first produced.
• * 1.47

  A Dramatick Novel by Mr. Colman, acted at Drury-Lane, December 1760.
• † 1.48

  These lines were written by Mr. Garrick, and added on its being reported that he was the Author of the Piece; a report, which he modestly supposed might be prejudicial to its success.
• * 1.49

  A Tragedy, by Henry Brooke, Esq acted at Drury-lane, January 1761.
• * 1.50

  It should be remembered that this Epilogue was spoken just after the accession of his present Majesty.
• * 1.51

  A Fairy Tale, by Dr. Hawkesworth, acted at Drury-lane, January 1761.
• * 1.52

  About the year 1761.
• * 1.53

  Alluding to a sentence in his Majesty's first Speech to his Parliament—

  "Born and educated in this country, I glory in the name of Briton."
• * 1.54

  A Comedy, by Mr. Murphy, acted at Drury-lane, June 1761, while that Theatre was under the management of him∣self and Mr. Foote.
• * 1.55

  A Tragedy, by Mr. Delap, acted at Drury-lane, Decem∣ber 1761.
• * 1.56

  At this time the town was entertained with representations of the Coronation at both the Theatres.
• * 1.57

  A Farce, by Mr. Colman, acted at Drury-lane, March 1762.
• * 1.58

  At this time the Publick was amused with the ridiculous imposition of the Cock-lane Ghost.
• * 1.59

  Acted at Drury-lane, March 1762, at Mrs. Pritchard's Benefit.
• * 1.60

  The School for Lovers, a Comedy by Mr. Whitehead, acted at Drury-lane, 1762.
• * 1.61

  A Tragedy, by Mr. Mallet, acted at Drury-lane, January 1763.
• * 1.62

  About March 1763.
• † 1.63

  This Address was spoken just after the dispute relating to the admission of persons into the Theatres at half prices had been finally settled.
• * 1.64

  15th June, 1765.
• * 1.65

  A favourite song sung the preceding summer at Vauxhall, by Miss Wright.
• * 1.66

  A Musical Farce, by Isaac Bickerstaffe, acted at Drury-lane 8th October, 1765.
• † 1.67

  Daphne and Amintor is little more than Mrs. Cibber's Oracle, with the addition of songs.
• ‡ 1.68

  Miss Wright, afterwards Mrs. Arne, who performed Daphne. She had before played one of the Fairies in Edgar and Emmeline.
• * 1.69

  At this time the news-papers were daily publishing extrava∣gant accounts of the depredations of a wild beast in the neigh∣bourhood of Langagne and the forest of Mercoire. One of them describes the monster in the following manner.

  "It has already devoured twenty persons, chiefly children, and parti∣cularly young girls; and scarcely a day passes without some accident. The terror he occasions prevents the woodcutters from working in the forest, so that wood is become dear. Those who have seen him say, he is much higher than a wolf, low before, and his feet are armed with talons. His hair is reddish, his head large, long made, and the muzzle of it shaped like that of a greyhound; his ears small and strait, his breast is wide, and of a grey colour; his back streaked with black, and his mouth, which is large, is provided with a set of teeth so very sharp, that they have taken off several heads as clean as a razor could have done. He is of amazing swiftness, but when he aims at his prey he crouches so close to the ground, that he hardly appears to be bigger than a large fox, and at the distance of one or two fathoms he rises upon his hind legs, and springs upon his prey, which he always seizes by the neck or throat. He is afraid of oxen, which he runs away from. The consternation is universal through∣out the district where he commits his ravages, and publick prayers are offered up upon this occasion."
• * 1.70

  November 14, 1765.
• * 1.71

  Looking at, and respectfully bowing to his Majesty.
• * 1.72

  A Comedy, by Mr. Colman and Mr. Garrick, acted at Drury-lane, February 1766.
• * 1.73

  Mr. Quin died 21st January, 1766, and Mrs. Cibber 31st of the same month.
• * 1.74

  The Chandeliers which used to hang from the cieling, were this Season taken away.
• * 1.75

  30th May, 1766.
• * 1.76

  A Comedy, altered from Wycherly by Mr. Garrick, and acted at Drury-lane, October 1766.
• * 1.77

  A Tragedy, by Dr. Franklin, acted at Drury-lane, De∣cember, 1766.
• † 1.78

  Marg'ret of Anjou; the character in the play performed by Mrs. Yates.
• * 1.79

  A Dramatick Romance, by Mr. Garrick acted at Drury-lane, January 1767.
• * 1.80

  Mr. King the preceding summer fell from his horse and broke his thigh. The part of Linco in this piece was his se∣cond appearance after the accident.
• * 1.81

  A Comedy, by Mr. Colman, acted at Drury-lane, Febru∣ary 1767.