Hackney the mufe of Shakespeare o'er and o'er,
From fhoulder to the flank, all drench'd in gore..

Others to foreign climes and kingdoms roam,,
To fearch for what is better found at home:
The recreant bard, oh! fcandal to the age!
Gleans the vile refuse of a gallic stage..
Not fo, our bard-To night he bids me fay,.
You fhall receive and judge an English play.
From no man's jeft he draws felonious praife,
Nor from his neighbour's garden crops his bays ::
From his own breast the filial story flows;
And the free scene no foreign mafter knows t
Nor only tenders he his work as new;

He hopes 'tis good, or wou'd not give it you:
True homely ware, and made of homely ftuff,
Right British drugget, honeft, warm and rough,,
No ftation'd friend he feeks, or hir'd applaufe
But conflitutes your jurors in his caufe.
For fame he writes-fhou'd folly be his doom,
Weigh well your verdict, and then give it home,
Should you applaud, let that applause be true;
For, undeferv'd, it fhames both him and you.

E PI L

T

G U E

SIR HARRY WILDAI R,

Being the Sequel of the TRIP to the JUBILEE..

BY A FRIEND.

TENTRE bleu! vere is dis dam poet? vere
Garzoon! me vil cut off all his two ear:

VE

Je fuis enrage-now he is not here.

fuffre dat?

He has affront de French! le vilaine Bête!.
De French! your best friend!-y
-you
Parbleu! Meffieurs a ferait fort ingrate !

Vat have you English, dat you can call your own!
Vat have you of grand pleasure in dis town.
Vidout it come from France, dat vil go down?
Picquet, baffet; your vin, your drefs, your dance;
'Tis all you fee, tout alamode de France.
De beau dere buy a hondre knick-knack;
He carry out wit, but feldom bring it back:

But

But den he brings a fnuff-box hinge, so small
De joint you cannot fee de vark at all,
Coft him five piftoles, dat is fheap enough,
In tre year it fal fave half an ounce of inoffe.
De coquet, the ave her ratifia dere,

Her gown, her complexion, deux yeux, her lovere,
As for de cuckold-dat indeed you can make here.
De French it is dat teach de lady wear

De fhort muff, wit her vite elbow bare;

De Beaux de large muff, wit his fleeve down dere.
Ve teach your vifes to ope dere husband's purses,
To put de furbelo round dere coach, and dere horses.
Garzoon! ve teach you every ting de varle ;
For vy den your damn poet dare to fnarle ?
Begar, me vil be revenge upon his play,
Tre toufan refugee (parbleu c'eft vray)

Sal all come here, and damn him upon his tird day.

PROLOGUE

A

L

W

Spoken by Mr. GIFFARD.

}

HEN fome raw Paddler, from the waded shore,
First, dares the deep'ning ftream, and ventures o'er.

Light on his floating cork, the wave he fkims;
And, wanton in his fafety, thinks he swims.
So, fhall Alzira's fame our faults protect:
And, from your cenfure, screen our fear'd defect.
Forfhou'd we act, unfkill'd, the player's parts;..
We act fuch scenes-as force us, to your hearts.

What floods of tears a neighb'ring land faw flow,
When a whole people wept Alzira's woe!

The lovelieft eyes of France, in one pleas'd night,
Twice charm'd,-renew'd the fad, the melting ftrain:
Yet,-hung-infatiate-on the willing pain!
Thrice thirty days, all Paris figh'd, for-fenfe!
Tumblers-ftood till-and thought!-in wit's defence!

Pointing to his Fingers

Ev'n pow'r defpotic felt, how wrongs can move :
And nobly wept-for liberty, and love!

Can it be fear'd, then, that our gen'rous land,
Where juftice blooms, and reafon holds command;
The foil of fcience! where bold truth is taught,
This feat of freedom! and this throne of thought!:
Can your applaufe, on foreign fong and dance,
Yet, leave the praise of folid fenfe, to France!
No that's impoffible,'tis Britain's claim,
To hold no fecond place, in tafte, or fame,
In arts and arms, alike victorious known,
Whate'er deferves her choice, fhe makes her own.
Nor, let the conscious power of English wit
Lefs feel the force because the Frenchman writ..
Reason and sentiment,-like air and light,
Wherever found, are nature's common right.

