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Among the trifles which occafion prate,
Even I fometimes, am matter for debate.
Whene'er my faults, or follies are the queftion,
Each draws his wit out, and begins diflection.
Sir Peter Primrofe, fmirking o'er his tea,
Sinks from himself and politicks, to me.
Papers boy,-here Sir! Tam what news to-day P
Foote, Sir, is advertis'd-what-run away!
No, Sir, he acts this week at Drury-I ane;
How's that (cries Feetle Grub) Focte come again!
I thought that fool had done his devil's dance;
Was not he hang'd fome months ago in France?
Up ftarts Machone, and thus the room harangu'd;
'Tis true, his friends gave out that he was hang'd,
But to be fure, 'twas all a bum, becafe

I have feen him fince, and after fuch difgrace,
No gentleman would dare to fhow his face.
To him reply'd a fneering bonny Scot;

Yow rafin reet, my frynd, haung'd he was not,
But neither you nor I caun tell how foon he'll gaung

to pot.

Thus each, as fancy drives, his wit difplays,

Such is the tax each fon of folly pays.

On this my fcheme they many names beflow,
Tis fame, 'tis pride, nay worfe-the pocket's low.
I own I've pride, ambition, vanity,

And what's more ftrange, perhaps, you'll see
Tho' not fo great a portion of it-modefty.
For you I'll curb each felf-fufficient thought,
And kifs the rod, whene'er you point a fault.
Many my paffions are, tho' one my view,
They all concenter, in the pleasing you.

A

PROLOGUE

то

ΝΙ P & HITRY ON,.
Reviv'd with alterations, 1756.

HIS night let bufy man no pleasure spare:
Far hence be fearching thought, and pining care;

Far

Far hence whate'er can agonize the foul,
Grief, terror, rage, the dagger, or the bowl!
The comic mufe, a gay propitious pow'r,
To dimpled laughter gives the mirthful hour.
The fcenes which Plautus drew, to-night we show,
Touch'd by Moliere, by Dryden taught to glow,
Dryden!-in evil days his genius rose,

When wit and decency were conftant foes:
Wit then defil'd in manners and in mind,
Whene'er he fought to pleafe, difgrac'd mankind.
Freed from his faults, we bring him to the fair;
And urge once more his claim to beauty's care,
That thus we court your praife, is praife beftow'd;
Since all our virtue from your virtue flow'd.

But there are fome-no matter where they fit,
Who fmack'd their lips, and hop'd the luscious bit.
Thefe claim regard, deny it they that can

The prince of darkne's is a gentleman!"
Yet why apologize; tho' these complain,
They're free to all the rest of Drury Lane.

To thefe bright rows we boat a kind intent;
We fought their plaudit, and their pleafure meant.
Yet not on what we give, our fame must rise;
In what we take away, our merit lies.

On no new force beftow'd we found our claim;
To make Wit Honeft, was our only aim:
If we fucceed, fome praife we boldly ask
To make Wit Honeft, is no easy task.

EPILOGUE

C

L E

N

E.

WRITTEN BY WM. MELMOTH, ESQ.

Spoken by Mr. Ross.

TWAS once the mode inglorious war to wage With each told bard that durit attempt the stage,

And Prologues were, but preludes to engage.

Then

Then mourn'd the mufe not ftory'd woes alone,
Condemn'd to weep, with tears unfeign'd, her own,
Paft are those hoftile days; and wits no more
One undiftinguish'd fate, with fools deplore.
No more the mufe laments her long-felt wrongs,
From the rude licence of tumultuous tongues:
In peace each bard prefers his doubtful claim,
And as he merits, meets, or miffes, fame.

'Twas thus in Greece (when Greece fair science bleft,
And heav'n-born arts their chofen land poffeft),
Th' affembled people fate with decent pride,
Patient to hear, and skilful to decide;

Lefs forward far to cenfure than to praise,
Unwillingly refus'd the rival bays.

