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Neglect their comic humour, tragic rage, We're like old mistresses, you love the vice, For known defects of nature and of age ? And hate us only 'cause we once did pleale. Arise for Thame, ye conqu’ring Britons, rise! Nor can we find how else 'tis we deserve, Such unadorn d effeminacy deipife;
Like Tantalus, 'midst plenty thus to starse. Admire (if vou will dote on foreign wit) Not what Italians fing, but Romans writ. So Thall lefs works, tuch as to-night's flight play, $ 12%. Prologue to Tancred and Sigismund...
T'HOMsos. Ar your command with justice dic away; Till then forgive your writers, that can't bear BOLD. is the man, who in this nicer age You thould luch very Tramontanes appear,
Prefumes to tread the chaste, corrected stage. The nations, which contemn you, to revere.
Now, with gay emfel arts we can no more Let Anna's foil be known for all its charms; Conceal the want of nature's sterling ore : As fam'd for lib'ral sciences as aris :
Our spells are vanith d, broke our magic wand, Let thofe derision meet, who would advance
That usd to waft you over fca and land : Manners, or speech, from Italy or France.
Before your light the fairy people tade;
In vain of martial scents the loud alarıns;
The playhouse polie clattering from afar;
CENT LIVRE. Now even the Senate seldom we convene ;
The yawning fathers nod behind the scene. As one condemn’d, and ready to become, For his offences past, a pendulum,
Your taste rejects the glitt'ring falfe fublime, Does, cre he dies, beipeak the learned throng,
To high in metaphor, and die in rhime. Then, like the lwan, expires in a fong;
High rant is tumbled from his gallery throne : So I (though doubtful long which knot to choose, Defeription, dreams-nay, fimilies are gone. Whether the hangman's, or the marriage noofe),
What shall we then ? to please you how devile? Condeinn'd, good people, as you see, for life,
Whose judgment fits not in your ears and eyes. To play that tedious, juggling game, a wife,
Thrice happy! could we catch great Shaktpeare's Have but one word of good advice to say,
art, Before the doleful cart draws quite away.
ro trace the deep recesses of the heart; You roaring boys, who know the midnight cares His simple, plain fublime; to which is giren Of rattling tatts, ye fons of hopes and fears ;
To ftrike the soul with darted Hame from heavebi Who labour hard to bring your ruin on,
Could we awake toft Otway's tender woe; And diligently toil to be undone ;
The pomp of verte, and golden lines of Rowe! You 're fortune's sporting footballs at the best,
We to your hearts apply ; let them attend : Few are his joys, and small the gamester's reft :
Before their filent, candid bar we bend. Suppose then fortune only rules the dice,
If warmd they listen, 'tis our noblest praise : And on the square you play; yet who, that's wise, If cold, they wither all the muse's bays. Would to the credit of faithless main Trust his good dad's hard-gotten hoarded gain ? But then such vultures round a table wait, § 128. Epilogue to the fame. THOMSON. And hov'ring watch thc bubble's sickly state ; The young fond gambler, covetous of more,
CRAMM'D to the throat with wholesome,moral Like Æfop's dog, loses his certain ftore.
audience ! you
have had enough. Then the spunge squeezed by all grows dry—and Was ever hapless heroine of a play
In such a piteous plight as ours to-day? Completely wretched turns a sharper too ;
Was ever woman 10 by love betray'd These fools, for want of bubbles too, play fair,
Match'd with two husbands, and yet—die a maid! And lose to one anothier on the square :
But, blets me !--hold-what sounds are these I So whores the wealth from numerous culls they here: glean,
I see the Tragic Muse herself appear.
[The back scene opens, and discovers a ro
mantic jilvan landscape, from wbich SigifAnd more than Cupid drawn the ladies in : A thousand guincas for basit prevails,
munda, in the coaracter of the Tragic Maje, A bait, when cash runs low, that seldom fails;
advances flowly to music, and speaks the And when the fair-one can't the debt defray
following lines: In Iterling coin, does sterling beauty pay. Hence with your flippant epilogue, that tries
In vain we labour to divert your care, To wipe the virtuous tear from British eyes; Norfong nor dance can bribe yourpresence here, That dares my moral, tragic (cenc profane, You fly this place like an infectious air; With ftrains--at best, unsuiting, light, and vain. To yonder happy quarter of the town
Hence from the pure, unsullied beams, that play You crowd, and your own fav'rite stage disown ; In yon fair eyes, where virtue lines Away!
fuff; Alas! poor
Britons, to you, from chaste Caftalian groves, or—not to feel your suff'rings, is the same Where dwell the tender, oft unhappy loves ;
As not to suffer-All the diff'rence-name. Where shades of heroes roam, cach mighty name, Thirdly-The jealous husband wrongs his And court my aid, to rise again to fame :
honour; To you I come ; to freedom's nobleft seat; No wife goes lame, without some hurt upon her : Ani in Britannia fix my last retreat.
