To be at work my fingers ftill are itching- [Taking up and fhewing her frock. PROLOGUE то MOORE's GAMESTER. WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK. L IKE fam'd La Mancha's knight; who, launce in hand, Mounted his fteed to free th' enchanted land, Our Quixote bard fets forth a monster-taming, And hurls defiance at the caitiff's den, Whose pow'rs at once delight ye and controul; May May this our bold advent'rer break the spell, Ye flaves of paffion, and ye dupes of chance, Hear other calls than thofe of cards and dice: Loft to your country, families and fame. Cou'd our romantic mufe this work atchieve, Wou'd there one honeft heart in Britain grieve? Th' attempt, though wild, would not in vain be made, If ev'ry honeft hand wou'd lend its aid. EPILOGUE TO CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK. SCENE, an Affembly. Several Perfons at Cards, at different Tables; aming t'e reft Col. Trill, Lord Minum, Mrs. Quaver, trick Mahony. Pa At the Quadrille Table. ad Lady.. What luck!' Mrs. Qu, You must do more. Mrs. Qu. I play in hearts. Cel. T. Encore! Col. T. To-night at Drury-Lane is play'd A comedy, and toute nouvelle-a spade! Is not Mifs Crotchet at the play? Mrs. Qu. My niece Has made a party, fir, to damn the piece. At the Whift Table. Ld. Min. I hate a playhoufe-Trump-It makes me fick. jt Lady. We're two by honours, ma'am. Ld. Min. And we th' odd trick. Pray do you know the author, colonel TRILL? Col. T. 1 know no poets, heav'n be prais'd-Spadille! ft Lady. I'll tell you who, my lord! [Whispers my lord. Ld. Min. What, he again? "And dwell fuch daring fouls in little men?” Be whofe it will, they down our throats will cram it! Col. T. O, no. I have a club- the best. — We'll damn it. Mrs. Qu. O bravo, colonel! mufic is my flame. Ld. Min. And mine, by Jupiter!-We've won the game. What, do you love all mufic! Col. T. And nafty plays Mrs. Qu. No, not Handel's. Ld. Min. Are fit for Goths and Vandals. [Rife from the table, and pay. From the Piquette Table. Sir Pat. Well, faith and troth! that Shakespeare was no fool! Col. T. I'm glad you like him, fir!-So ends the pool! [Pay and rife from table. SONG by the Colonel. I hate all their nonfenfe, Their Shakespeares and Johnsons, Their plays, and their playhouse, and bards: 'Tis finging, not saying; A fig for all playing, But playing, as we do, at cards! I love to fee Jonas, Am pleas'd too with Comus ; Each well the fpectator rewards. So clever, fo neat in Their tricks, and their cheating! Like them we would fain deal our cards. Sir Pat. King Lare is touching!-And how fine to fee Ld. Min. What, when he choaks his wife?— Col. T. And call'd her whore ? Sir Pat. King Richard calls his horse-and then Macbeth, Whene'er he murders-takes away the breath. My blood runs cold at every fyllable. To fee the dagger-that's invifible. [All laugh. Sir Pat. Laugh if you please, a pretty play Ld. Min. Is pretty. Sir Pat. And when there's wit in't Col. T. To be fure 'tis witty.. Sir Pat. I love the playhouse now-fo light and gay, With all thofe candles they have ta'en away! [All laugh: For all your game, what makes it fo much brighter? Col. 7. Put out the lights, and then Ld. Min. 'Tis fo much lighter.. Sir Pat. Pray do you mane, firs, more than you exprefsè Col. T. Juft as it happens Ld. Min. Either more, or lefs. Mrs. Qu. An't you afham'd, Sir? [To Sir Patrick.. Sir Pat. Me!-I feldom blushFor little Shakespeare, faith! I'd take a push! Ld. Min. News, news!-here comes Mifs Crotchet from the play. Enter Mifs Crotchet. Mrs. Qu. Well, Crotchet, what's the news? Mifs Cro. We've loft the day. Col. T. Tell us, dear Mifs, all you have heard and feeu. Mifs Cro. I'm tir'd-a chair-here take my capuchin ! Mijs Cro. No, my Lord, not quite But we fhall damn it. Col. T. When? Mifs Cro. To-morrow night, There is a party of us, all of fashion, Such crowds of city folks!-fo rude and preffing!! Whene'er we hifs'd, they frown'd and fell a fwearing, Such is the play. Oh, damn it! Mrs. Qu. Damn it! ift Lady. Damn it! Mifs Cro. Damn it! Ld. Min. Damn it! Sir Pat. Well, faith, you speak your minds, and I'll be free-- Good night! This company's too good for me. [Going. Cel. T. Your judgment, dear Sir Patrick, makes us proud. [All laugh. Bir Pat. Laugh if you please; but pray don't laugh too loud, [Exit. |