A

Till each fine feeling of the heart be o'er,
And the gay wonder how they wept before.
Say, do you wish, ye bright, ye virtuous train,
That ev'ry tear that fell, fhould fall in vain ?
If this night's fcenes foft pity could impart,
'Tis yours to fix the fashion of the heart.
Adopt, ye fair, the loft Alzuma's caufe,
His ruin'd empire, and expiring laws.
For Orellana may I dare to plead ?
My faults will all your kind indulgence need.
you my hopes are fix'd :-one fmile from
To me is worth the treasure of PERU.

On

you

PROLOGUE

то

Z E N

OBI A.

O

Spoken by Mr. HOLLAND.

Fold, when Greece in a declining age

Of lawless pow'r had felt the barb'rous rage,
This was the tyrant's art-he gave a prize-
To him who a new pleafure fhould devife.
Ye tyrants of the pit, whofe cold disdain
Rejects and naufeates the repeated strain ;
Who call for rarities to quicken fenfe,
Say, do you always the reward dispense?
Ye bards, to whom French wit gives kind relief,
Are ye not oft the first-to cry, stop thief!
Say, to a brother do you e'er allow

One little fprig, one leaf to deck his brow?
No.-Fierce invective tuns the play-wright's ears,
Wits, Poet's Corner, Ledgers, Gazeteers!
'Tis faid the Tartar, ere he pierce the heart,
Infcribes his name upon his poifon'd dart;
That scheme's rejected by each fcribbling fpark,
Our Chriftian fyftem-ftabs you in the dark,
And yet, the defp'rate author of to-night
Dares on the Mufe's wing another flight;
Once more a dupe to fame, forfakes his eafe,
And feels th' ambition here again to please.

Ho

He brings a tale from a far diftant age,
Ennobled by the grave historic page!

Zenobia's woes have touch'd each polifh'd ftate;
The brightest eyes of France have mourn'd her fate.
Harmonious Italy her tribute paid,

And fung a dirge to her lamented fhade.

Yet think not that we mean to mock the eye
With pilfer'd colours of a foreign dye.
Not to tranflate, our bard his pen doth dip;
He takes a play, as Britons take a fhip;
They heave her down, with many a sturdy ftroke,
Repair her well, and build with heart of oak.
To every breeze set Britain's streamers free,
New-man her, and away again to fea.

This is our author's aim; and if his art
Waken to fentiment the feeling of the heart;
If in his fcenes alternate paffions burn,

And friendfhip, love, guilt, wirtue, take their turn;
If innocence, opprefs'd, lie bleeding here,

You'll give 'tis all he alks-one virtuous tear.

PR

Ο

то

CHA

Ö G U E

THE

N CE S.

F all men, those have leaft reason to care

For being laugh'd at, who can laugh their fhare And that's a thing our Author's apt to ufe, Upon occafion, when no man can chufe. Suppofe now at this inftant one of you, Were tickled by a fool, what wou'd you do? 'Tis ten to one you'd langh: here's just the cafe For there are fools that tickle with their face. Your gay fool tickles with his dress and motions, But your grave fcol of fools with filly notions. Is it not then unjuft that fops fhould ftill Force one to laugh, and then take laughing ill? Yet fince perhaps to fome it gives offence, That men are tickled at the want of fenfe ;

Our

Our Author thinks he takes the readiest way
To fhew all he has laugh'd at here fair play.
For if ill writing be a folly thought,
Correcting ill is fure a greater fault.

Then gallants laugh, but chufe the right place first,
For judging ill is of all faults the worst.

PRO L O GUE

то THE

CARELESS

HUSBAND.

F all the various vices of the age,

OF

And fhoals of fools expos'd upon the Stage,
How few are lafht that call for fatire's rage!
What can you think to see our plays fo full
Of madmen, coxcombs, and the drivelling fool?
Of cits, of sharpers, rakes and roaring bullies,
Of cheats, of cuckolds, aldermen and cullies?
Wou'd not one swear, 'twere taken for a rule,
That fatire's rod, in the dramatic fchool,
Was only meant for the incorrigible fool?
As if too vice and folly were confin'd
To the vile fcum alone of human kind,
Creatures a mufe fhou'd fcorn; fuch abject trash
Deferve not fatire's but the hangman's lash.
Wretches fo far fhut out from fenfe of shame,
Newgate or Bedlam only fhou'd reclaim;

For fatire ne'er was meant to make wild monsters tame,
No, Sirs.

