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Ff, a new Holy War with Vice to wage,
Some preacher quits the pulpit for the ftage,
The Rev'rend Bard, with much remorfe and fear,
Attempts to give his Evening Lecture here.
The work engender'd, to the world must rise;
But yet the father may elude our eyes.

The parish on this trick of youth might frown,
And thus, unown'd, 'tis thrown upon the Town,
At our Director's door he lays the fin,

Who fees the Babe, relents, and takes it in ;
To fwathe and drefs it first unftrings his purse,
Then kindly puts it out to You-to nurfe.

Should fome young Counsel, thro' his luckless star, By writing Plays turn truant to the Bar.

Call'd up by you to this High Court of Wit,
With non-inventus we return the writ.
No latitat can force him to appear,
Whofe failure and fuccefs caufe equal fear.
Whatever fees his clients here bestow,
He lofes double in the Courts below.

Grave folemn Doctors, whose prescribing pen
Has in the trade of Death kill'd many men,
With vent'rous quill here tremblingly engage
To flay Kings, Queens, and Heroes, on the ftage.
The Great, if great men write, of fhame afraid,
Come forth incog.-and Beaux, in masquerade.
Some Demireps in wit, of doubtful fame,
Tho' known to all the town, withhold their name.
Thus each by turns ungratefully refuse

To own the favours of their Lady-Mufe ;

Woo'd by the Court, the College, Bar and Church,
Court, Bar, Church, College, leave her in the lurch.
'Tis your's to-night the work alone to scan ;
Arraign the Bard, regardless of the man!

If Dulnefs waves her poppies o'er his play,
To Critic fury let it fall a prey;

But if his art the tears of Pity draws,

Ak not his name-but crown him with applaufe.

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WRITTEN BY GEORGE KEATE, ESQ.

Spoken by Mrs. ABINGTON.

Enter, peeping in at the Stage Door.
Is the stage clear!-blefs me! I've fuch a dread!
It feems enchanted ground, where'er I tread!

[Coming forward.
What noife was that!-huh!-'twas a falle alarm-
I'm fure there's no one here will do me harm:
Among'ft you can't be found a fingle knight,
Who would not do an injur'd damfel right.
Well-Heav'n be prais'd! I'm out of magic reach,
And have once more regain'd the pow'r of Speech:
Aye, and I'll ufe it-for it muft appear,
That my poor tongue is greatly in arrear
There's not a female here but shar'd my woe,
Ty'd down to YES, or, ftili more hateful, No.
NO is expreffive-but I must confefs,

If rightly question'd, I'd ufe only YES.

In MERLIN'S walk this broken wand I found,

[Shewing a broken wand. Which to two words my fpeaking organs bound. Suppofe upon the town I try his fpell

Ladies, don't ftir!-You use your tongues too well:
How tranquil every place, when by my skill,
Folly is mute, and even flander ftill;

Old Goffips fpeechlefs-Bloods would breed no riot,
And all the tongues at Jonathan's lie quiet!
Each grave profefion muft new bush the wig;
Nothing to fay, 'twere needlefs they look big!
The reverend Doctor might the change endure,
He would fit ftill, and have his Sine Cure!
Nor could great folks much hardship undergo;
They do their business with an AYE or NO!-
But, come, I only jok'd-difmifs your
Tho' I've the pow'r, I will not use it here.
I'll only keep my magic as a guard,
To awe each critic who attacks our Bard.

fear;

I fee

I fee fome malcontents their fingers biting,

Snarling, "The antients never knew fuch writing-
"The drama's lot!-the Managers exhauft us
"With Op'ras, Monkies, Mab, and Dr. Fauftus.",
Dread Sirs, a word!—the Public tafte is fickle ;.
All palates in their turn we strive to tickle;
Our cat'rers vary; and you'll own, at least,
It is Variety that makes the fealt,

If this fair circle fmile-and the Gods thunder,
I with this wand will keep the critics under.

I

PROLOGUE

то THE SAME.

For NEW YEAR'S DAY.

Spoken by Mr. KING.