Yes, they whom candor and true tafte inspire,
Blame not with half the paffion they admire;
Each little blemish with regret defcry,
But mark the beauties with a raptur'd eye.
Yet modest fears invade our author's breast,
With attic lore, or latian, all unbleft;
Deny'd by fate thro' claffic fields to stray,
Where bloom thofe wreaths which never know decay :
Where arts new force from kindred arts acquire,

And poets catch from poets genial fire.

Not thus he boafts the breast humane to prove,

And touch thofe fi rings which generous paffions move,
To melt the foul by fcenes of fabled woe,
And bid the tear for fancy'd forrows flow;
Far humbler paths he treads in quest of fame,
And trufts to nature what from nature came.

PRO L L O OGUE

EUG

то

E

NI A.

T

WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK.

O damn, or not-
Whether 'tis best to deck the poet's brow;
With hands and hearts unanimous befriend him,
Or take up arms, and by oppofing end him-?

that is the queftion now,

But

But hold, before you give the fatal word,
I beg that 1, as council, may be heard,
And what few council ever yet have done,
I'll take no bribe, and yet plead Pro and Con.
First for the town and us-I fee fome danger,
Should you too kindly treat this reverend ftranger;
If fuch good folks, thefe wits of graver fort,
Should here ufurp a right to spoil your sport;
And curb our stage fo wanton, bold, and free!
To the ftrict limits of their purity;
Should dare in theatres reform abuses,
And turn our actreffes to picus uses!
Farewel the joyous fpirit-ftirring scene!
Farewel the-the-you guefs the thing I mean!
If this wife fcheme, fo fober and fo new!
Should pass with us, would it go down with you?
Should we fo often fee your well-known faces?
Or would the ladies fend fo faft for places?
Now for the author-His poetic brat
Throughout the town occafions various chat;
What fay the fnarlers 'Tis a French translation.
That we deny, but plead an imitation,
Such as we hope will please a free-born nation.
His mufe, tho' much too grave to drefs or dance,
For fome materials took a trip to France;
She owns the debt, nor thinks the fhall appear,
Like our fpruce youths, the worfe for going there:
Tho' fhe has dealt before in sportive fong,

This is her firft ftage-flight, and t'would be wrong,
Nay poaching too, to kill your bards too young.
Poets, like foxes, make best sport, when old,
The chafe is good, when both are hard and bold;
Do you, like other sportsmen then, take heed,
If you destroy the whelps, you fpoil the breed;
Let him write on, acquire fome little fame,
Then hunt him, critics, he'll be noble game.

}

PRO

PROLOGUE

TO THE

BRO THE R S.

WRITTEN

BY MR. DODSLEY.

Spoken by Mr. HAVARD.

THE tragic mafe, revolving many a page
Of time's long records drawn from every age,
Forms not her plans on low or trivial deeds,
But marks the triking!When fome hero bleeds
To fave his country, then her powers infpire,
And fouls congenial catch the patriot fire.
When bold oppreffion grinds a suffering land;
When the keen dagger gleams in murder's hand;
When black conspiracy infects the throng;
Or fell revenge fits brooding o'er his wrong:
Then walks fhe forth in terror; at her frown
Guilt fhrinks appall'd, tho' feated on a throne.
But the rack'd foul when dark fufpicions rend,
When brothers hate, and fons with fires contend;
When clafling intereils war eternal wage;
And love, the tendereft paffion, turns to rage;
Then grief on every vifage ftands impreit,
And pity throbs in every feeling breast :
Hope, fear, and indignation rife by turns,
And the ftrong fcene with various paffion burns.
Such is our tale.--Nor blush if tears should flow!
They're virtue's tribute paid to human woe.
Such drops new luftre to bright yes impart;
The filent witnefs of a tender heart:

Such drops adorn the nobleft heroe's cheek,

And paint his worth, in flrokes that more than speak: Not he who cannot weep, but he who can,

Shews the great foul, and proves himself a man.

Yet do not idly grieve at others pain,

Nor let the tears of nature fall in vain :

Watch the clofe crimes from whence their ills have

grown,

And from their frailties learn to mend your own.

PRO

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