And the malicious world will still be guelling, In Greece, and Rome, I watch'd the public who oft dines our dislikes her own cook's dreiling. weal;
Fourthly, and laftly - to conclude my lccture, The purple tyrant trembled at my steel; If
would fix th'inconstant wife-relpect hier. Nor did I lets o'er private forrows reign, She who perceives her virtues over-rated, And mend the melting heart with lofter pain. Will fear to have ch' account more juftly stated; On France and you then rose my bright'ning star And, borrowing from her pride the good witc's With focial ray-The arts are ne'er at war.
seeming, O! as your fire and genius Atronger blaze; Grow really luch-to merit your cficeming. As yours are gen'rous freedom's bolder lays; Lee not the Gallic talte leave yours behind, In decent manners and in life refu'd;
§ 130. Prologue to the Bankrupt. Foote. Banith the motley mode, to tag low verse, The laughing ballad to the mournful hearse.
What theme so fruitful as a Bankrupt Age When thro' five acts your hearts have learnt to For not confin'd to commerce is the curle, glow,
The head is near as empty as the purse; Touch'd with the sacred force of honest woc,
Equally funk our credit and our wit, o keep the dear impreflion on vour breast,
Nor is the fage more foivent than the cit:
All theic but foft, ere thus abroad we roan,
You, gentle Sirs, have given me credit long, $ 129. Epilogue to Zara. AARON HILL.
And took my word for many an idle fong; HERE, take a surfeit, firs, of being jealous,
But if, exhausted, I give notes to-dayAnd hunthe pains that plague thole Turkish For wit and humour, which I cannot pay, fellows:
I mult curm bankrupt too, and hop away : Where love and death join hands, their darts Unless, indeed, I modifhly apply confounding,
For leave to fell my works by lottery. Save us, good heaven! from this new way of Tho' few will favour, where's no catha to free ein, wounding!
Poor hopes, that way to part with my museum, Curs'd climate !-where, to cards, a lonc-left My old friendl Smirk, indeed, may lend his aid,
And sell by auction all my stock in trade; Has only one of her black guards to summon! His placid features, and imploring eye, Siglıs, and fits mop'd, with her tame beatt to May tempt perhaps the tardy town to buy;
His winning manner, and his foft address, And that cold treat is all the game she plays at! To other sales of mine have given success. For-should she once some abler hand be trying, But after all, my ever-honour'd friends, Poignard 's the word! and the first deal' is- On you alone my fate this night depends; dying!
I've fought some battles, gain'd some viet'ricshere, 'Slife ! should the bloody whim get ground in And little thought a culprit to appear Britain,
Before this houle; but if refolv'd you go Where woman's freedom has such heights to fit to find me guilty, or to make me to,
To grant me neither wit, nor taste, nor sense, Daggers, provok'd, would bring on desolation, Vain were my plea, and useless my defence. And murder'd belles un-people half the nation! But still, I will not steal, I will not beg, Fain would I hope this play to move com
Tho' I've a pallport in this wooden leg ; paffion
But to my cot contentedly retire, And live to hunt fufpicion out of fashion.
And stew my cabbage by my only fire.
Mean time, great Sirs, my sentence yet un. Four motives strongly recomiend, to lovers,
known, Hate of this weakness, that our scene discovers :
E'en as your justice be your candour shown, First then-A woman will or won't-depend And when you touch my honour, don't forget
on 't : If she will do 't, she will and there's an end on't. But, if the won'ı-since safe and found your trust is,
$ 131. Epilogue to tbe Toy-Shop. R. Dopsler. Fcar is affront, and jealousy injustice.
fermon 's done Blunts wedlock's edge, and all its torture eates : (For’faith our author might have call'd it one). 3
gaze at :
I wonder who the devil he thought to please! Much could I offer in our author's cause;
faind Better late than never hold my tongue.
§ 133. Epilogue do i be fame. ANDREWS, The tune from Italy, the caper France :
HE drama done, and all its ini'reft over, These, these might charm-But hope to do 't Content the husband, and secure the lover; with lente,
Our timid bard, who dreads the critic ire, Alas! alas ! how vain is the pretence !
