To be at work my fingers ftill are itching-
These flowers here are all of my own ftitching.

[Taking up and fhewing her frock.
But, is my prate diflik'd, for after all,
1 am but young, 'tis true, and fomewhat fmall
And taller Ladies, I must needs confefs,
Might speak an epilogue with more addrefs.
However, fome few things I have to plead :
First, 'pon my word and credit, I'm a maid.
Will that pafs here for merit?-I don't know-
I'm a new face-which generally does fo.
And if you want me louder, taller, bolder,
Have patience-I fhall mend, as I grow older.

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,
Arm'd at all points, to fight that hydra-gaming.
Aloft on Pegafus he waves his pen,

And hurls defiance at the caitiff's den,
The first on fancy'd giants spent his rage,
But this has more than windmills to engage.
He combats paffion, rooted in the foul,

Whose pow'rs at once delight ye and controul;
Whofe magic bondage each oft flave enjoys,
Nor wishes freedom, though the fpell deftroys.
To fave our land from this Magician's charms,
And rescue maids and matrons from his arms,
Our knight poetic comes.-And oh! ye fair!
This black Enchanter's wicked arts beware!
His fubtle poifon dims the brightest eyes,
And at his touch, each grace and beauty dies.
Love, gentleness, and joy, to rage give way,
And the foft dove becomes a bird of prey.

May

May this our bold advent'rer break the spell,
And drive the dæmon to his native hell!

Ye flaves of paffion, and ye dupes of chance,
Wake all your pow'rs from this destructive trance!
Shake off the hackles of this tyrant vice:

Hear other calls than thofe of cards and dice:
Be learn'd in nobler arts than arts of play,
And other debts than those of honour pay..
No longer live infenfible to fhame,

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
Ould Hamlet's ghoft!" To be, or not to be."
What are your op'ras to Othello's roar?
Oh, he's an angel of a blackmoor!

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 !
Ld. Min. And isn't it damn'd, Mifs?

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,
Refolv'd to extirminate this vulgar paffion:
A playhoufe, what a place--I must fortwear it.
A little mifchief only makes one bear it.

Such crowds of city folks!-fo rude and preffing!!
And their horfe-laughs, fo hideously diltrelling.!

Whene'er we hifs'd, they frown'd and fell a fwearing,
Like their own Guildhall giants-fierce and ftaring!
Col. T. What faid the folks of fashion? Were they cross?
Ld. Min. The rest have no more judgment than my horse.
Mifs Cro. Lord Grimly swore 'twas execrable stuff.
Says one, Why fo, my lord ?-My lord took fnuff.
In the first act, lord George began to doze,
And criticis'd the author-through his nofe;
So loud indeed, that as his lordship fnor'd,
The pit turn'd round, and all the brutes encor❜d.
Some Lords, indeed, approv'd the author's jokes.
Ld. Min. We have among us, Mifs, fome foolish folks.
Mifs Cro. Says poor lord Simper: Well now, to my mind
The piece is good ;-but he's both deaf and blind.
Sir Pat. Upon my foul a very pretty flory!
And quality appears in all its glory !—
There was fome merit in the piece, no doubt;
Mifs Cro. O, to be fure !-if one could find it out.
Col. T. But tell us, Mifs, the fubject of the play.
Mifs Cro. Why, 'twas a marriage-yes, a marriage. Stay!
A lord, an aunt, two fisters, and a merchant-
A baronet-ten lawyers-a fat ferjeant-
Are all produc'd-to talk with one another;
And about fomething make a mighty pother;
They all go in, and out; and to and fro;
And talk, and quarrel-as they come and go-
Then go to bed, and then get up-and then-
Scream, faint, fcold, kifs---and go to bed again.
[All laugh.
Your judgment! Never sham it.

Such is the play.
Col. T.

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.