Prithve, lord Flimfey, what's this thing at Drury?
This Spleen?'tis low, damn'd low, ma'am, I affure ye..
C'est vrai, mi lor !—we now feel no fuch evil,
Never are haunted with a vapourish devil.
In pleafures round we whirl it from the brain,
You rattle it away with feven's the main!
In upper life, we have no Spleen or gall;
And as for other life,-it is no life at all.

What can I fay in our poor bard's behalf?
He hopes that lower life may make you laugh..
May not a trader who fhall bufinefs drop,
Quitting at once his old-accuftom'd shop,
In fancy thro' a courfe of pleafures run,
Retiring to his feat at Islington?

And, of falfe dreams of happiness brim full,
Be at h's villa, miferably dull?

Would not he flington's fine air for go,
Could he again be choak'd in Butcher-row?
In fhewing cloth renew his former pleasure,
Surpafs'd by none, but that of clipping measure,
The matter of this shop too seeks repote,

}

Sells off his flock in trade, his verfe and profe,
His daggers, bufkins, thunder, lightning, and cll
clothes.

Will he in rural fhades find ease and quiet?

Oh no! He'll figh for Drury, and feek peace in riot.
Nature of yore prevail'd thro' buman kind?

To low and middle life she's now confin'd:

'Twas there the choiceft dramatists have fought her, 'Twas there Moliere, there johnfon, Shakespeare, caught

her:

Then let our gleaning bard with fafety come,
To pick up ftraws, dropt from their harveft home!

1. Ο GUE

E

P

T

WRITTER BY MR. GARRICK,

Spoken by Mrs. CIBBER.

O fpeak ten words, again I've fetch'd my breath;
The tongue of woman ftruggles hard with death.

L 3

Ten

Ten words! will that fuffice! Ten words-no more,
We always give a thousand to the score.

What can provoke thefe wits their time to waste,
To please that fickle, fleeting thing call'd taste?
It mocks all fearch, for fubftance has it none;
Like Hamlet's ghoft-'tis here-'tis there 'tis gone.
How very few about the ftage agree!

As men with diff'rent eyes a beauty fee,

So judge they of that ftately dame-Queen-tragedy.
The Greek-read critic, as his mistress holds her,
And having little love, for trifles fcolds her:
Excufes want of fpirit, beauty, grace,

But ne'er forgives her failing-time, and place.
How do our fex of tafte in judgment vary?
Mifs Bell adores, what's loath'd by Lady Mary :
The firft in tendernefs a very dove,

Melts like the feather'd fnow, at Juliet's love:
Then, fighing, turns to Romeo by her fide,
"Can you believe that men for love have dy'd?
Her lady fhip, who vaults the coarfer's back,
Leaps the barr'd gate, and calls you Tom and Jack;
Detest thefe whinings, like a true Virago;

She's all for daggers! blood! blood! blood! Iago!
A third, whofe heart defies all perturbations,
Yet dies for triumphs, funerals, coronations!
Ne'er afks which tragedies fucceed, or fail,
But whofe Proceffion has the longest tail.

The Youths, to whom France gives a new belief,
Who look with Horror on a rump of beef:

}

On Shakespear's plays, with fhrugg'd up fhoulders flare,'
Thefe plays they're bloody murders,-O Barbare!
And yet the man has merit-entre nous,

He'd been damn'd clever, had he read Boffù.

Shakespear read French! roars out a furly cit:.

When Shakespear wrote, our valour match'd our wit:
Had Britons then been fops, Queen Befs had hang'd 'em ;
Thofe days, they never read the French,--They bang'd'em,
If tafte evaporates by too high breeding,

And eke is overlaid, by too deep reading;
Left then in search of this, you lofe your feeling,
And barter native fenfe in foreign dealing;

Be

Be this neglected truth to Britons known,
No tastes, no modes become you, but your own.

T

Spoken by Mr. KING.

O hear with candour, e'er we judge a caufe,.
Is the known Magna Charta of all laws!
So fays our bard !-then who would break a rule,,
Fram'd and establish'd in the earlieft fchool?
Or, who fo jealous of another's fame,

To damp a fpark, just rising to a flame?