And thinks my little tongue can never tire, But, tho'we told himn--'Faith, 'twill never do-- Would have me re-assume the wig and gown, Pho! never fear, he cried, tho' grave, 'tis new : To plead his goose-quill cause before the town. The whim perhaps may please, if not the wit, Lord! Sir," says 1, " fome better counful bring; And, tho’ they don't approve, they may permit. " For females in a wig are not the thing. If neither this nor that will intercede,
“ Your bearded Barrister, if finartly made, is . Submislive bend, and thus for pardon plead. " A furer advocate among the ladies,"
“ Ye gen'rous few! to you our author fucs, " Madam," he cried, “ or periwigg'd, or bare, “ His first essay with candour to excuse :
So you but talk, I never need despair." "'T has faults, he owns; but, if they are but small, Suppose, ye fair, as I'm so smooth a prater, “ He hopes your kind applauie will hide them all.' I take a line more confonane to nature;
Give up the rain attempt your hearts to warm,
And giinst the man with female weapon art. s 132. Prologue to Mr. Andrews's Comedy of Berar
Oft hare the vits, unminutul whom they vex, Late Than Never. Duke of LEEDS.
Expos’d the foibles of the fofter fox; CUSTOM commands a prologue to ca h play, Laugli'd at their dreis,their well-thap d cork, their But cuttom hath not told us what to say:
feathers, No form prescrib'd, 'tis difficult to find Their steady bloom, unchanging in all weathers; How to conciliate the public mind.
Swore !ocks were grey,that feein'da coinely drown, The bathful bard-the modeft mute's fcars, And, thu'all paid for, dcem'd then not thuirown. So long have jingled in your patient cars,
Why not retort? avenge th' infulted fair, That now perhaps you 'll scarce vouchlafe to fiay And thiew thee men, what wondrous things they To hear both their apology-and pliv. No ! Better lure on him at once to call,
Now don't be frighten'd-poor eccentric elves! With:—“Sir, if frighten'd thus, why write at all: fl only lhew what most you like-yourselves. We're not re iuc'd yet to a trembling pen! llow! tremble at a woman! Thame beride! Zounds ! bards will crowd uş foon, like-sentie- Tho' I look fierce, like you—I 'm all outlide :
your attention call Something like this, I heard a friend once say, To that dear portrait which should hit you ail, Who with'd (poor foul!) to hear a new-launch'd! Let me delincate what was once a beau,
The Band-box Bily of fome years ago. Box'd fnug at first, compietely to his mind, Swect image of mamma in ev'ry feature, With only one grave auditor behind,
The youth care fortli, a most delicious creature, Ere the third act had Itruggles to its end, l'isti full drets skins, not quite unlike a hocp, In reel'd three critics, each the author's friend - Tlat under arm, fine button, and gilt loopOn praise determin'd-wit confirin'd by wine : Srift Rock, long livord ftill dangling in the way, Each And ! and If! was chatte-correct--damn'd!!le fometimes vensurd to a firit-night play: fine.
Tripp'd thro' the lovly, moft completely curld; Totalie fomnark'd my friend of course gave way; Vordid a paw-paw thing for all the world. But squeez'd, thump'd, kick'd-Aill listen d to the Dus he discours'd : “Sir Dilberry, ods so, Till by repeated plaudits grown fo fore, (play; - Duar, dear good luck! have you a place velays Nor fiesh nor blood could bcar onc cominent mont, Dumit, dun 't crowd 10, felio-, how fhockSuch built'rous friends they surely cannot need,
ing! Who will by incrit only to lucceed.
“ He 's fpoild my hair, and dirties all my stockTo-night we offer to the public view
(praile, A character, you 'll on perhaps is new : Such was the smart our grandmammas would From Doctor's Commons we the model draw; Rather unlike the smart of prosent days: A promising eleve of civil law;
For I defy all history to thew And civil sure that law which can provide One thing in nature like a modern beau; Or (fhould need b:) release you from a bride. Hat flouch'd, short flick, knee-trappings, that Thrice blefs'd the mansion, where, in spite of ills, Alive or dead you fill can have your wills. The memory of renown'd Sixteen String Jack;
Eternal boots, and collar you 'd suppose Terror of caps and wigs and sober notions !
--Till tum'd and tortur'd into foreign graces,
Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice; "ia:-0!
Till fading beauty hints the late advice. " Came out last season-Stupid stuff-damnd Ver prudence dictates what her pride diidain d, si low :
And no:v the fues to flaves herself had chain'd! " Zounds, let's be off!"...“ Z-ds, be a little Then cams that good old character, a wife, «« calmer !"
With all the diar, distracting cares of life, “ Who's theat--the Jordan :""No, you fool - A thousand cards a-day at doors to leare, “ R. Palmer.”
i And, in return, a thouland cards receive;
And, whe: her shatter'd nerves forbid to roam,
With Inuff and 1pcétacles the age denounces;
ROGERS. Knelt for a look, and duci'd for a smile;
Her tca Ilie (wectens, as the fips, with scan lal;
With modern belles et nad Warfare wages, Still in this notiver world ! no Seraph yet!
Like her own birds that cla:pour from their cages;
And Thuiles round to bear her tale to all,
Like fome old ruin, “ nodding to its fall!"
