If I proceed, our bard will be undone!
Well then a truce, since she requests it too :
Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you.

PROLOGUE TO "ZOBEIDE "1

SPOKEN BY QUICK IN THE CHARACTER OF A SAILOR

In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore
The distant climate and the savage shore;
When wise Astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus, many a brighter here;
While Botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling;
When every bosom swells with wond'rous scenes,
Priests, cannibals, and hoity-toity queens:
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures :
With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading-
Yet ere he lands he'as ordered me before,
To make an observation on the shore.

Where are we driven ? our reck'ning sure is lost!
This seems a barren and a dangerous coast.
Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!

Yon ill foreboding cloud seems big with thunder.

(Upper Gallery.)

There Mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em

Here trees of stately size-and turtles in 'em

(Pit.)

(Balconies.)

[Zobeide was a play by Joseph Cradock of Gumley, in Leicestershire, a friend of Goldsmith's latter days. It was translated from Les Scythes of Voltaire, and produced at Covent Garden, 11th December, 1771. Goldsmith's Prologue is here printed from Cradock's Memoirs, 1828, iii. 8.]

[2 A reference to Cook's just concluded voyage to Otaheite to observe the transit of Venus.]

(Stage.)

Here ill-condition'd oranges abound-
And apples (takes up one and tastes it), bitter apples strew

the ground.

The place is uninhabited, I fear!

I heard a hissing-there are serpents here !
O there the natives are-a dreadful race!
The men have tails, the women paint their face!
No doubt they're all barbarians. - Yes, 'tis so;
I'll try to make palaver1 with them though;

(making signs.)

'Tis best, however, keeping at a distance. Good Savages, our Captain craves assistance; Our ship's well stor'd; -in yonder creek we've laid her;

His honour is no mercenary trader; 2

This is his first adventure; lend him aid,

Or you may chance to spoil a thriving trade.

His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, Equally fit for gallantry and war.

What! no reply to promises so ample ?

I'd best step back-and order up a sample.

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS :

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS THE PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES 3

ADVERTISEMENT

THE following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days: and may therefore rather

[1i. e. to hold a parley.]

[ Cradock gave his profits to "Zobeide," Mrs. Yates, the actress of the part.]

[Augusta, mother of George the Third, who died at Carlton House, 8th February 1772. This piece was spoken and sung in Mrs. Teresa Cornelys' Great Room in Soho Square on Thursday, the 20th following, being sold at the door as a 4to. pamphlet. The publisher was W. Woodfall. The author's name was not given; but the advertisement here reproduced preceded the verses, with the list of performers.]

M

be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius.

In justice to the composer it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music was adapted in a period of time equally short.

SPEAKERS

Mr. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy

SINGERS

Mr. Champnes, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson. The

music prepared and adapted by Signor Vento

PART I

OVERTURE-A SOLEMN DIRGE.

ARISE, ye sons of worth, arise,
And waken every note of woe;
When truth and virtue reach the skies,
'Tis ours to weep the want below!

CHORUS

When truth and virtue, &c.

MAN SPEAKER

The praise attending pomp and power,

The incense given to kings,

Are but the trappings of an hour,

Mere transitory things.

AIR-TRIO

The base bestow them: but the good agree

To spurn the venal gifts as flattery.

But when to pomp and power are joined

An equal dignity of mind;

When titles are the smallest claim :

When wealth, and rank, and noble blood,

But aid the power of doing good,

Then all their trophies last, and flattery turns to fame.

Blest spirit thou, whose fame, just born to bloom,

Shall spread and flourish from the tomb,

7

How hast thou left mankind for Heaven !

Even now reproach and faction mourn,

And, wondering how their rage was born,

Request to be forgiven !
Alas! they never had thy hate:
Unmov'd in conscious rectitude,
Thy towering mind self-centred stood,
Nor wanted man's opinion to be great.
In vain, to charm thy ravish'd sight,
A thousand gifts would fortune send;
In vain, to drive thee from the right,
A thousand sorrows urg'd thy end:
Like some well-fashion'd arch thy patience stood,
And purchas'd strength from its increasing load.
Pain met thee like a friend to set thee free,
Affliction still is virtue's opportunity!
Virtue, on herself relying,
Every passion hushed to rest,
Loses every pain of dying
In the hopes of being blest.
Every added pang she suffers
Some increasing good bestows,
And every shock that malice offers
Only rocks her to repose.

SONG. BY A MAN-AFFETTUOSO

Virtue, on herself relying,
Every passion hushed to rest,
Loses every pain of dying
In the hopes of being blest.
Every added pang she suffers
Some increasing good bestows,
And every shock that malice offers
Only rocks her to repose.

WOMAN SPEAKER

Yet ah! what terrors frowned upon her fate,
Death with its formidable band,

Fever, and pain, and pale consumptive care,
Determin'd took their stand.

Nor did the cruel ravagers design
To finish all their efforts at a blow:

But, mischievously slow,

They robb'd the relic and defac'd the shrine.

With unavailing grief,
Despairing of relief,
Her weeping children round,

Beheld each hour

Death's growing power,
And trembled as he frown'd.

As helpless friends who view from shore
The labouring ship, and hear the tempest roar,
While winds and waves their wishes cross :
They stood, while hope and comfort fail,
Not to assist, but to bewail
The inevitable loss.

Relentless tyrant, at thy call
How do the good, the virtuous fall!
Truth, beauty, worth, and all that most engage,
But wake thy vengeance and provoke thy rage.

SONG. BY A MAN-BASSO, STACCATO, SPIRITOSO
When vice my dart and scythe supply
How great a king of terrors I!
If folly, fraud, your hearts engage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!
Fall, round me fall, ye little things,
Ye statesmen, warriors, poets, kings!
If virtue fail her counsel sage,
Tremble, ye mortals, at my rage!

MAN SPEAKER

Yet let that wisdom, urged by her example,
Teach us to estimate what all must suffer ;
Let us prize death as the best gift of nature,
As a safe inn, where weary travellers,
When they have journey'd through a world of cares,
May put off life and be at rest for ever.

Groans, weeping friends, indeed, and gloomy sables,
May oft distract us with their sad solemnity.
The preparation is the executioner.

Death, when unmask'd, shows me a friendly face,
And is a terror only at a distance :
For as the line of life conducts me on