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A hunting husband hallow's--and you hear him.
A drunken deary fag-gersand you steer him.-
Each-conscious of his Wife, takes care, to make her,
One way or other- an inaug'd partaker,

But, your sage, faturnie, ambitious lover,
Keeps no one fecret, woman wou'd discover.
Stranger at home, he itrolls abroad, for bleffing ;
And holds what'er he has not worth possefling.
Freedom, and mirth, and health, and joy, despises !
And scorns all KEST-he, so pro-found-ly wise is !
At length, thank Heav'n! he dies : kind vapours

Itrike him :
And leaves behind, -ten thousand madmen, like him.

I

P R O L OG U E

Τ ο CENTLIVRE'S GAMESTER,

WRITTEN BY N. ROWE, ESQ.

Spoken by Mr. BETTERTON.
F humble wives that drag the marriage chain

With cursed dogged hulbands, may complain;
If turn’d at large to starve, as we by you,
They may, at least, for alimony fue.
Know, we resolve to make the case our own,
Between the plaintif Stage, and the D fendant-Towa.
When first you took us from our Father's house,
And lovingly our interest did espoule ;
You kept us fine, caress'd, and lodg'd us here,
And honey-moon held out above three year.
At length, for pleasures known do seldom lait,
Frequent enjoyments pallid your sprightly taste;
And though at first you did not quite neglect,
We found your love was dwindled to respect ;
Sometimes, indeed, as in your way it fell,
You stopp'd, and callid so fee if we were well.
Now, quite estrang'd, this wretched place you fhun,
Like bad wine, buliness, duels, or a dun?
Have we for this increas'd Apollo's race?
Been often pregnant with your wit's embrace ?
And borne you many chopping babes of grace!

Some

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Some ugly toads we had, and that's the curse, .
They were so like you that they far'd the worfe ;
For this to-night we are not much in pain,
Look on't, and, if you like it, entertain;
If all the midwife says of it be true,
There are some features, too, like some of you ;
For us, if you think fitting to forsake it,
We mean to run away, and let the Parish take it.

P R O L

0 G U E

TO

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M A N. WRITTEN BY MR. CUMBERLAND,

Spoken by Mr. SMITH,

IN
IN Athens once, as classic story runs,

Thalia number'd fifty living rons;
But mark the waste of time's destructive hand,
One bard survives of all this numerous band;
Yet human genius seem'd as 'twou'd defy
Time's utmost rage by its variety ;
For 'twas no wond'rous harvest, in those days,
From one rich stock to reap a hundred plays.
Ah! could we bring but one of these to light,
We'd give a hundred such as this to-night.
Rome from her captive to

the law she gave,
And was at once her mistress and her slave;
Greece from her fall immortal triumphs drew,
And prov'd her tutelar Minerva true :
She, goddess-like, confiding in her charms,
To Mars resign'd the barren toil of arms,
Full well assur'd, when these vain toils were past,
That wit must triumph over strength at lalt;
Then smiling faw her Athens meet its doom,
And crown'd her in the theatres of Rome ;
Nor murmur'd Rome to see her Terence shod
With the same sock in which Menander trod,
Nor Lælius scorn'd, nor Scipio blush'd to fit,
And join their plaudits to Athenian wit.

Micie's

Mlicio's mild virtue and mad Demea's raze,
With bursts alternate shook the echoing Itage ;
And from these models 'tis your poet draws
His belt, his only hope of your applause.
A tale it is to chase that angry spleen,
Which forms the mirth and moral of his scene;
A tale for noble and ignoble ear,
Something for fathers and for sons to hear :
And should you on your humbler bard bestow,
That grace which Rome to her's was pleas'd to low,
Advantage with the modern fairly lies,
Who, leis deserving, gains as great a prize.