Thus WOMAN makes her entrance and her exit,
Yet narure oft pecps out and mars the plot,
Each leffon loft, cach poor pretence forgot;
Full oft, with energy that scorns controul,
At once lights up the features of the foul ;
Cnlocks each thought chain'd down by coward
And to full day the latent paflions start!
But the, whose first beit wish is your applause,
Born on the diaye-thro' ev'ry thifting scene,
Obfcure or bright, tempestuous or serene,
Still has your imile her trembli gfpirit fir'd!
And can íhe ali, with thoughts like ihese inspir'da
Thus from her mind all artifice she flings, As Initinct teaches, or as Humour wills;
All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things! And, as the grave or gay her talent calls,
To you, uncheckd, cach_genuinc feeling Hows,
For all that life endears-to you the owcs.
Tbeatre-Roval in Diur;-Lane.
Ere yet to buried Roscius we allign
Even matchless Garrick's art, to heaven resign'd, One kind regret---one tributary line!
No txd citèEt, no model leaves behind.
The gen'ral voice, the meed of iournful verse, Th'expreifivegiance, whofclubtle comment draws
A fenfe in silence, and a will in thought :
Pallion's wild break, and frown that awes the fenfe, So much are Garrick’s praife-fo much his due, And ev'ry charm of gentle eluquence, As on this spot-one tear bestow'd by you. All perishable !-- like th'electric fire
Amid the arts which leck ingenuous faine, But Itrike the frame, and, as they strike, expiic; Our toil attempts the molt precarious claim ! locense too pure a bodied Rame to bear, To him, whole mimic pencil wins the prize, Its fragrance charms the sense, and blends with Obedient fame immortal wreaths supplies : Whate'er of wonder Reynolds now may raise, Where then, while funk in cold decay he lics, Raphael still boasts cotemporary praise : And pale eclipfe for ever veils thuse eres ; Each dazzling light and gaudier bloom subdued, Where is the blest memorial that ensures With undimivih'd awe his works are view'd : Our Garrick's famne ? -—whose is the trust :- 'Tis E'en beauty's portrait wears a sofrer prime,
yours. Touch'd by the tender hand of mellowing time. And, o! by ev'ry charm his art essayd
The patient sculptor owns an humbler part, To footh your cares! by ev'ry grief allay'd! A ruder toil, and inore mechanic art:
By the hush'd wonder which his accents drew ! Content with flow and limorous ftroke to trace By his last parting tear, repaid by you! The ling’ring line, and mould the tardy grace: By all those thoughts, which many a distant night But once achiev'd, tho'barlı'rous wreck o'erthrow Shall mark his memory with a fad delight! The sacred fane, and lay its glories low, Still in your hearts dear record bear his name, Yet thall the sculptur'd ruin rise to-day, Cherish the keen regret that lifts his fame; Grac'd by defect, and worship'd in decay ; so you it is bequeath'd, allert the trust, Th' enduring record bears the artist's name, And to his worth— 'tis all you can-be just. Demands his honours, and asserts his fame. What more is due from fanctifying time, Superior hopes the poet's bosom fire,
To cheerful wir, and many a favour'd rhyine, O proud distinction of the sacred lyre !
O'er bis grac'd urn shall bloom, a deathlefs wreath, Wide as th' inspiring Phæbus darts his ray, Whose blossom'd sweets shall deck the mask be. Diffusive splendour gilds his votary's lay.
neath. Whether the song heroic woes rehearse, For these, when sculpture's votive toil shall rear With Epic grandeur, and the pomp of verse; The due memorial of a lofs so dear, Or, fondly gay, with unambitious guile o loveliest mourner, gentle muse! be thine Attempt no prize but fav’ring beauty's smile ; The pleasing woe to guard the laurell'd thrine. Or bear deje&ted to the lonely grove
As Fancy, oft by superstition led The soft despair of unprevailing love;
To roam the mansions of the fainted dead, Whate'er the theme, thro' ev'ry age and clime Has view'd, ty shadowy eve's unfaithful gloom, Congenial paflions meet the according rhyme; A weeping cherub on a martyr's tomb; The pride of glory, pity's figh sincere,
So thou, fiveet Muse, hango'er his sculptur’dbier, Youth's earliest bluth, and beauty's virgin tear. With patient woe, that loves the ling'ring tear;
Such is their meed-their honours thus fccure, With thoughts that mourn, nor yet defire relief, Whose arts yield objeêts, and whole works endure. With meek regret, and fond enduring gricf; The actor only shrinks from time's award ; With looks that speak—He never shall return! Feeble tradition is his memory's guard; Chilling thy tender bolom, clasp his urn; By whose faint breath his merits must abide, And with soft sighs disperse th' irrev'rend duft, Unvouch'd hy proof, to substance unallied ! Which time may strew upon his facred buft.