On the Opening of the Theatre-Royal in the Haymarket, May 15, 1777.
WRITTEN BY GEORGE COLMAN, ESQ.
Spoken by Mr. PALMER.
RIDE by a thousand arts vain honours claims,
And gives to empty nothings pompous names.
Theatric dealers thus would fain feem great,
And every playhouse grows a mighty flate.
To fancied heights howe'er mock-monarchs foar,
A Manager's a Trader-nothing more.-
You (whom they court) their customers-and then
We Players-poor devils!-are the journeymen.
While two great Warehouses, for winter ufe,.
Eight months huge bales of merchandise produce,
Out with the swallow comes our fummer Bayes,
To fhew his taffata and luteftring plays;
A choice affortment of flight goods prepares,
The smallest haberdasher of small wares.
In Laputa, we're told, a grave projector,
A mighty fchemer, like our new Director-
Once form'd a plan-and 'twas a deep one, Sirs!
To draw the fun-beams out of cucumbers.
So whilft lefs vent'rous Managers retire,
Our falamander thinks to live in fire.
A Playhouse Quidnunc-and no Quidnunc's wiferReading our play-bills in the Advertiser,
Cries Hey! what's here? In the Haymarket a play,
To fweat the Public in the midst of May?
Give me fresh air!" then goes, and pouts alone
In country lodgings-by the two-mile stone :
There fits, and chews the cud of his difgult,
Boil'd in the fun, and blinded by the duft.
Dearee, fays Mrs. Inkle, let us go
To the Hay-market to-night, and fee the fhow!
Pfha, woman, cries old Inkle, you're a fool:
We'll walk to Hornfey, and enjoy the cool.
So faid, to finish the domeftick ftrife,
Forth waddle the fat spouse and fatter wife :
And as they tug up Highgate-hill together,
He cries" Delightful walking-charming weather!"
Now, with the napkin underneath the chin,
Unbutton'd Cits their turtle feasts begin,
And plunge full knuckle-deep thro' thick and thin:
Throw down fih, flesh, fowl, paftry, cuftard, jelly,
And make a filmagundy of their belly.
"More Chian-pepper! punch, another rummer!
"So cool and plealant-eating in the fummer!"
To antient geographers 'twas not known
Mortals could live beneath the torrid zone :
But we, though toiling underneath the line,
Muft make our hay now while the weather's fine.
Your good old Hay-maker, long here employed,
The funthine of your fmiles who ftill enjoyed;
The fields which long he mowed will not forfake,
Nor quite forego the feythe, the fork and rake,
But take the field, ev'n in the hottest day,
And kindly help us to get in our hay.
WORLD's A
Spoken by Mr. KING.
RAY let me fee, if what France fays be true,
That fmiling faces in this land are few.
I'll tell you how they mark you to a tittle;
They fay, you think too much, and talk too little;
While you with fcorn, cry out against their prate,
And fwear, with heels fo light, their heads want weight,
Be but fome clouds of politics blown o'er,
England would fhew its laughing face once more.
For this good end, our bard throws in his mite,
And hopes to steal you from your cares to-night.
Now for our title-All the World's a Stage.
The lively French, of every rank and age,
In acting fcenes employ their laughing hours,
And life's rough path make gay by ftrewing flowers,
Let but the fashion fpread throughout our ifle,
And what makes Frenchmen grin, will make you fmile.
The drama, would like Alkalis, protect you
From those four humours, which fo much affect you;
Sweeten your blood, with its fwift current mix,
And cure the crudities of politics.
Qur farce exhibits fuch a fcene as this-
And low are our perfonæ dramatis.
The various fervants at a country feat,
As actors, furnish out the curious treat.
In Alexander, will the Butler rave,
And nought can Clytus, the fat Coachman, fave,
From Philip's fon-You'll fee the hero foon,
Dealing death round him, with a filver spoon.
The Cook, Roxana, glowing with dekre,
Burns as the bates-her bofom all on fire!
The groom and footmen, act their parts fo well,
No longer Tom and Dick, they hear no bell!
