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PROLOGUE

MAN

SE

то THE

OF BUSINESS

Spoken by Mr. WOODWARD.

Enter as an Author with a Manufcript.

EE here, good folks, how genius is abus'd!
A Play of mine! the Manager refus'd!
And why I knew the reafon well enough-
Only to introduce his own damn'd stuff.
Oh he's an arrogant, invidious elf,

Who hates all wit, and has no wit himself! .
As to the plays on which he builds his fame,
Boafting your praife, we all know whence they came.
Crown him with ivy, leaft of Brentford kings!
For ftill, like ivy, round fome oak he clings.
Plays you have damn'd, their Authors yet unknown,
Trust me, good people, thofe were all his own.
If his lame Genius ever flood the teft,
'Twas but a crutch'd noun-adjective at beft;
Or rather expletive, whose weak pretence
Occupies fpace, but adds not to the fenfe.
His Lady-Mufe, tho' puling, wan, and thin,
With Green-Room caudle all in ftate lies-in;
His brats fo ricketty, 'tis ftill their curfe
To be fwath'd, fwaddled, and put out to nurfe ;
Brought up on playhouse pap, they waule and cry,
Crawl on the ftage, or in convulfions die.

His play to night, like all he ever wrote,

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Is pie-ball'd, piec'd, and patch'd, like Jofeph's coat ;
Made up of fhreds from Plautus and Corneille,
Terence, Moliere, Voltaire, and Marmontel,
With rags from fifty others I might mention,
Which proves him dull and barren of invention:
But fhall his nonfenfe hold the place of fenfe ?
No, Damn him! Damn him, in your own defence!
Elfe on your mercy will the Dwarf presume,
Nor e'er give Giant Genius elbow-room.

Now, now, my friends, we've brought him to the ftake; Bait him! and then, perhaps, fome fport he'll make.

1

I've lin'd the house in front, above, below;
Friends, like dried figs, ftack clofe in every row!
Some wits in ambush, in the gallery fit;
Some form a critick phalanx in the pit;
Some fcatter'd forces their fhrill catcalls play,
And ftrike the Tiny Scribbler with dilmay.

On then my hearts! charge! fire! your triumph's certain
O'er his weak battery from behind the curtain!
To-morrow's Chronicle your deeds shall boaft,
And loud Te Deums fill the Morning Post.

PROLO
OGUE

то

A L B U M A Ꮓ

Spoken by Mr. KING.

At the Revival in 1773.

A R.

INCE your old tafte for laughing is come back,
And you have drop'd the melancholy pack

Of tragi-comic-fentimental matter,
Refolving to laugh more, and be the fatter,
We bring a piece drawn from our ancient flore,
Which made old English fides with laughing fore.
Some miles from Tony Lumpkin, if you fpare,
Let Trincalo of Tetnam have his thare.
Tho' thieves there are, JUSTICE herfelf will own,
No scene to hurt your morals will be shown.
Each fifter mufe a fep'rate shop should keep,
Comedy to laugh, Tragedy to weep,

And fentimental laudanum to make you fleep.
Pil tell you what, good folks, if you don't jest,
But clafp the gigling goddefs to your breast;
Let but the comic mufe enjoy your favour,
We'll furnish stuff to make you laugh for ever!
Do laugh, pray laugh-'tis your beft cure when ill,
The grand fpecifick, univerfal pill!

What would I give to fet the tide a-going,

A fpring-tide in your heart with joy o'erflowing!
No fuperficial fkin-deep mirth-all from within-
Daugh till your jaws ach-'till you crack your skin;
The English truly laugh-your Frenchmen only grin..

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Italians

Italians faeer, Dutch grunt, and German features
Smirk thus you only laugh like human creatures.
Who has not laughter in his foul's a wretch,
And fit for treafon, ftratagems, Jack Ketch!
Your meagre hollow eye fpeaks fpleen and vapors,
And ftabs with pen and ink, in daily papers.
But the round cit, in ven'fon to the knuckles,
He is no plotter, but eats, drinks, and chuckles ;
When late to Sentimentals you were kind,

I thought poor I was whiftled down the wind,:
To prev at fortune !-O, farewel to fun,
Said I, and took a fhop at Islington.

