}

Methinks, inftead of grace, we should prepare,
"Your taftes in Prelogue, with your bill of fare.
When you foreknow each courfe, tho' this may teaze you,
'Tis five to one, but one o'th' five may please you.
"First, for you critics, we've your dailing chear,
Faults without number, more than fenfe can bear.
You're certain to be pleas'd where errors are.
From your difpleafure, I dare vouch we're fafe;
You never frown, but where your neighbours laugh.
Now, you that never know what spleen or hate is,
Who for an act or two, are welcome Gratis,
That tip the wink, and fo fneak out with nunquam fatis;
For your smart taftes we've tofs'd you up a fop,
We hope the newest that's of late come up;
The fool, beau, wit, and rake, fo mixt he carries,
He feems a Ragou, piping hot from Paris.
But for the fofter fex, whom moft we'd move,
We've what the fair and challe were form'd for, Love.
An artlefs paflion, fraught with hopes and fears,
And nearest happy, when it most despairs.

For masks, we've fcandal, and for beaus, French airs.
To please all taftes, we'll do the best we can;
For the galleries, we've Dickey and Will Penkethman.
Now, firs, you're welcome, and you know your fare :"
But pray, in charity, the founder spare,

Left you destroy at once, the poet and the player.

SINCE plays are but the mirrors of our lives,
And foon or late mankind are chain'd to wives,
Since thofe diffolve lefs fetters too, must be
Our greatest happiness or mifery ;

What fubject ought, in reafon, more to please ye,
Than an attempt to make thofe chains fit cafy?

Tho'

Tho' in the noofe fo many fouls feem curft,

Pray who's in fault?-For when you've faid your

worst,

You all did feel it happiness

at firft.
Therefore our author drew you once the life
Of carelefs husband, and enduring wife,
Who by her patience (tho' much out of fashion)
Retriev'd, at last, her wanderer's inclination.
Yet fome there are, who still arraign the play.
At her tame temper fhock'd, as who fhould fay-
The price for a dull husband, was too much to pay.
Had he been ftrangled fleeping, who fhou'd hurt ye?
When fo provok'd-Revenge had been a virtue.

Well then to do his former moral right,

Or fet fuch meafures in a fairer light,

He gives you now a wife, he's fure, in fashion,
Whofe wrongs ufe moderate means for reparation.
No fool that will her life in fufferings wafte,
But furious, proud, and infolently chafte;
Who more in honour jealous, than in love,
Refolves refentinent fhall her wrongs remove:
Not to be cheated with his civil face,

But fcorns his falfhood, and to prove him bafe, place.

Thefe modifh measures, we prefume you'll own,
Are oft what wives of gallantry have done;
But if their confequence fhou'd meet the curfe
Of making a provok'd averfion worse,
Then you his former moral muft allow,
Or own the fatire juft he fhews you now.
Some other follies too, our fcenes prefent,

Some warn the fair from gaming, when extravagant.
But when undone, you fee the dreadful stake,
That hard-prefs'd virtue is reduc'd to make;
Think not the terrors you behold her in,
Are rudely drawn t'expofe what has been feen;
But as the friendly mufe's tenderett way,

To let her dangers warn you from the depth of play.

}

EPILOGUE,

T

то

ALON ZO,
Spoken by Mrs. BARRY,

HO' lately dead, a princefs, and of Spain,
I am no ghost, but flesh and blood again!
No time to change this drefs, it is expedient,
I pafs for British, and your most obedient.
How happy ladies, for us all-that we,
Born in this ifle, by Magna Charta free,
Are not, like Spanish wives, kept under lock and key.
The Spaniard now, is not like him of yore,
Who in his whisker'd face, his titles bore!
Nor joy nor vengeance made him fmile or grin,
Fix'd were his features, though the devil within.
He, when once jealous, to wash out the ftain,
Stalk'd home, ftabb'd madam, and stalk'd out again.
Thanks to the times, this dagger drawing-paffion,
Thro' polish'd Europe, is quite out of fashion.
Signior th' Italian, quick of fight and hearing,
Once ever lift'ning, and for ever leering,
To Cara Spofa, now politely kind,

