THE fons of genius fearch, thro' ev'ry age,
For proper heroes to adorn the stage:

Here Greeks and Romans rife again to view,
Again fight bravely, and their fame renew.
The great unfhaken Cato here you see,
And Cæfar falls for English liberty.
No ftandard-virtue ripen'd yet on earth,
But you behold it in a fecond birth;
To frike, imprefs-impel the vig'rous mind,
And gives ye all the boafts of all mankind.

Such fpurs to glory-if they glory raife,
Deferve protection-nay, demand your praife,
Our bard to-night, no doubtful flory brings,
Of native, genuine English feats he fings:
Here no falfe varnish glitters to furprife,
But just hilloric truths in order rife;

And fure that tale muft have for Britons charms,
That fhews you France fubdu'd by British arms:
Our lions traverfing their ravag'd plains,
Their armies broken, and their king in chains.
Our poet fir'd by England's ancient fame,
(And humbly aiming at great Shakespear's flame!)
On candour's judgment bids his hopes repofe,
Alike difdaining partial friends and foes.
If his warm glow excites a patriot-zeal,
If from your eyes foft drops of pity fteal;
If fears, hopes, forrows, rife with vary'd art,
And by the hand of nature touch the heart;

There let him reign--Be there his pow'r confefs'd,
And gen'rous judges will o'erlook the rest!

With the humane and the exalted mind,
The abfent, and the dead, indulgence find.

Know then a parent breathing foreign air,
This night commits his darling to your care.
No faction's form'd to proftitute applaufe,
No art, no int'reft, to fupport his caufe:
'The publick honour 'tis his pride to truft,
Nor can he think your voice will be unjust.
Attentive hear, unprejudic'd explore,
And judge like Englishmen-

he afks no more.

THE great, the good, the wife, in ev'ry age,
Have made a moral mirrour of the stage;
While, to the name and fpite of taftelefs fools,
Terence ftill reigns a claffic in our schools:
But now the DRAMA fears a fad decline,
And peevish hypocrites its fall combine.
From ftage to ftage, behold our author tofs'd,
And but for you, his genius crush'd and loft.
No Wilks, no Booth! his labours to requite,
He here takes fhelter, ftudious to delight.

But to our FARCE-It has a double aim,
To honour wedlock, and put fools to fhame.
Folly and prejudice, too near a-kin,
Supply pert coxcombs with eternal grin ;
So infinitely ftupid is whofe mirth,

They'll ridicule one's very place of birth,

And cry, "An honeft Yorkshire-man! a wonder !"

But let them fhoot their bolts, let blockheads blunder.

The glorious heroes of the Yorkshire line,
To time's last period fhall in annals shine;

While fland'ring flaves, who would thofe honours blot,
Shall unregarded live-and die forgot.
Mean and unmanly is fuch partial spite,
Averfe to nature's laws, to reafon's light:"
All fellow creatures, fure, fhould focial be;
Nay, e'en to Brutes we owe humanity,

Our author does in virtue's caufe engage,
I hopes to make her fhine upon the ftage:

A modest entertainment we intend,
Willing to please, yet fearful to offend;
Indulge us therefore if you can't commend.

THE deuce is in him! what the deuce (I hear you cry) can that produce ? What does it mean? what can it be? A little patience and you'll fee. Behold, to keep your minds uncertain, Between the fcene and you this curtain! So writers hide their plots, no doubt, To please the more when all comes out, Of old the Prologue told the ftory, And laid the whole affair before ye; Came forth, in fimple phrafe to say, "'Fore the beginning of this play, "I hapless Polydore, was found "By fishermen, or others, drown'd! "Or-I, a gentleman did wed "The lady I wou'd never bed: "Great Agamemnon's royal daughter, "Who's coming hither-to draw water.

Thus gave at once the bards of Greece
The cream and marrow of the piece;
Afking no trouble of your own
To fkim the milk, or crack the bone.
The poets now take different ways:
E'en let them find it out for Bays!
And tragedy as well might fwagger
Without blank verfe, or bowl, or dagger,
As farce attempt the arduous task,
To walk abroad without her mask.
A poet, as once poets us'd,
To poverty was quite reduc'd.

No boy on errands to be fent,
On his own meffages he went:

And once with confcious pride and shame,
As from the chandler's-fhop he came,
Under his thread-bare cloak, poor foul,
He cover'd-half a peck of coal.
A wag (his friend) began to fmoke,

George, tell us, what's beneath your cloak?
-Tell you! it were as well to fhow,-

I hide it that you fhou'd not know.

-

Yet farce and title, one to t'other
Should feem, like Sofias, a twin brother.
Prologues, like Andrews at a fair,
To draw you in, fhould make you stare.
"The notified!--the only booth!--walk in!
"Gem'men, in here, juft going to begin."
And if our author don't produce
Some character that plays the deuce ;
If there's no frolic fenfe, nor whim,
Retort, and play the devil with him!

T

HE paths of truth with fancy's flow'rs to ftrow,
To teach improvement from delight to flow,

The bards of old firft bade the comic strain

With mirth inftruct, with moral entertain.
No vice or folly that difgrac'd the age,
Eicap'd the daring poet's honeft rage;
But fatire, uncontroll'd, purfu'd her plan,
Nor fopp'd at general lies, but mark'd the Man;
Ev'n features, voice, drefs, gait, the fcene difplay'd,
And living characters to fcorn betray'd.

Such rude attacks be banish'd in our times,
Be perfons facted, but expos'd their crimes:
For wife, and good, and polish'd as we are,
We ftill may find fome vices-here and there,

And

And if a modern, in this prudent age,
Dares to obtrude a moral on the ftage,
Critics, be mild; tho' unadorn'd our play,
Nor wifely grave, nor elegantly gay,
How rude foe'er it fhocks not virtue's eye,
Nor injures the chafte ear of modefty;
Nor with foft blandishment bids vice allure,
Nor draws the good in odious portraiture.
Our fon of folly is of vice's brood,
And willingly bids evil be his good.

Is there a wretch that views, without remorse,
The better path, and yet purfues the worse,
Proud of imputed guilt, yet vainly blind,
Calls folly fenfe; vice, knowledge of mankind;
Dup'd by the knave he fcorns and ridicules,
Rul'd by the wanton whom he thinks he rules;
This, this is folly; a determin'd fool
Provokes and juftifies our ridicule.

Ο

T

PROL

O GUE

ΤΟ

ROON OKO.
Alter'd by Dr. HAWKSWORTH.

HIS night your tributary tears we claim,

For fcenes that Southern drew; a fav'rite name!!
He touch'd your fathers' hearts with gen'rous woe,
And taught your mothers' youthful eyes to flow;
For this he claims hereditary praife,

From wits and beauties of our modern days;
Yet, flave to cuftom in a laughing age,
With ribald mirth he ftain'd the facred page:
While virtue's thrine he rear'd, taught vice to mock
And join'd, in sport, the bukin and the fock:
O! hafte to part them!-burit the opprobrious band
Thus Art and Nature, with one voice demand:
O! hafte to part them! blufhing virtue cries ;-
Thus urg'd, our bard this night to part them tries.--
To mix with Southern's, though his verse afpire,
He bows with rev'rence to the hoary fire:

M 3

With