To fay the truth-I'm not prepar'd as yet
To dance the wire, or throw a fomerset :
In short, if at a pun you would not grumble,
When I can't make you laugh-I needs muft tumble;
Shew you are fond of mirth-at once reftore us,
And burst with me in one grand laughing chorus !
True comedy reigns ftill-I fee it plain ;
Huzza! we now fhall live and laugh again!

MR.

ADDRESS

[Exit buzzaing and laughing,

GARRICK's

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SI

In the Chara&er of the Busy BODY.

INCE my good friends, tho' late, are pleas'd
at laft,

I bear with patience all my fuff'rings paft;
To you who faw my fuff'rings, it is clear,,
I bought my fecrets moft confounded dear.
To any gentleman not over nice,

I'll fell 'em all again, and at half-price.
Wou'd I had been among you-for, no doubt,
You all have fecrets, cou'd I find them out.
Each has a fecret fitted to his fancy;

My friends above there-honelt John and Nanty;
How well their fecrets with their paffions fuit,
Hearts full of love, and pockets full of fruit;
Each jolly failor thus his mistress grapples,
They look, and laugh, and love, and eat their apples.

So good or wife this precious town is growing;
There's fcarce a fecret here that's worth the knowing;
Nay, where a hungry mind expects a feaft
'Mongft politicians-it will get the leaft.

They promise much-feem full-ftare, nod, and pout,
But tap 'em, and the devil a drop comes out.
In fhort, I'll give this bufy bufinefs over,
Where much is felt, and little to discover;
But should the ladies wifh, or want t'employ me,›
I fhou'd be proud and pleas'd if they would try me.
To manage meetings, or to flip a letter,

There's no French milliner can do it better.
As for the Gentlemen-the Rake, or Beau-
I wou'd not give them that-for all they know :
Indeed, for fecrets there are none excel 'em ;
But then they make 'em, and when made they tell 'em.
There is one fecret ftill remains behind,
Which ever did, and will diftra&t the mind
I'd give up all for that-nay, fix for ever,
To find the fecret-to deferve your favour.

EPILOGUE

S

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Spoken by Miss. Bride.

TRIP'D of my tragic weeds and rais'd from death, In freedom's land, again, I draw my breath: Though late a Trojan ghoft, in Charon's ferry; I'm now an English girl, alive and merry! Hey-prefto!--I'm in Greece a maiden flain, How-ftranger ftill-a maid-in Drury Lane, No more by barb'rous men and laws confin'd, I claim my native rights-to fpeak my mind. Though pouring pedants fhould applaud this piece, Behold a champion-foe profet of Greece! I throw my gauntlet to the critic race:

[Throws down her glovesCome forth, bold Græcians! meet me face to face!

Come

Come forth, ye men of learning, at my call!
Learning a little feeling's worth it all!
And you of tafte and fashion I defy !

[Throavs down another glove.

But hold you hate the Greek as well as I ;
Then let us join our force, and boldly speak,
That English every thing furpaffes Greek.
Kill a young virgin, to refift unable!

Kill her like houfe lamb, for a dead man's table!
Well may you tremble, ladies, and look pale!
Do not you fhudder, parents, at this tale?
You facrifice a daughter now and then

To rich, old, wither'd, half departed men:
With us, there's no compulfive claufe, that can
Make a live girl, to wed a quite dead man.
Had I been wedded to fome ancient king!
I mean a Græcian-ancient! not the thing:
Then had our bard made ample reparation!
'Then had you feen a Græcian coronation!
Sneer not ye critics, at this rage for show
That honeft hearts at coronations glow!
Nor fnarl, that our faint copies glad their eyes,
When from the thing itself such bleffings rife.

PROLOGUE...

TO THE

AUTHOR,

WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY MR. FOOTE.

SEVE

EVERE their tafk, who in this critic age,
With fresh materials furnish out the ftage!
Not that our fathers drain'd the comic ftore;
Fresh characters fpring up as heretofore-
Nature does ftill with novelty abound;
On ev'ry fide fresh follies may be found.
But then the taste of ev'ry gueft to hit,
To please at once the Gall'ries, Boxes, pit;
Requires at least-no common fhare of wit.

Those who adorn the orb of higher life
Demand the lively rake, or modith wife;

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