Whilft they, who in a lower circle move,
Yawn at their wit, and flumber at their love."
If light low mirth employs the comic fcene,
Such mirth as drives from vulgar minds the spleen;
The polish'd critic damns the wretched ftuff,
And cries,would pleafe the Gall'ries well enough.
Such jarring judgments who can reconcile?
Since fops will frown where humble traders fmile.
To dath the poet's ineffectual claim,

And quench his thirst for universal fame,
The Grecian fabulift, in moral lay,

Has thus addrefs'd the writers of his day.
Once on a time, a fon and fire, we're told,
(The tripling tender, and the father old)
Purchas'd a Jack-Afs at a country fair,
To eafe their limbs, and hawk about their ware;
But as the fluggish animal was weak,

They fear'd if both fhould mount, his back would breaks
Up gets the boy, the father leads the afs,

And thro' the gazing crowd attempts to pafs;

Forth from the throng the grey-beards hobble out,
And hail the Cavalcade with feeble fhout. 2
This the respect to rev'rend age you show?
And this the duty you to Parents owe?
He beats the doof, and you are fet aftide;
Sirrah! get down, and let your Father side.
As Grecian lads were feldom void of grace,
The decent, duteous youth, refign'd his place.
Then a fresh murmur through the rabble ran,
Boys, girls, Wives, widows, all attack the man.
Sure never was brute beast fo void of nature!
Have you no pity for the pretty creature?

To

your own baby can you be uskind ?

Here-Suck, Bil, Betty-put the child behind,
Old Dimple next the Clown's compaffion claim'd?
'Tis wonderment thefe boobies been't afham'd:

Two at a time upon a poor dumb beaft !
They might as well have carry'd him at leaft.
The pair, ftill pliant to the partial voice,

Difmount and bear the afs-Then what a noife!
Huzza, loud laughs, low gibe, and bitter joke,
From the yet filent fire thefe words provoke.

Proteed

Proceed my boy, nor heed their farther call,

Vain his attempts who ftrives to pleafe them all.

PRO L

OGU E

то

THE

SCHOOL FOR LOVERS,

SU

SPOKEN BY MR.

GARRICK.

UCCESS makes people vain,-the maxim's true,
We all confefs it, and not over new.
The verieft clown, who ftumps along the ftreets,
And doffs his hat to each grave cit he meets,

Some twelve months hence bedaub'd with livery lace,
Shall thruft his faucy flambeaux in your face.
Not fo our bard,-tho' twice your kind applaufe
Has, on this fickle fpot, efpous'd his caufe:
He owns, with gratitude, th' obliging debt;
Has twice been favour'd and is modest yet.

Your giant wits, like thofe of old, may climb
Olympus high, and ftep o'er fpace and time;
Nay ftride, with feven leagu'd boots, from fhore to fhore
And, nobly by tranfgreffing, charm ye more.
Alas! our author dares not laugh at fchools-
Vain fenfe confines his humbler mufe to rules:
He fhifts no fcenes!-but here I ftop'd him fhort-
Not change your fcenes! faid I,-I'm forry for't:
My conftant friends above, around, below,
Have English taftes, and love both change and fhow.
Without fuch aids--ev'n Shakespeare would be flat,
Our crowded pantomimes are proofs of that.
What eager tranfport ftares from every eye,
When pullies rattle, and our Genii fly!
When tin cafcades like falling water gleam,
Or through the canvas-burfts the real ftream:
While thirty flington laments in vain
Half her New River roll'd to Drury Lane.
Lord, Sir, faid I, for boxes, gallery, pit,
I'll back my harlequin against your wit-
Yet fill the author, anxious for his play,
Shook his wife head-what will the critics fay ? ̈

Ast

As ufual Sir,-abuse you all they can

And what the ladies-he's a charming man;

A charming piece!-one fcarce knows what it means ;
But that's no matter where there's fuch fweet fcenes !--
Still he perfifts, and let him -entre nous·

I know your taftes, and will indulge them too.
Change you fhall have, fo fet your hearts at cafe:
Write as he will, we'll act it as you please.

SOME

WRITTEN BY A, MURPHY, ESQ.

And spoken by Mr. OBRIEN.