He, beft of hufbands, is both deaf and blind.
Mynheer the Dutchman, with his fober pace,
Whene'er he finds his rib has wanted grace,
He feels no branches fprouting from his brain,
But calculation makes of lofs and gain;
And when to part with her, occafion's ripe,
Mynheer turns out mine frow, and fmokes his pipe.
When a brifk Frenchman's wife is giv'n to prancing,
It never fpoils his finging or his dancing:
Madame, you falfe-de tout mon cœur adieu;
Begar you cocu me, I cocu you.-

He toujours gai, difpels each jealous vapour,
Takes fnuff, fings vive l'amour, and cuts a caper.
As for JOHN BULL-not he in upper life,
But the plain Englishman, who loves his wife,
When honeft John I fay has got his doubts,
He fullen grows, fcratches his head, and pouts,
K

" What

46

What is the matter with you, love? cries the "Are you not well, my deareft! humph! cries he. "You're fuch a brute!" But Mr. BULL, I've done; And if I am a brute, who made me one?

You know my tendernefs--my heart's too full,
And fo's my head I thank you Mrs BULL,
0 you bafe man!-Zounds, madam, there's no bearing,
She falls a weeping, and he falls a iwearing:
With tears, and oaths, the florm domeftick ends,
The thunder dies away, the rain defcends,
She fobs, he melts, and then they kiss and friends.
Whatever ease thefe modern modes may bring,
A little jealoufy is no bad thing;

To me, who fpeak from nature unrefin'd,
Jealousy is the bellows of the mind.
Touch it but gently, and it warms defire,
If handled roughly, you are all on fire;
If it ftands ftill, affection must expire.
This truth, no true philofopher can doubt,
Whate'er you do let not the flame go out.

PRO L

}

}

OGU E

то THE

SISTE R.

WRITTEN BY MR. COLMAN.

Spoken by Mrs. MATTOCKS,

THE law of cuftom is the law of foo's

And yet

the wife are govern'd by her rules.
Why should men only Prologue all our plays,
Gentlemen-ufhers to each modern Baves?
Why are the fair to Epilogues confin'd,

Whofe tongues are loud, and gen❜ral as the wind ? .
Mark how in real life each fex is clafs'd!
Woman has there the first word and the laft.

Boaft not your gallant deeds, romantic men!
To night a female Quixote draws the pen.
Arm'd by the comic mufe, thefe lifts he enters,
And fallits forth in queft of strange adventures!

War,

War, open war, 'gainst recreant knights declares,
Nor giant-vice nor windmill-folly fpares:
Side-faddles Pegafus, and courts Apollo,
While I, (you fee!)her female Sancho, follow.
Ye that in this enchanted castle fit,

Dames, fquires, and dark magicians of the pit,
Smile on our fair knight-errantry to-day,
And raise no fpells to blaft a female play.
Oft has our author upon other ground,
Courted your fmiles, and oft indulgence found.
Read in the clofet, you approv'd her page;
Yet fill the dreads the perils of the stage.
Reader with writer due proportion keeps,
And if the poet nods the critic fleeps!
If lethargied by dullness here you fit,
Sonorous catcalls roufe the fleeping pit.

Plac'd at the threshold of the weather-house,
There ftands a pafteboard husband and his fpoufe,
Each doom'd to mark the changes of the weather,
But ftill-true man and wife!-ne'er feen together.
When low'ring clouds the face of heav'n deform,
The muffled husband ftands and braves the storm;
But when the fury of the tempelt's done,
Break out at once the lady and the fun.
Thus oft has man, in cuftom's beaten track,
Come forth, as doleful Prologue, all in black!
Gloomy prognoftic of the bard's difgrace,
With omens of foul feather in his face.
Trick'd out in filk and fmiles let me appear,
And fix as fign of peace, the rainbow here;
Raife your compaffion and your mirth together,
And prove to-day an emblem of fair weather!

PROLOGUE

то THE

REGISTER

T

OFFICE.

Spoken by Mr. King.

HE bard, whofe hopes on Comedy depend,
Maft ftrive inftruction with delight to blend t

K 2

While