PROLOGUE

TO THE

ROMANCE

OF AN

HOUR.

WRITTEN BY MR. KELLY,

Spoken by Mr. LEE.

O night good folks, tho' led a little dance,
Thro' the light mazes of an hour's romance,
No fpells, no fpectres have you caule to dread,
Not one poor thunder rumbles o'er your head;
Nor will the tempeft howling thro' the trees,
Once roufe your horror-with a form of peafe.-
Between ourselves, this poet was a fool,
To plan by common fenfe, or build by rule,
When ev'n the mightiest mafters of the stage,
Have gain'd fo much from trick, in ev'ry age!
Shakespeare is great-is exquifite-no doubt
But then our carpenters muft help him out:
The deep diftreffes of a mad'ning Lear,
In vain would ask the tributary tear,
If, 'midit the fury of the midnight sky,
Our rofin-lignt'nings did not aptly fly,,
And pity warmly plead to be let in,
Thro' a fmart-fhower of heart exploring tin.
Let critics proudly form dramatic laws,
Give me, fay I, what's fure to meet applaufe;
Let them of time, and place, and action boaft,
I'm for a devil, a dungeon, or a ghost-
When Hamlet weeping for a murder'd fire,
Upbraids his mother with a guilty fire,
'Tho' ev'ry line a plaudit fhould command,
Not one god yonder will employ his hand.
But cas'd in canvas, let the dead flalk in,
Then the loud paans-then the claps begin-
And pit, box, gall'ry, eagerly contend,
Exalted ftrife! who loudeft fhall commend
'The frantic ha! The Bedlamite-look there-
The start the heave-the flagger-and the ftare!-
'To dear Mackbeath, the learned ladies all run-
What too enjoy the flaming of the cauldron,

Afk Molly Dripping there, fo fleek and mild,
(As good a cook as e'er dreft roaft or boil'd)
What in all Julet makes her fooneft veep?
She'll fay the fun'ral-'Tis fo werry deep!
Allur'd by fterling fentiment alone,
"Cato for me," (cries Darby Macahone)
"I never miss that play at any time,
"If 'tis but added to a pantomime.”.

"Hoot,"-growls a bold North-Bratton, (taking fnuff)
"A pantomime is axacrable stuff-

"Na bag-pipes in the bond-they donna play
"The Corn Rags, or the Barks of Andermay.
In fhort tho' all ftage mummery despise,
All want a banquet for their ears or eyes;
And while at fhews they take the most offence,
Still make them bladders to the shore of fenfe.
The name our author gives his piece to-night,
Wou'd well admit a fupper for the fight;
A grand collection of dramatic dishes,
Of dragons, giants, forefts, rivers, fishes;
Yet tho he calls his trifle a romance,
He does not treat you with a fingle dance,
Nor use one hackney'd one eccentric art,
To lull your judgment, or to cheat your heart-
He brings, indeed, a character to view,
From Indian climes, he trufts entirely new-
A poor Gentoo, compos'd of virtues all,
Tho' fresh from English nabobs at Bengal ;
His face, perhaps, too fwarthy you may find;
"Yet fee Othello's vifage in his mind-"
And 'till you've fairly try'd our trembling bays,
Forbear to blame-but do not fear to praife.

WRITTEN BY

THO

HOUGH the young fmarts, I fee begin to fneer,
And the old finners caft a wicked leer:

Be not alarm'd, ye fair.-You've nought to fear.

S

For

For wanton hint, no loofe ambiguous fenfe,
Shall flatter vicious taste at your expence.
Leaving for once these fhameless arts in vogue:
We give a fable for the Epilogue.

An as there was, our author bad me say,

Who needs muft write.-He did.-And wrote a play.
The parts were caft to various beast and fowl:
Their ftage a barn.-The manager an owl.