We rather think the perfons fit for plays,

Are they whose birth and education says

They've every help that fhou'd improve mankind,
Yet ftill live flaves to a vile tainted mind;

Such as in wit are often feen t'abound,

And yet have fome weak part, where folly's found: For follies fprout, like weeds, higheft in fruitful ground., And 'tis obferv'd, the garden of the mind

To no infeftive weeds fo much inclin'd,

As the rank pride that fome from affectation find,
A folly too well known to make its court
With moft fuccefs among the better forts

}

Such

Such are the perfons we to-day provide,

And nature's fools for once are laid afide.
This is the ground on which our play we build ;
But in the structure muft to judgment yield :
And where the poet fails in art or care,
We beg your wonted mercy to the player.

PROLOGUE

то

THE

EARL OF ESSE X. Spoken by Mr. BARRY.

UR defp'rate bard our bold excurfion tries,

Tho' danger damp'd his wing, he dar'd to rife;
From hope, high rais'd, all glorious actions spring;
"Tis hence that heroes conquer, poets fing.
Even he may feel the foul-exalting fire,
Fame prompts the humbleft bofom to afpire.
Without a guide this rafh attempt he made,
Without a clue from art, or learning's aid.
He takes a theme where tend'reft paffions glow,
A theme, your grandfires felt with pleasing woe.
ESSEX' fad tale he ftrives to cloath anew,
And hopes to place it in a stronger view.

Poets, like painters, may, by equal law,
The labour'd piece from different mafters draw:
Perhaps improve the plan, add fire and grace,
And ftrike th' impaffion'd foul through all the face.
How far our author has fecur'd a claim

To this exalted palm, this wish'd-for fame,
Your generous fentiments will foon declare:
Humanity is ever prone to spare.

'Twere bafenels then your candour to distrust;
A BRITISH audience will, at least, be just.

A flattering truth he fearful must confefs,
His fanguine friends made promife of fuccefs;
But that, he fears, their ardent wifhes wrought,
Since partial favour feldom fees a fault.
Then bear, like patient friends, this first effay,.
His next fhall thank you in a nobler way.

PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

TO THE

ENGLISHMAN RETURN'D TO PARIS. Spoken by MR. FOOTE.

F all the paffion that poffefs mankind,

O The love of novelty rules most the mind,

In fearch of this from realm to realm we roam,
Our fleets come fraught with every folly home.
From lybias defarts hoftile brutes advance,
And dancing dogs in droves skip here from France.
From latian lands gigantic forms appear,
Striking onr british Breafts with awe and fear,
As once the Liliputians Gulliver,

Not only objects that affect the fight,

In foreign arts and artists we delight,

Near to that spot where Charles beftrides a horse,

In humble profe the place is Charing Cross;
Close by the margin of a kennel's fide,

A dirty difmal entry opens wide,

}

There with hoarfe voice, check'd shirt and callous hand

Duff's Indian English trader takes his ftand,

Surveys each paffenger with curious eyes,
And ruftic Roger falls an eafy prize,

Here's China porcelaine that Chelsea yields,
And India handkerchiefs from Spittal fields,
With Turkey carpets from Wilton came,
And Spanish tucks and blades from Bermingham.
Factors are forc'd to favour this deceit,

And English goods are fmuggl'd through the street.
The rude to polish and the fair to pleafe,
The hero of to-night has crofs'd the feas,
Tho' to be born a Briton be his crime,
He's manufactur'd in another clime.

'Tis Buck begs leave once more to come before ye,
The little fubject of a former ftory,

How chang'd, how fafhion'd whether brute or beau,
We trust the following fcenes will fully fhew.
For them and him we your indulgence crave.
'Tis ours ftill to fin and yours to fave.

PROLOGUE