Come, obedient at my brethren's call, From top to bottom, to falute you all; Warmly to wish, before our Piece you view, A happy Year-to you-you-you-and you! [Boxes Pit Gallery-2 Gallery. From you the Play'rs enjoy and feel it here, The merry Christmas, and the happy Year. There is a good old faying-pray attend it; As you begin the year, you'll furely 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 fing the Zodiac round, the fame fweet fong: And fhould the husband join his mufic too, Why then 'tis Cat and Dog, the whole year thro'. Ye fons of Law and Phyfic, for your ease, Be fure this day you never take your fees: Can't you refufe?--then the disease grows ftrong, You'll have two itching palms-Lord knows how long! Writers of News by this ftrange fate are bound, They fib to-day,, and fib the whole year round. You wits affembled here, both great and small, Set not this night afloat your critic gall;

If you should fnarl, and not incline to daughter,
What fweet companions for a twelvemonth after!
You must be muzzled for this night at leaft;
Our author has a right this day to feaft.
He has not touch'd one bit as yet-Remember,
"Tis a long Faft from now to next December.
'Tis Holiday! you are our Patrons now;

[To the upper Gallery.
If you but grin, the critics won't Bow, wow.
As for the plot, wit, humour, language-I
Beg you fuch trifles kindly to pass by;
The most effential part, which fomething means,
As dreffes, dances, fingings, flyings, fcenes,-
They'll make you ftare-nay, there is fuch a thing,
Will make you ftare ftill more!-for I must fing:
And fhould your taste, and ears, be over nice,
Alas! you'll fpoil my finging in a trice.
If you fhould growl, my notes will alter foon,
I can't be in-if you are out of tune!
Permit my fears your favour to befpeak,
My Part's a ftrong one, and poor I but weak.

[Alluding to his late Accident. If you but fmile, I'm firm, if frown, I ftumbleScarce well of one, fpare me a fecond tumble!

The OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,
Spoken by MR. King,

At the Opening of Drury-Lane Theatre.
[Enter, reading a Superfcription.]

I'M right-your fervant, firs,-th' addrefs is plain---
To the high Court of Critics, Drury Lane.
Two Ladies, fifters, women of condition,
Have sent by me, their Courier, a petition.
Who are thofe Ladies? Should the Curious ask,
See their broad feal-a dagger and a mask!
Here, Brafs, take this, I answer'd to the name,
And at their call, and for your service came.
'Tis fign'd, as you may plainly fee,

Thalia and Melpomene,

Alias, Tragedy and Comedy.

Poor

Poor fouls! they're angry,-and to hint is treason,
That angry Ladies have not always reason;
In Claffic language they complain of wrong,
Which thus I change to mine-the vulgar tongue.
They fet forth at large, that their cafe is fo fad,
That poor Comedy weeps, and that Tragedy's mad ;
That Op'ra, their rival, heretofore Maid of Honour ;
Has got to your hearts, and took too much upon her,
That this foreign Minx has engrofs'd all your favours;
And fritter'd their paffions, and humour to quavers,
That the walks cheek by jole, and won't hold up their tail,,
So humbly they beg, that you'll send her to jail,
There ftrip her, and whip her, and fend her away,
And as bound in duty, for ever they'll pray.
My mettled Miftreffes fo high in blood,
Would fcratch poor Op'ra's eyes out if they cou'd..
Suppofe your Honours, to avoid a fufs,
And fave the pulling caps, adjuft it thus:

When Tragedy has harrow'd up the foul,
Plung'd deep her dagger, or tofs'd off her bowl;
When grief, rage, murder, ftrew the palace round,
Mufic fhould pour her balm into the wound;
Or when the Comic Lafs has shook your fides,
That laughter fwell'd fo high, burfts out in tides,.
Then music, with it's fweet enchanting strain,
Should to it's banks lure back the tide again.
But how fhall we your various fancies bind,
When ev'ry Briton has a diff'rent mind?
Mufic's a Harlot-(thus Tom Surly (poke)})
Whofe charms will bend our honest Hearts of Oak ?o
What are the Romans now, once brave and free?
Nothing but Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee,-
Read Shaksper (cries his wife) he'll blunt your fatire,
Who has not mufic in his foul's a traitor..

Ev'n favage beafts are mov'd by Mufic's touch,
And you, my dear, to be unmov'd-is much.

;

MyMammy's right (lifps Mifs)-you're wrong my Daddy;;
I'd hear for ever Through the wood my Laddie.
How's this, roars out a Bard, in tragic pride,
This catgut peft comes on with mighty ftride
In Mufic's lulling magic we are bound,
Like yawning fpreads the epidemic found,..
"For when one yauns, by turns we all yawn round.”
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