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то THE
А Y L o R
Spoken by Mr. Foote.

Who never were, as heroes, seen before ;
No bluft'ring Romans,, Trojans, Greeks, shall rage,
No knights, arm’d cap.aopee, shall croud our stage,
Nor Ahall our Henries, Edwards take the field,
Opposing sword to sword, and Thield to field :
With other instruments our troop appears ;
Needles to thimbles shall, and shears to fhears ;
With parchment gorgets, and in buckram armid,
Cold-blcoded caylors are to heroes warm’d,
And, flip-fhod, slide to war. -No lions glare,
No eye balls, flalhing fire, shall make you stare;
Each outside shall belye the stuff within ;
A Roman spirit in each taylor's kin
A taylor-legg'd Pompey, Caffius, Tall you fee,
And the ninth part of Bruius strut in me !
What though no swords we draw, no daggers thake,
Yet can our warriors a quietus make
With a bare bodkin. Now be dumb, ye sailess,
And never but in honour call out Taylors ?
Bat these are heroes tragic; you will cry,
Oh, very tragic! and I'll tell you why--
Should female artists with the male combine;
And mantua-makers with the taylors join ;
Should all too proud to work, their trades give o'er,
Nor to be footh'd again by fix.pence more,
What horrors would ensue! First you, ye beaux !
At once lose all existence with your cloaths !
And you, ye fair! where would be your defence ?
This is no golden age of innocence !
Should drunken Bacchanals the graces meet,
And no police to guard the naked street,
Beauty is weak, and passion bold and strong,
Oh then, -but modelty reftrains my tongue.

May this night's bard a skilfal taylor be,
And like a well-made coat his tragedy,


Though close, yet easy, decent, but not dull,
Short but not scanty, without buckrum, full.


T o 'V ' IR. G I NI A,


Spoken by Mrs. Cibber.


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I E poet's pen can, like a conjurer's wand,

Or kill, or raiłe his heroine at command:
And shall I, spirit like before I fink,
Not courteously inquire, bot tell you what I think.
From top to bottom I shall make you stare,
By hitting all your judgments to a hair!

And firit with you above I fall begin, (Upper gallery
Good-natur'd fouls, they're ready all to grin.
Though twelve-pence feat you there so near the ceiling)
The folks below can't boast a better feeling.
No high-bred prud'ry in your region lurks,
You 'boldy laugb and cry, as nature works.
Says John 10 Tom (ay, there they fit together,
As honeft Britons as e'er trod in lea her ;)
06 'Tween you and I, my friend, 'tis very wild,
16 That old Vergeenus should have fuck his child:
“ I would have hang'd him for't, had I been ruler,
“ And dụck'd that Apus too, by way of cooler.”
Some muiden dames, who hold the middle floor,

"; [First gallery
And fly from naughty man at forty four;
With turn'd up eyes, applaud Virginia's 'scape,
And vow they'd do the same to fhun a rape ;
So very chaste, they live in constant fears,
And apprehension ftrengthens with their years.

Ye bucks, who, from the pit your terrors send,
Yet lov'd distressed damsels to befriend :
You think this tragic joke too far was carried,
And wish to set all right the maid had married ;
You'd rather see, if to be fates had will’d,
Ten wives be kiod, than one poor virgia kill'd.


May I approach unto the boxes pray-
And there search out a judgment on the play?
In vain alas! I should attempt to find it
Fine ladies see a play, but never mind it.
'Tis vulgar to be mov'd by altid paflion,
Or form opinions, till they're fix'd by fashion.-

Our author hopes this fickle goddess Mode;
With us, will make, at least, nine days abode ;
To present pleasure he contracts his view,
And leaves his future fame to time and you.

P R O L'O: G U E


For the Benefit of Mrs. Kelly and her Children,

And spoken by Mr. HULL.
This night presents a play, which public rage,

Or right, or wrong, once hooted from the stage;
From zeal or malice now no more we dread,
For English vengeance, wars not with the dead.
A generous foe regards with pitying eye,
The man whom fate has laid where all must lye.
To wit, reviving from its author's duft,
Be kind, ye Judges ! or at least be just :
For no renew'd hostilities invade
Th’ oblivious graves inviolable shade.
Let one great payment every claim appease,
And him who cannot hurt, allow to please.
To please by scenes, unconscious of Offence,
By harmless meriment, or useful lense;
Where aught of bright, or fair, the piece displays,
Approve it only-'tis too late to praise.
If want of skill, or want of care appear,
Forbear to hiss- the poet cannot hear.
By all, like him, mult praise and blame he found;
At beft, a Aceting gleam, or empty sound,

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Yet then shall calm refle&tion bless the night,
When liberal pity dignify'd delight;
When pleasure fir'd her torch at virtue's Aame,
And mirth was bounty with a humbler name.

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Spoken by Mr. Hull,

oo long the Muse-attach'd to regal show,

Denies the scene to tales of humbler woe ;
Such as were wont-while yet they charm’d the ear,
To steal the plaudit of a filent tear,
When Otway gave domestic grief its part,
And Rowe's familiar sorrows touch'd the heart.

A scepter'd traitor, lath'd by vengeful fate,
A bleeding hero, or a falling itate,
Are themes, (tho' nobly worth the claffic song.)
Which feebly claim your fighs, nor claim them longs
Too great for pity, they inspire respect,
Their deeds astonit, rather than affect ;
Proving how rare the heart that woe can move,
Which reason tells us, we can never prove.

Other the scene, where fadly stands confeft,
The private pang that rends the Sufferer's breast;
When sorrow fits upon a Parent's brow,
When Fortone mocks the youthful Lover's vow
All feel the tale--for who fo mean, but knows
What Fathers' forrows are !.~what Lovers' woes !

On kindred ground our Bard his fabric built,
And plac'd a mirrour there for private guilt;
Where-fatal union will appear combin'd
An angel's form--and an abandon'd mind;
Honour attempting Pasion to reprove,
And Friendship Struggling with unballow'd Love!

Yet view not, Critics, with fevere regard
The orphan-offspring of an orphan bard;


Doom'd while he wrote, unpitied, to sustain
More real mis’ries than his pen could feign !

- Ill fated Savage ! at whose birth was giv'n
No Parent but the Muse, no friend but Heav'n !
Whose youth no brother knew, with social care
To soothe his suff'rings, or demand to share ;
No wedded partner of his mortal woe,
To win his smile at all that fate could do ;
While at his death, nor friend's, nor mother's tear
Fell on the track of his deserted bier !

So pleads the tale *, that gives to future times
The Son's misfortunes, and the Parent's crimes ;
There shall his fame (if own'd to-night). survive,
Fix'd by the hand that bids dur language live!

P R O L O 0 G



Spoken by Mr. Lewis.
THRO' the wide tra&ts of life, in ev'ry trade,

What numbers toil with faculties decay'd !
Worn out, yet eager in the race they run,
And never learn, when proper to have done.

What need of proofs ? Ev'n Authors do the same,
And rather than delitt, decline in fame :
Like gamesters, thrive at first, then bolder grow,
And hazard all upon one desperate throw.

So thinks our Bard; his play with doubts and fears Long has he kept conceal'a, above nine years; And now he comes, 'tis the plain fimple truth, This night to answer for his fins of youth.

The Piece, you'll say, should now perfection bear; But who can reach it after all his care? He paints no Monfiers for ill-judg'd applause ; Life he has view'd, and from that source he draws. Life of Richard Savage by Dr. Samuel Jelinfon.


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