The Butler mad-all's in confufion hurl'd,
He can't obey, for he commands the world!
His victories alone poffefs his brain-
So mafter bawls, and miftrefs fcolds in vain.
Critics-indulge thefe heroes in their fancies-
Nor, by your frowns, reftore 'em to their fenfes.
WRITTEN BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.
Spoken by Mifs YOUNGE.
OST hafte from Italy arrives my Lover!
Shall I to you, good Friends, my fears difcover?
Should Foreign modes his Virtues mar, and mangle,
And Care Spofo prove-Sir Dingle Dangle;
No fooner join'd than feparate we go,
Abroad-we never shall each other know,
At home-I mope above-he'll pick his teeth below.
In fweet domeftic chat we ne'er thall mingle,
And, wedded tho' I am, shall still live fingle.
However modifh, I deteft this plan:
For me, no maukish creature, weak, and wan;
He must be English, and an English-Man.
To Nature, and his Country, falfe and blind,
Shou'd Belville dare to twift his form and mind,
I will discard him-and to Britain true,
A Briton chufe-and, may be, one of you!
Nay, don't be frighten'd-I am but in jeft;
Free Men in Love, or War, fhould ne'er be press'd.
If you wou'd know my utmoft expectation,
'Tis one unfpoil'd by travell'd Education;
With knowledge, tafte, much kindnefs, and fome whim,
Good fenfe to govern me-and let me govern him:
Great love of me, must keep his heart from roving;
Then I'll forgive him, if he proves too loving;
If in thefe times, I fhou'd be biefs'd by Fate
With fuch a Phoenix, fuch a matchlefs Mate,
I will by kindnefs, and fome fmall difcerning,
Take care that Hymen's torch continues burning:
At weddings, now-a-days, the torch thrown down,
Juft makes a fmoke, then ftinks throughout the town!
No married Puritan-I'll follow pleasure,
And ev'n the Fashion-but in mod'rate measure;
I will of Op'ra extafies partake,
Tho' I take fnuff to keep myfelf awake;
No rampant Plumes fhall o'er my temples play,
Foretelling that my brains will fly away;
Nor from my head fhall ftrange vagaries fpring,
To fhew the foil can teem with ev'ry thing!
No fruits, roots, greens, fhall fill the ample space,
A kitchen-garden, to adorn my face!
No Rocks fhall there be feen, no Windmill, Fountain,
Nor curls like Guns fet round, to guard the Mountain ! O learn, ye Fair, if this fame madness spreads,
Not to hold up, but to keep down your heads :
Be not misled by ftrange fantastic art,
But in your drefs let Nature take fome part;
Her skill alone a lafting pow'r infures,
And beft can ornament fuch charms as yours.
DREST by the load of life, the weary mind
Surveys the general toil of human kind;
With cool fubmiffion joins the labouring train,
and focial forrow, lofes half it's pain.
Our anxious bard, without complaint, may share
This bustling feafon's epidemic care.
Like Cafar's pilot, dignify'd by fate,
Toft in one common ftorm with all the great;
Diftreft alike, the statesman and the wit,
When one a borough courts, and one the pit.
The bafy candidates for pow'r and fame,
Have hopes, and fears, and wishes, juft the fame;
Bifabled both to combat, or to fly,
Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply.
Uncheck'd on both, loud rabbles vent their rage,
As mongrels bay the lion in a cage.
Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale,
For that bleft year when all that vote may rail;
Their fchemes of fpite the poet's foes difmifs,
Till that glad night, when all that hate may hifs.
- This day the powder'd curls and golden coat,
Says Swelling Crijpin, begg'd a cobler's vote:
This night, our wit, the pert apprentice cries,
Lies at my feet, I hifs him, and he dies.
The great, 'tis true, can charm th' electing tribe;
The bard may fupplicate, but cannot bribe.
Yet judg'd by thofe, whofe voices ne'er were fold,
He feels no want of ill perfuading gold;
But confident of praife, if praise be due,
Trafts without fear, to merit, and to you.
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