The house was cramm'd at fix, with friends and foes
Rakes, wits, and critics, citizens and beaux.
These characters appear'd in different shapes
Of tigers, foxes, horfes, bulls, and apes;
With others too, of lower rank and station :-
A perfect abstract of the brute creation.
Each, as he felt, mark'd out the author's faults,
And thus the connoisseurs exprefs'd their thoughts.
The critic-curs first snarl'd—the rules are broke,
Time, place, and action, facrific'd to joke.
The goats cry'd out, 'twas formal, dull, and chafte
Not writ for beafts of gallantry and taste.
The borned-cattle were in pitious taking,
At fornication, rapes, and cuckold-making,
The tigers fwore, he wanted fire and paffion;
The apes condemn'd-because it was the fashion..
The gen'rous feeds allow'd him
proper merit :
Here mark his faults, and there approv'd his fpirit,
While brother-bards bray'd forth with ufual fpleen,
And as they heard, exploded every scene.

When Reynard's thoughts were afk'd, the shrugging
fage,

Fam'd for hypocrify, and worn with age,
Condemn'd the fhameless licence of the ftage..
At which the monkey skipp'd from box to box,.
And whisper'd round, the judgment of the fox.
Abus'd the moderns; talk'd of Rome and Greece,,
Bilk'd ev'ry box-keeper: and damn'd the piece.
Now ev'ry fable has a moral to it,—

Be churchman, ftatefman, any thing-but poet..
In law, or phyfic, quack in what you will,
Cant and grimace conceal the want of skill:
Secure in thefe, his gravity may pass-
But here no artifice can hide the afs.

}

PRO

PROLOG
OGUE

то THE

TA Y LO R S Spoken by Mr. FOOTE.

THIS night we add fome heroes to our store,

Who never were, as heroes, feen before;

No bluft'ring Romans,, Trojans, Greeks, fhall rage,
No knights, arm'd cap-aspee, fhall croud our ftage,
Nor fhall our Henries, Edwards take the field,
Oppofing fword to fword, and fhield to fhield:
With other instruments our troop appears;
Needles to thimbles, fhall, and fhears to fhears;
With parchment gorgets, and in buckram arm'd,
Cold-blooded taylors are to heroes warm'd,
And, flip-fhod, flide to war.-No lions glare,
No eye balls, flashing fire, fhall make you ftare;
Each outfide fhall belye the ftuff within;
A Roman spirit in each taylor's skin-

A taylor-legg'd Pompey, Caffius, fhall you fee,
And the ninth part of Brutus ftrut in me!

What though no fwords we draw, no daggers shake,
Yet can our warriors a quietus make

With a bare bodkin.Now be dumb, ye railers,
And never but in honour call out Taylors!
But 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 enfue! Firft 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 paffion bold and ftrong,
Oh then, but modesty restrains my tongue.
May this night's bard a fkilful taylor be,
And like a well-made coat his tragedy,

Though

Though clofe, yet eafy, decent, but not dull,
Short but not fcanty, without buckrum, full.

I N I

A,

GARRICK,

'V I R G

WRITTEN BY MR.

Spoken by Mrs. CIBBER.

THE poet's pen can, like a conjurer's wand,
Or kill, or raife his heroine at command:

And fhall I, fpirit like before I fink,

Not courteously inquire, but tell you what I think.
From top to bottom I fhall make you ftare,
By hitting all your judgments to a hair!
And first with you above I fhall begin, [Upper gallery.
Good-natur'd fouls, they're ready all to grin.
Though twelve-pence feat you there fo near the ceiling
The folks below can't boast a better feeling.
No high-bred prud'ry in your region lurks,
You boldy laugh and cry, as nature works.
Says John to Tom fay, there they fit together;
As honeft Britons as e'er trod in leather;)

'Tween you and I, my friend, 'tis very wild, That old Vergeenus fhould have ftuck his child: "I would have hang'd him for't, had I been ruler, "And duck'd that Apus too, by way of cooler." Some maiden dames, who hold the middle floor,

> [First gallery

And fly from naughty man at forty four;
With turn'd up eyes, applaud Virginia's 'fcape,
And vow they'd do the fame to fhun a rapes
So very chafte, they live in conftant fears,
And apprehenfion ftrengthens with their years.
Ye bucks, who, from the pit your terrors fend,
Yet lov'd diftreffed damfels to befriend :
You think this tragic joke too far was carried,
And wish to fet all right the maid had married;
You'd rather fee, if fo the fates had will'd,
Ten wives be kind, than one poor virgin kill'd.

May