Since the fame fun gives northern climes their day,,
After the eaft, has, firft, receiv'd it's ray,
Why should our pride, repel the mufes' mile,
Because it dawn'd not, first, upon our life.
Fraternal art adopts each alien fame:
The wife, and brave, are, every where the fame.
From hoftile fentiments, let difcord flow;
But, they who think like friends, should have no foe.

HILE other culprits brave it to the last,
Nor beg for mercy till the judgment's paft ::

WH

Poets alone, as confcious of their crimes,

Open their trials with imploring rhymes.
Thus cram'd with flatt'ry and low fubmiffion,
Each trite dull prologue is the bard's petition..
A ftale device to calm the critic's fury,
And bribe at once the judges and the jury.
But what ayails fuch poor repeated arts?

The whimp'ring fcribbler ne'er can touch your hearts;

Nor

Nor ought an ill-tim'd pity to take place,
Faft as they rife, deftroy the increasing race:
The vermin elfe, will run the nation o'er-
By faving one, you breed a million more.

Though difappointed authors rail and rage
At fancied parties, and a fenfelefs age.
Yet ftill has juftice triumph'd on the stage.
Thus fpeaks, and thinks the author of to-day,
And faying this, has little more to say.
He afks no friend his partial zeal to fhew,
Nor fears the groundlefs cenfures of a few;
He knows no friendship can protect the fool,,
Nor will an audience be a party's tool.
'Tis inconfiftent with a free-born fpirit,,
To fide with folly, or to injure merit.
By your decifion he may fall or stand,

Nor, though he feel's the lash, will blame the hand.

E

PILOGUE

To be Spoken in the Character of TONY LUMPKIN.

WRITTEN BY J. CRADDOCK, ESQ.

7ELL now all's ended, and my comrades gone,

W Pray what becomes of mother's nonly jon?

A hopeful blade!-in town I'll fix my station,
And try to make a blufter in the nation.
As for my coulin Neville, I renounce her,
Off-in a crack-I'll carry big Bet Bouncer.
Why should I not in the great world appear?
I foon fhall have a thousand pounds a year;
No matter what a man may here inherit,
In London-'gad they've fome regard to fpirit.
I fee the horfes prancing up the streets,
And big Bet Bouncer bobs to all she meets;

Then hoikes to jiggs and paftimes ev'ry night--
Not to the plays--they fay it a'n't polite,
To Sadler's Wells perhaps, or operas go,
And once by chance, to the roratorio.
Thus here and there, for ever up and down,
We'll fet the fashions too, to half the town;
This came too late to be fpoken. -

And

And then at auctions--money ne'er regard,
Buy pictures like the great, ten pounds a yard;
Zounds, we shall make thefe London gentry fay,
We know what's damn'd genteel, as well as they

W

Spoken by Mr. BENSLEY.

WHEN firft Columbus left the Spanish fhore,
In western climes new regions to explore;
Soon a new world, beyond th' Atlantic main,
Disclose the wonders of its vaft domain;
A race of men unletter'd and untaught,
Strangers to fcience, yet with virtue fraught.-
No fchool they had of philofophic pride,
And fimple reafon, was their only guide.
That reason in the paths of nature trod,
And worshipping the Sun, they meant a God;
Free from the ills in polifh'd life that spring,
And gold with them was a neglected thing.

But Europe's fons felt gold's refiftlefs fway;
To the new hemifphere they bend their way;
Thro' ev'ry region carry fword and fire,
And bigot, rage, and avarice confpire.
Zeal bore the crofs and poniard in its hand,.
And maffacre unpeopled half the land.

Yet to unhappy men, to heroes flain,
The British mule denies her tragic ftrain.
Dryden alone let fall the gen'rous tear,

And bade on Albion's ftage the Feather'd Chiefs appear
His voice fupprefs'd, no bard their fate has fung,
Silent our fcene, and mute each tuneful tongue;
While Greece and Rome fwell'd our theatric ftate,.
And only claffic heroes could be great.

This night our author, an advent'rer grown,
Dares trace the virtues of the Torid Zone.
If in his fcenes well painted paffion glow;
If there you view the draught of human woe ;-

Britona