When Great Auguftus the world's empire held,
Horace and Ovid's happy verfe excell❜d.
Ovid's foft genius, and his tender arts
Of moving nature, melted hardest hearts.
It did th' imperial beauty, Julia, move
To listen to the language of his love.
Her father honour'd him: and on her breast,
With ravish'd fenfe in her embraces prest,
He lay transported, fancy-full and bleft.
Horace's lofty genius boldlier rear'd

His manly head, and through all nature fteer'd;
Her richest pleasures in his verfe refin'd,
And wrought 'em to the relih of the mind.
He lafh'd, with a true Poet's fearless rage,
The villanies and follies of the age.
Therefore Mecanas, that great fav'rite, rais'd
Him high, and by him was he highly prais'd.
Our Shakespeare wrote too in an age as bleft,
The happieft Poet of his time, and beft;
A gracious Prince's favour chear'd his Mufe,.
A conftant favour he ne'er fear'd to lofe.
Therefore he wrote with fancy unconfin'd,
And thoughts that were immortal as his mind.
And from the crop of his luxuriant pen
E'er fince fucceeding Poets humbly glean.
Though much the moft unworthy of the throng,
Our this day's Poet fears h'has done him wrong.
Like greedy beggars that fteal fheaves away,
You'll find h'has rifl'd him of half a play.
Amidt this bafer drofs you'll fee it fhine
Moft beautiful, amazing, and divine.
To fuch low fhifts of late are Poets worn,
Whilft we both wit's and Cafar's abfence mourn.
Oh! when will he and poetry return?
When shall we there again b hold him fit
'Midt shining boxes and a courtly pit,
The Lord of hearts, and Prefident of wit ?
When that bleft day (quick may it come) appears,
His cares once banish'd, and his nation's fears,
The joyful Mufes on their hills fhall fing
Triumphant fongs of Britain's happy king.
Plenty and peace fhall flourish in our isle,
And all things, like the English beauty, fmile.

}

You,

You, Criticks, fhall forget your natural fpite,
And Poets with unbounded fancy write.
Ev'n this day's Poet fhall be alter'd quite:
His thoughts more loftily and freely flow;
And he himself, whilft you his verse allow,
As much tranfported as he's humble now.

PROLOGUE

AL

то

FRE

D.

WRITTEN BY JOHN, EARL OF CORKE.
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

IN arms renown'd, for arts of

peace ador'd,
ALFRED, the nation's father, more than lord,
A British Author has prefum'd to draw,
Struck deep, even now, with reverential awe!
And fets the godlike figure fair in view-
O may difcernment find the likeness true.
When Danish fury, with wide wafting hand,
Had spread pale fear, and ravage o'er the land,
This prince arifing bade confufion ceafe;
Bade order fhine, and bleft his ifle with peace;
Taught liberal hearts to humanize the mind,
And heaven-born science to sweet freedom join'd.
United thus, the friendly fifters shone,

And one fecur'd, while one adorn'd, his throne.
Amidft thefe honors of his happy reign,
Each Grace and every Mufe compos'd his train:
As grateful fervants, all exulting itrove,
At once to fpread his fame, and fhare his love.
To night, if aught of fiction you behold,
Think not, in virtue's caufe, the Bard too bold.
If ever angels from the fkies defcend,

It must be-truth and freedom to defend.

1

Thus would our Author pleafe-be it your part,
If not his labors, to approve his heart.
True to his country's, and to honor's caufe,
He fixes, there, his fame, and your applause;
Wishes no failing from your fight to hide,
But, by free BRITONS, will be freely try'd.

