Britons will mark, from fierce religious zeal,
What dread calamities weak mortals feel;
Will hear the Indian-though in error blind,
Against the pow'r that would opinion bind,
Affert the freedom of the human mind.

Ye critics, to whom poets must be civil,
As Indians worship, out of fear, the devil,
Of mod'rate principles you'll own the merit,
Nor hither bring a perfecuting fpirit.
Let modes of wit fome toleration fhare;
Rome kills for error;-be it yours to spare.

PROLOGUE

WE

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TO
N

Ꮓ

O.

Spoken by Mr. PALMER.

HILST ardent zeal for India's reformation, Hath fir'd the spirit of a gen'rous nation; Whilft patriots of prefented lacks complain, And courtiers bribery to excels arraign; The maxims of Bengal till rule the stage, The poets are your flaves from, age to age. Like Eaftern Princes in this houfe you fit, The Soubahs, and Nabobs of fuppliant wit; Each bard his prefent brings, when he draws near, With prologue firft, he fooths your gracious ear; We hope your clemency will fhine to-day, For tho' defpotic, gentle in your fway.

Thefe confcious walls, if they could fpeak, would tell, How feldom by your doom, a poet fell:

Your mercy oft fufpends the critics laws,

Your hearts are partial to an author's cause.

Pleas'd with fuch lords, content with our condition,
Against your charter we will ne'er petition.
If certain folks fhould fend us a committee,
(Like that which lately vifited the City)
Who without fpecial leave of our directors,
At the ftage door fhould enter as inspectors;
Altho' their hearts were arm'd with triple brass,
Thro' our refifting scenes they could not pafs,

Lions and dragons too keep watch and ward,
Witches and ghosts the awful entrance guard;
Heroes who mock the pointed fword are here,
And defperate heroines who know no fear;
If as Rinaldo stout each man should prove,
To brave the terrors of th' inchanted grove,
Here on this spot, the center of our state,
Here on this very spot they'd meet their fate.
The prompter gives the fign, and down they go;
Alive defcending to the fhades below.

To you whofe empire ftill may heav'n maintain,
Who here by ancient right and custom reign,
Our lions crouch, our dragons proftrate fall,
Witches and ghofts obey your potent call.
Our heroines Imile on you with all their might,
Our boldest heroes tremble in your fight,

Even now with anxious hearts they watch your eyes,
Should you but frown, even brave ALONZO dies.

PROLOGUE

On the opening of the new Theatre-Royal in Liverpool, on Friday the 5th of June, 1772.

WRITTEN BY MR. COLMA N.

Spoken by Mr. YOUNGER.

WHEREVER commerce spreads the swelling fail,

Letters and arts attend the profperous gale; When Cæfar first these regions did explore, And northward his triumphant eagles bore, Rude were Britannia's fonsa hardy race Their faith idolatry, their life the chase. But foon as traffic fix'd her focial reign, Join'd pole to pole, and nations to the main, Each art and fcience follow'd in her train. Augufta then her pomp at large difplay'd, The feat of majesty, the mart of trade; The British mufe unveil'd her awful mien, And Shakespear, Johnson, Fletcher, grac'd the scene. Long too has Mertey rol'd her golden tide, And feen proud veffels in her harbours ride:

}

Oft

Oft on her banks the mufe's fons would roam,
And wifh'd to fettle there a certain home;
Condemn'd, alas! to hawk unlicenc'd bays,
Counterband mumeries, and fmuggled plays!
Your foft'ring care at length reliev'd their woes,
Under your aufpices, this ftaple rose.

Hence made free merchants of the letter'd world,
Boldly advancing forth with fails unfurl'd,

To Greece and Rome- -Spain, Italy, and France,
We trade for play and opera, fong and dance,
Peace to his fhade, who firft purfu'd the plan!
You lov'd the actor, and you lov'd the man ;
True to himself, to all mankind a friend,
By honeft means he gain'd each honeft end.
You, like kind patrons, who his wishes knew,
Prompt to applaud, and to reward them too,
Crown'd his last moments with his wifh obtain'd,
A ROYAL CHARTER, by your bounty gain'd.

ZO O BE D I. E.