OME ftrange caprice for ever rules the stage,
And this we call the Prologue-fpeaking age;
Without a Prologue nothing can be done,
So dearly you all love a little fun ;

To tame this rage, in vain we often try
The niceft art-Prologue ftill you cry!

And yet our bard-bards will be ftill abfurd!
Comes without one preliminary word;
He's quite forgot his Prologue-yet be quiet,
My honeft friends above-you need not riot;
You'll have your penny-worth to appease the ftorm;
You fee I come in black-the ufual form!

I bow, I fmile around,-obferve me, pray,

To the Galleries, (Bows to the Boxes) An't that as well as ought thefe Poets say?

The Pit comes mext-but how your tafte to hit !
-You are the fov'reign arbiters of wit.

You have the-Oh!-nature-paffion-art,
Wit, judgment, humour, ev'ry critic part;
Piot, fituation, Shakespeare, Johnson, Rowe,

Beaumont and Fletcher,-very high!-damn'd low!
Take all amongst ye,-all is your's, you know.

}

And

And now the Gallery,-there I fhould be witty;
What shall I fay no hint,-Oh, ay, the city-
Attornies,-Milliners,-the tender fqueeze,

Soft hinting elbows, and love-kindling knees,
And-and-you take, me right-fo word it as you
pleafe.

66

To you, ye Gods, (to the upper Gallery) I make my
laft appeal,"

Or mark our merit,-or our crimes conceal.
And now, I think, I've made a Prologue-no!
I ftill fhould bid you feme compaffion fhew
To Bayes within,-yonder he trembles-Oh!
If tender pity e'er your heart inclines,

}

(Wiping his eyes) -That will do full as well as twenty

lines.

You've had a Prologue now, you needs must fay,
And fo I hope you'll kindly hear the play.

Going off, returns.
One thing I had forgot,-this night appears
A fair adventurer*, full of doubts and fears.
If genius prompts her, and not vain defire,
'Tis yours to fan each spark of struggling fire.
I fee you fmile,-relax'd are critic laws,

Her years and form conjoin'd will plead her caufe,
And dawning merit meet with fure applause.

PRO

L O G U E

TO THE

EARL OF

}

WARWICK,

WRITTEN BY MR. COLMAN,

SEVERE each poet's lot: but fure most hard
Is the condition of the playhoufe bard:

Doom'd to hear all that would-be critic's talk,
And in the go-cart of dull rules to walk!
"Yet authors multiply," you fay. 'Tis true,
But what a num'rous crop of critics too!
Scholars alone, of old durft judge and write,
But now each journalist turns ftagyrite.

Mifs Elliot.

Quintillians in each coffee-houfe you meet,
And many a Longinus walks the street.

In Shakespeare's days, when his advent❜rous muse,
A mufe of fire; durft each bold licence use,
Her noble ardour met no critic's phlegm,
To check wild fancy, or her flights condemn:
Ariels and Calibans unblam'd she drew,

Or goblins, ghofts, and witches brought to view.
If to hiftoric truth fhe fhap'd her verfe,

A nation's annals freely fhe'd rehearse;

Bring Rome's, or England's story on the stage,
And run, in three fhort hours, through half an age.
Our bard, all terror ftruck, and fill'd with dread,
In Shakespeare's awful footsteps dares not tread,
Through the wild field of hift'ry fears to ftray,
And builds, upon one narrow spot, his play;
Steps not from realm to realm, whole feas between,
But barely changes twice or thrice his fcene.
While Shakespeare vaults on the poetic wire,
And pleas'd fpectators fearfully admire,
Our bard, a critic pole between his hands,

On the tight rope, fcarce balanc'd, trembling ftands;
Slowly and cautiously his way he makes,

And fears to fall at ev'ry step he takes:

While then fierce Warwick he before you brings,
That fetter-up and puller-down of kings,

With British candour diffipate his fear!
An English ftory fits an English ear.

Though harsh and crude you deem his firft effay,
A fecond may your favours well repay;

Applause may nerve his verfe, and chear his heart,
And teach this practice of this dang'rous art.

SIN

SINCE plays are but a kind of publick feats,
Where tickets only make the welcome guests;

Methinks,