May I approach unto the boxes pray

And there fearch out a judgment on the play?
. In vain alas! I fhould attempt to find it-
Fine ladies fee a play, but never mind it-
"Tis vulgar to be mov'd by acted paffion,
Or form opinions, till they're fix'd by fashion.
Our author hopes this fickle goddess Mode,
With us, will make, at leaft, nine days abode;
To prefent pleasure he contracts his view,
And leaves his future fame to time and you.

PRO L
LO O GUE

то

THE

WORD TO THE

"

WISE.

For the Benefit of Mrs. KELLY and her Children,

WRITTEN FOR THE OCCASION BY DR. JOHNSOX,
And spoken by Mr. HULL.

THIS night presents a play, which public rage,
Or right, or wrong, once hooted from the ftage;
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 hoftilities invade
Th' oblivious graves inviolable shade.
Let one great payment every claim appease,
And him who cannot hurt, allow to please.
To please by fcenes, unconscious of offence,
By harmless meriment, or useful fenfe;
Where aught of bright, or fair, the piece displays,
Approve it only-'tis too late to praife.

If want of skill, or want of care appear,
Forbear to hifs- the poet cannot hear.

By all, like him, must praise and blame be found;
At beft, a fleeting gleam, or empty found.

Yet

Yet then fhall calm reflection blefs the night,
When liberal pity dignify'd delight;

When pleasure fir'd her torch at virtue's flame,
And mirth was bounty with a humbler name.

SIR

PROLOGUE

Το

THOMAS OVERBURY.

WRITTEN BY R. B. SHERIDAN, ESQ.

Spoken by Mr. HULL,

00 long the Mufe-attach'd to regal fhow,
Denies the fcene to tales of humbler woe;

Such as were wont-while yet they charm'd the ear,
'To fteal the plaudit of a filent tear,

When Otway gave domestic grief its part,

And Rowe's familiar forrows touch'd the heart.
A fcepter'd traitor, lafh'd by vengeful fate,

A bleeding hero, or a falling ftate,

Are themes, (tho' nobly worth the claffic fong.)
Which feebly claim your fighs, nor claim them longs
Too great for pity, they infpire refpect,

Their deeds aftonish, rather than affect;

Proving how rare the heart that woe can move,
Which reafon tells us, we can never prove.

Other the scene, where fadly stands confest,
The private pang that rends the Sufferer's breast;
When forrow fits upon a Parent's brow,

When Fortune 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 Paffion to reprove,
And Friendship ftruggling with unhallow'd Love !
Yet view not, Critics, with fevere regard
The orphan-offspring of an orphan bard;

Doom'd

Doom'd while he wrote, unpitied, to fuftain
More real mis'ries than his pen could feign!
-Ill fated Savage! at whofe birth was giv'n
No Parent but the Muse, no friend but Heav'n !
Whose youth no brother knew, with focial care
To foothe his fuff'rings, or demand to fhare;
No wedded partner of his mortal woe,

To win his fmile at all that fate could do ;
While at his death, nor friend's, nor mother's tear
Fell on the track of his deferted 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) furvive,
Fix'd by the hand that bids our language live!

PROLOGUE

то

KNOW

YOUR OWN

MIND.

WRITTEN BY ARTHUR MURPHY, ESQ.
Spoken by Mr. LEWIS.

THRO' the wide tracts 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 fame, And rather than defift, decline in fame:

Like gamefters, thrive at firft, then bolder grow,
And hazard all upon one defperate throw.

So thinks our Bard; his play with doubts and fears Long has he kept conceal'd, 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 fay, fhould now perfection bear;

But who can reach it after all his care?

He paints no Monfiers for ill-judg'd applaufe;
Life he has view'd, and from that fource he draws.

Life of Richard Savage by Dr. Samuel Johnfon.

Here

Here are no fools, the Drama's ftanding Jeft!
And Welchmen now, North Britons too may reft.
H bernia's fons fhall here excite no wonder,
Nor fhall St. Patrick blush to hear them blunder.
By other arts he flrives your tafte to hit,
Some plot, fome character-he hopes fome wit.
And fhould this effort please you like the paft,
Ye brother Bards! forgive him ;-'tis his laft.

Loft are the friends, who lent their aid before;
Rofcius retires, and Barry is no more.
Harmonious Barry!-oft have you admir'd,
As on this fpot the tuneful fwan expir'd.
'Twas then but fancy'd woe; now ev'ry Muse
In forrow fix'd with tears his urn bedews.

The widow'd fair, who watch'd his languid bed,
Still pines in grief:-Ev'n Woodward too is fled,
Nor can Thalia raise her favourite's head.

your

For thefe our Author lov'd the tale to weave;
He feels their lofs, and now he takes his leave;
Sees new Performers in fucceffion fpring,
And hopes new Poets will expand their wing.
Beneath fmile his leaf of laurel grew;
Gladly he'd keep it, for 'twas given by you.
But if too weak his art, if wild his aim,
On favours past he builds no idle claim.
To you once more he boldly dares to truft ;
Hear and pronounce :-He knows you will be juft.

PROLOGUE

то THE

WINTER'S TALE,

(Altered from Shakespeare,)

WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK.

And spoken by Mr. JEFFERSON, at the Theatre-
Royal, Richmond.

TO various things the flage has been compar'd,
As apt ideas ftrike each humorous bard:

This it, for want of better fimile,
Let this our Theatre a tavern be:

The poet, vinti ers, and the waiters we.
So (as he cant, and cultom of the trade is)
You're welcome, gem'men, kindly welcome ladies,
To draw in cuftomers, our bills are spread;

[Shewing a play bill. You cannot miss the fign, 'tis Shakespeare's head, From this fame head, this fountain- lead divine, For different palates prings a different wine! In which no tricks to ftrengthen, or to thin 'emNeat as imported-ho French brandy in 'emHence for the choiceft fpirits flow Champagne; Whofe fparkling atoms fhoot thro' every vein, Then mount in magic vapours to th' enraptur'd brain! Hence flow for martial minds potations strong; And fweet love potions for the fair and young, For you, my hearts of oak, for your regale,

[To the upper gallery.

There's good old English ftingo, mild and stale.
For high luxurious fouls with lufcious fmack,
There's Sir John Falstaff is a butt of fack:
And if the fronger liquors more invite ye,
Bardolph is gin, and Piftol aqua vitæ.
As for the learned Critics, grave and deep,
Who catch at words, and catching fall asleep:
Who in the ftorms of paffion-hum,—and haw!
For fuch, our mafter will no liquor draw-
So blin ly thoughtful, and fo darkly read,
They take Tom Durfy's, for the Shakespeare's head.
A vintner once acquir'd both praife and gain,
And fold much Perry for the best Champagne.
Some rakes this precious ftuff did fo allure,
They drank whole nights,-what's that-when wine is
pure?

"Come fill a bumper, Jack-, I will, my Lord

Here's cream!-damn'd fine!-immenfe !-upon my "" word!

Sir Willian, what fay you? The beft, believe me→ "In this-eh Jack!-the devil can't deceive me." Thus the wife critic, too, mistakes his wine, Cries out with lifted han,tis great! -divine!

Then