WELL fare the man, peace to his gentle fhade The bard who firft made Epilogues a trade!

Elfe what a life an actress muft pursue,

To weep

and rave is all fhe'd have to do;
Upon the ftage, with waving paffions, fore,
"To ftrut her hour, and then be heard no more."
Now after poison, daggers, rage, and death,
We've come again to take a little breath;
Banter the pit, fet belles and beaus at odds,
And be a mere freethinker to the gods;
That in familiar trains the boxes maul,
An Epilogue like gaming levels all.
Not e'en poor Bayes within must hope to be
Free from the lafh his play he writes for me,
“'Tis true—and now my gratitude you'll fee."
Why ramble with Voltaire to Eastern climes,.
To Scythian lands and antiquated times ?
Change but the names, his tragedy at best.
Slides into comedy, and turns to jest..

As

}

As thus a statesman old and out of place,
Sour, difcontented, malice in his face,
(In these bleft days we but fuppofe the cafe)
Flies from St. James's to his own eftate,
To chew the wifdom of each paft debate ;
How in the house he made a glorious ftir,
With." Sir, I move," and "Mr. Speaker, Sir!"
Zobeide's his daughter Sophy: oh! farewell!
For her each haunt that charms a modern belle.
Adieu Almack's! Cornely's! mafquerade!
Sweet Ranelagh! Vauxhall's enticing fhade!
'Squire Groom makes love! rich? yes a valt domain
Well bred! the favage Scythian of the plain.
The match is fix'd, deeds fign'd, the knot is ty'd,
Down comes my lord in all his glittering pride;
And will my angel chufe this ruftic plan,
O! cuckold him by all means, I'm the man.
Now mark our author's ignorance of life:
What not elope! is that a modish wife?
Poor fool? fhe doubts, fays no, the hufband dies;
Now ftab yourself, fays Bayes, but nature cries,
How! facrifice myfelf for vain renown;
John put the horfes too, and drive to town,
Yet, after all, excufe him, ladies pray,
For fure there is fome nature in his play,
The fift attempt, let no keen cenfure blight,
Hereafter he may foar a nobles flight.

Drop one kind tear, give this that flender token,
And hither come till the Pantheon's open.

BY DR. GARTH.

Spoken by Mrs. PORTER,

WHAT odd fantastic things we women do!

Who wou'd not liften when young lovers woo?

But die a maid, yet have the choice of two?
Ladies are often cruel to their coft;

To give you pain, themselves they punish moft.

Vows of virginity fhould well be weigh'd;

Too oft they're cancell'd, tho' in convents made.
Wou'd you revenge fuch rafh refolves-you may
Be fpiteful-and believe the thing we say,
We hate you when you're eafily faid nay.
How needlefs, if you knew us, were your fears;
Let love have eyes, and beauty will have ears.
Our hearts are form'd as you yourselves would chufe,
Too proud to ask, too humble to refuse:
We give to merit, and to wealth we fell;
He fighs with most fuccefs that fettles well.
The woes of wedlock with the joys we mix,
'Tis beft repenting in a coach and fix.

Blame not our conduct, fince we but pursue
Those lively leffons we have learn'd from you:
Your breafts no more the fire of beauty warms,
But wicked wealth ufurps the pow'r of charms;
What pains to get the gaudy thing you hate,
To fwell in show, and be a wretch in state?
At plays you ogle, at the ring you bow;
Ev'n churches are no fanctuaries now:
There golden Idols all your vows receive,
She is no goddess that has nought to give.
Oh! may once more the happy age appear,
When words were artlefs, and the thoughts fincere ;
When gold and grandeur were unenvy'd things,
And courts lefs coveted than groves and fprings,
Love then shall only mourn when truth complains,
And conftancy feel tranfport in its chains.
Sighs with fuccefs their own foft anguifh tell,
And eyes fhall utter what the lips conceal;
Virtue again to its bright ftation climb,
And beauty fear no enemy but time,
The fair fall liften to defert alone,
And every Lucia find a Cato's fon.

LOGU E

E PI

WRITTEN BY DR. GOLDSMITH,

Spoken by Mrs. BULKLEY.

WHAT five long acts-and all to make us wifer!

Our Authorefs fure has wanted an adviser.

Had