To

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Ε Ρ Ι L 0 G U E

THE
R Ο Μ Α Ν F A T H E R

Spoken by Mrs. PRITCHARD.
ADIES, by me our courteous Author sends

His compliments to all his female friends :
And thanks them from his soul for every bright
Indulgent tear, which they have med to-night.
Sorrow in Virtue's cause proclaims a MIND,
And gives to beauty graces more refin'd.
O who could bear the loveliest form of art,
A Cherub's face, without a feeling heart !
'Tis there alone, whatever charms we boast,
Tho' men may flatter, and tho' men will toast,
- 'Tis there alone they find the joy fincere,
The wife, the parent, and the friend are there.
All else, the veriest rakes themselves must own,
Are but the paltry play-things of the town;
The painted cloud, which

glittering tempt the chace, Then melt in air, and mock the vain embrace,

Well then ; the private views, 'tis confeft,
Are the soft inmates of the female breast.
But then, they fill fo full that crouded space,
That the poor Public feldom finds a place.
And I suspect there's many a fair-one here,
Who pour'd her sorrows on Horatia's bier,

G

Thac

*That still retains so much of flesh and blood,
She'd fairly hang the brother, if she could.
Why, Ladies, to be sure, if that be all,
At your tribunal he must stand or fall.
Whate'er his country, or his fire decreed,
You are his judges now, and he must plead.
Like other culprit youths, he wanted grace ;
But could have no felf-interest in the case.
Had the been wife, or mistress, or a friend,
It might have answered some convenient end :
But a mere sister, whom he lov'd--o take
Her life away, -and for his country's fake!
Faith, Ladies, you may pardon him ; indeed
There's very

little fear the crime should spread.
True Patriots are but rare among the men,
And really might be useful now and then.
Then do not check, by your disapprobation,
A spirit which once ruld the British nation,
And still might rule-would you but set the fashion.

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Spoken by Mrs. Clive.
ADIES! I've had a squabble with the poet-

About his character-and you shall know it :
Young man, said I, restrain your faucy satire !
My part's ridiculous— false-out of nature.
Fine draughts indeed of ladies ! sure you hate 'em :
Why, Sir !--my part is scandalum magnatum.

Lord, ma'am, said he, to copy life my trade is,
And poets ever have made free with ladies :
One Simon-the duce take such names as there !
A hard Greek name. -O-ay-Simonides
He ift-w'd our freaks, this whim, and that desire,
Rose firft from earth, sea, air, ray some from fire ;

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Or that we owe our persons, minds, and features,
To birds forsooth, and filthy four-legg'd creatures.

The dame, of manners various, temper fickle,
Now all for pleasure, now the conventicle !
Who prays, then raves, now calm, now all commotion,
Rises another Venus, from the ocean.

Conitant at ev'ry fail, the curious fair,
Who longs for Dresden, and old China ware ;
Who doats on pagods, and gives up vile man
For niddle noddle figures from Japan ;
Critic in jars and josses, News her birth,
Drawn, like the brittle ware itself, from earth.

The Aaunting the, fo ftately, rich, and vain,
Who gains her conqueils, by her length of train ;
While all her vanity is under fail,
Sweeps a proud peacock with a gaudy tail.

Husband and wife, with sweets! and dears ! and loves?
What are they, but a pair of cooing doves?
But seiz'd with spleen, fits, humours, and all that,
Your dove and turtle, turn to dog and cat.

The gossip, prude, old maid, coquette, and trapes, Are parrots, foxes, magpies, wasps, and apes : But the, with ev'ry charm of form and mind, Oh! she's, sweet soul—the phenix of her kind. The phenix of her kind-upon my word He's a fly wretch-pray is there such a bird ? This his apology ! 'tis rank abuseA fresh affront, instead of an excuse ! His own sex rather such description suits : Why don't he draw their characters the brutes ! Ah let him paint those ugly monsters, men ! Mean tiine-mend we our lives, he'll mend his pen,

E P I

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0 G U E

TO

E L V I R A.
WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK.

Spoken by Mrs. Cibber.
ADIES and gentlemen.---'Tis so ill bred
We have no epilogue, becaule i'm dead;

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