PRO

PROLOGUE

I

N this grave age, when Comedies are few, We crave your patronage for one that's new; Tho' 'twere poor ftuff, yet bid the Author fair, And let the fcarceness recommend the ware. Long have your ears been fill'd with tragic parts, Blood and Blank Verfe have harden'd all your hearts; If e'er you fmile, 'tis at fome party ftrokes, Round beads and wooden fhoes are ftanding jokes ; The fame conceit gives claps and hiffes birth, You're grown fuch politicians in your mirth! For once we try (tho' 'tis, I own, unfafe,) To please you all, and make both parties laugh. Our Author, anxious for his fame to-night, And bashful in his first attempt to write, Lies cautiously obfcure and unreveal'd, Like antient Actors in a mafque conceal'd, Cenfure, when no man knows who writes the play, Were much good malice merely thrown away. The mighty Criticks will not blaft, for fhame, A raw young thing, who dares not tell his name: Good-natur'd judges will th' unknown defend, And fear to blame, left they fhou'd hurt a friend : Each wit may praise it, for his own dear fake, And hint he writ it, if the thing fhou'd take. But if you're rough, and use him like a dog, Depend upon it-He'll remain incog. If you thou'd hifs, he fwears he'll hifs as high, And, like a Culprit, join the hue-and-cry. If cruel men are still averfe to fpare Thefe fcenes, they fly for refuge to the fair. Tho' with a Ghoft our Comedy be heighten'd, Ladies, upon my word, you fhan't be frighten'd; O, 'tis a Ghoft that fcorns to be uncivil, A well-spread, lufty, jointure-hunting devil;

Απ

An am'rous Ghoft, that's faithful, fond and true,
Made up of flesh and blood- -as much as you.
Then every evening come in flocks, undaunted,
We never think this Houle is too much Haunted.

PROL

O GUE

TO.

DOUGLA S.

WRITTEN BY NICHOLAS ROWE, ESQ
Spoken by Mr. SPARKS.

IN antient times, when Britain's trade was arms,

And the lov'd musick of her youth, alarms.
A god-like race fuftain'd fair England's fame:
Who has not heard of gallant PIERCY's name?
Ay, and of DOUGLAS? Such illuftrious foes
In rival Rome and Carthage never role!
From age to age bright fhone the Britif fire,
And every hero was a hero's fire.

When powerful fate decreed one warrior's doom,.
Up fprung the Phoenix from his parent's tomb..
But whilft thefe generous rivals fought and fell,
Thefe generous rivals lov'd each other well:
Tho' many a bloody field was loft and won,
Nothing in hate, in honour all was done.
When PIERCY wrong'd defy'd his Prince or Peers,
Faft came the DOUGLAS, with his Scottish Spears;
And, when proud DOUGLAS made his King his foe,
For DOUGLAS, PIERCY bent his English bow.
Expell'd their native homes by adverse fate,
They knock'd alternate at each other's gate:.
Then blaz'd the castle, at the midnight hour,
For him whofe arms had shook its firmeft tower..
This night a DOUGLAS your protection claims;
A wife a mother! pity's foftest names:
The flory of her woes indulgent hear,
And grant your fupphant all the begs, a tear.
In confidence the begs; and hopes to find
Each English breaft, like noble PIERCY's kind..

EPILOGUE

то THE

BEAUX STRATAGE M.

IF to our play your judgment can't be kind ;
Let its expiring Author pity find; *
Survey its mournful cafe with melting eyes,
Nor let the Bard be damn'd before he dies.
Forbear, ye fair, on his last scene to frown,
But his true Exit with a plaudit crown;
Then fhall the dying Poet cease to fear

The dreadful knell, while your applause he hears.
At Leutra fo the conqu'ring Theban dy'd,
Claim'd his friends praifes, but their tears deny'd:
Pleas'd in the pangs of death, he greatly thought
Conqueft with lofs of life but cheaply bought.
The diff'rence this, the Greek was one wou'd fight;
As brave, tho' not fo gay as ferjeant Kite:
Ye fons of Will's, what's that to those who write?
To Thebes alone the Grecian ow'd his bays,
You may the Bard above the Hero raife,
Since yours is greater than Athenian praise.

E PILOGUE

то THE

EARL OF ESSEX.

WRITTEN BY MR, GARRICK.

ww

Spoken by Mrs. PRITCHARD, in the Cha racter of QUEEN ELIZABETH.

F any here, are Britons but in name,

IF

Dead to their country's happiness and fame :

Let 'em depart this moment-Let 'em fly

My awful prefence, and my fearching eye!

Mr. FARQUHAR was then on his death-bed, and died

before the run of the Play was over.

No