And yet,-from our reports within,-'tis faid,"
There are-fome wits amongst ye-fo ill bred,
They come, unknowing,-wherefore, or for why,-
To break, on critic-wheel,- -a butterfly!

But fure my eyes,-and they're not bad, good folks!
Can easy read-thefe whispers are mere jokes !
To try the hero of this night's campaign,—

Who frets,-and ftruts,-then ftruts,-and frets again!
Bows, fmiles, and nos,-from heroes, kings and

-

queens,

To him who promps,-fweeps,- clips,-or fhifts the
fcenes!

But I-who know him beft,-do know for certain,
That-entre nous,- 'tis all behind the curtain,
Where he poor culprit,-trembles ev'ry limb,
And fhadows feem-realities to him!

Doubts rife on doubts!-and fears on fears await!
Holding, with airy nothings,-a debate!
And fo fufpicious,-left you take amifs-
That ev'ry cough,-he'll conftrue to a his!

Ori

Or should you cry but bravo! —or encore !

He'll trembling an wer-there!-d'ye hear ? no more!”
Oh! could you know what authors, actors feel!
When at your bar they make their first appeal!
You'd think your warmest patronage their due,
And own the picture-where the tints are true!
To him then, confcious, that all comic wit,
"As 'tis the beft,-fo 'tis most hard to hit!"
Ye Gods !-and demi-gods +-ye wits §! be kind;
Nor, in the critic, lofe-the gen'rous mind!
Of old remem'bring-authors would excel,
When men were prais'd-who but endeavour'd well.

-

going, flops.

Yet hold-one hint I'll drop before I go-
'Tis dowright farce-not comedy we fhew
As fuch receive-nor mark with critic fneer-
As if a bench of Stagyrites were here--

But laugh where nature prompts-where mirth demands
And give (in fpite of trivial faults) your hands.

TH

Spoken by Mrs, GIFFARD.

HE fifth act paft, you'll think it ftrange, to find
My fcene of deep Diftrefs is, yet, behind!
Tafk'd, for the Epilogue, I fear you'll blame
My want of what you love, behind that name.
But, for my foul, I can't from fuch high feening,
Defcend, plum down at once,-to double meaning.
Judges! protect meand pronounce it fit,

That Solemn Senfe, fhould end with Serious Wit.
When the full heart o'erflows, with pleafing Pain,
Why should we wish, to make th' impreffion vain ?

Firft Gallery.

Second Gallery. Boxes and Pit;
Why,

Why, when two thinking hours, have fixt the play,
Shou'd two light minutes laugh its Ufe away?
'Twere to proclaim our Virtues but a JEST,
Should they who ridicule 'em, please us, best..
No, rather, at your actor's hands, require
Offrings more Apt; and a Sublimer fire!
Thoughts, that may rivet, not efface the scene:
Aids to the mind: not flatt'ries for the spleen.
When love, hate, pity,-Doubt, hope, grief, and rage,
With clashing infl'ence fire the glowing ftage;
When the touch'd heart, relenting into Woe,.
From others fate, does its own danger know; .
When foft'ning Tenderness unlocks the mind,
And the ftretch'd bofom takes in all mankind:
Sure! 'tis no Time, for the bold hand of wit
To fnatch back virtues, from the plunder'd pit!
Still, be it ours, to give you fcenes, thus ftrong,..
And yours, to cherish, and retain 'em long!
Then fhall the ftage its general ufe endear;
And ev'ry virtue, gather firmness here.
Pow'r be, to pardon,-wealth to pity, mov'd
And Truth be taught the art, to grow belov'd..
Women, to charm, with fait, and fure, effect
And men to love 'em, with a foft respect.
'Till all alike, fome diff'rent motive roules:
And tragedy, (un-farc'd) invites full houses..

;

E P. I L O G U. E

TO.

VENICE PRESERV'D.

THE text is done, and now for application,
And when that's ended, pafs your approba.ion...

Though the confpiracy's prevented here,
Methinks I fee another hatching there;
And there's a certain faction fain would fway,
If they had ftrength enough, and damn this play,
But this the author bad me boldly fay;

L.S.,

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