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If they implore and beg, with abject mind,
Their meanness rather makes you fick than kind;
And if they bounce and huff it to the town,
Then you are up-and take the bullies down,
Of beaux and politicks, and such like stuff,
And ev'n of tawdry too, you've had enough-
On all degrees, from Courtier to the Cit,
Such stale dull jokes have been so often writ,
That nothing can be new-but decency and wit.
Thus far

Bard— The rest is mine to say ;
I am his Friend, so, will attack his play.
How could his thoughtless head with any truth
(If Spanish Dons are like our English youth)
Make his wild rake so sink from upper life,
To quit his mistress for a lawful wife !
The Author might have married him-but then
He should have had his mistress back again.
This is the scheme our English Dons pursue,
Tho' one's too much, there's taste in having two.
As for the lady - I dislike her plan,
With you I'm sure, she had not pass’d for man
Had the with our young bloods contriv'd this freak,
She had been blown and ruin'd in a week.
And if of virtue they could not have trick'd her,
They'd damn'd her for a fool- perhaps have kick'd her.
But jest apart-for all our Bard has wrote,
Our most alluring bait's the petticoat.
Before that magic shrine the proudet fall,
'Tis that enchanting circle draws in all,
Let fools fay what they will, experience teaches,
'Tis best to marry first-then wear the breeches.

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Spoken by Mr. WOODWARD. In the Characler of a Critic, with a Catcall in his Hand. A , , . RE you all ready! Here's your music! here !* * Blowing his Catcall.

The

The fellow fop'd me in a hellish fright-
Pray, Sir, says he, must I be damn'd to night
Damn'd!--surely friend-Don't hope for our compliance,
Zounds, Sir!-a second play's downright defiance,
Tho' once, poor rogue, we pity'd your condition,
Here's the true recipe-for repetition.
Well, Sir, says he, e'en as you please, so then,
I'll never trouble you with plays again.
But hark ye, Poet !-won't you tho', says I?
"Pon honourThen we'll damn you, let me die.
Shan't we, my Bucks ? Let's take him at his word --
Damn him-or by my soul, he'll write a third.
The man wants money, I suppose-But mind ye
Tell him you've left your charity behind yem-
A pretty plea, his wants to our regard !

As if we bloods had bowels for a Bard!
Befides, what men of spirit, now-a-days,
Come to give sober judgmenis of new plays ?
It argues Tome good nature to be quiet-
Good nature ! - Ay~But then we lose a riot.
The scribbling fool may beg and make a fuss,
'Tis death to him—What then ?--'Tis sport to.48.
Don't mind me tho'-For all my fun and jokes,
The Bard may find us Bloods, good natur’d Folks.
No crabbed criticks-Foes to rising merica
Write but with fire and we'll applaud with spirie"
Our Author aims at no dishonest ends,
He knows no enemies, and boasts fome friends ;
He takes no methods down your throats to cram it,
So if you like it, save it, if not damn it.

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To THE

R I

F A I

E S.
Written and Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

Enter-Interrupting the Band of Mufic.
MOMENT stop your tuneful fingers, pray,
While here, as ulual, I my duty pay,

(to ihe audience. с

Don't

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Don't frown, my friends, [to the band] you foon fall

melt again;
But, if not there, is felt each dying strain,
Poor I shall speak and you will scrape in vain.
To see me now, you think the strangest thing!
For, like friend Benedict, I cannot fing:
Yet in this Prologue, cry but you Coraggio !
I'll speak you both a jig, and an adogio.

A Persian king, as Perfian tales relate,
Oft went disguis'd, to hear the people prate;
So, curious I, sometimes teal forth, incog.
To hear what critics croak of me--king Log.
Three nights ago, I heard a tére à tête,
Which fix’d, at once, our English Opera's fate :
One was a youth born here, but fluh from Rome,
The other born abroad, but here is home;
And first the English foreigner began,
Who thus address'd the foreign Englishman :
An English Opera ! ?lis not to be borne;
I, both my country, and their music scorn,
Oh, damo their Ally Croakers, and their early-born.
Signorja--bat fons--wors

wor's recitalivo:
Il tutto, è beliale e calivo,
This said, I made my exit, full of terrors!
And now ak mercy, for the following errors :

Excuse us first, for foolimly supposing ;
Your countryman could please you in composing i
An Op'ra too !-play'd by an English band,
Wrole in a language which you understand
I dare not say, WHO wrote it I could tell ye,
To foften matters Signor Shakespearelli :
This aukward drama--(I confess th' cffence)
Is guilty too, of poetry and sense,
And then the price we take-you'll all abuse it,
So low, so unlike Op'ras... but excuse it,
We'll mend that fault, whenever you shall chuse it.
Our last mischance, and worse than all the rest,
Which turns the whole performance to a jeft,
OUR singers all are well, and all will do their best.
But why would this rath fool, this Englishman,
Attempt an Op'ra ?-'tis the strangest plan!

Struck with the wonders of his master's art,
Whose Sacred dramas shake and melt the heart,

Whose

Whose heaven-born strains the coldest breast inspire,
Whose chorus-thunder sets the soul on fire!
Infam'd, astonish'd! at those magic airs,
When Sampson groans, and frantic Saul despairs,
The pupil wrote his work is now before ye,
And waits your stamp of infamy, or glory!
Yet, ere his errors and his faults are known,
He says, those faults, those errors, are his own ;
If through the clouds appear some glimm'ring rays,
They're sparks he caught from his great master's blaze!

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OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE:
AT THE OPENING OF DRURY-LANE THEATRE.

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.
S heroes, states, and kingdoms rise and fall:

So-(with the mighty to compare the small-)
Thro' int'rett, whim, or if you please thro' fate,
We feel commotions in our mimick state;
The fock and bukin fly from stage to stage';
A year's alliance is with us-an age!
And where's the wonder? All surprize mast cease,
When we reflect, how int'rcft, or caprice,
Make real kings break articles of peace.

Strengthen’d with new allies, our foes prepare ;
Cry havock ! and let lip the dogs of war.
To shake our souls, the papers of the day
Drew forth the adverse power in dread array :
A power, might strike the boldest with dismay:
Yet fearless still we take the field with spirit,
Arm'd cap-a-pie in self-sufficient merit.
Our ladies too with souls and tongues antam'd,
Fire up like Britons, when the battle's nam'd.
Each female heart pants for the glorious strife,
From Hamlet's mother, to the cobler's wife.
Some few there are, whom paltry paffions guide,
Desert each day, and fly from side to side;
Oshers like Swiss, love fighting as their trade,
For beat, or beating-they muft all be paid.

Sacred to Shakespeare, was this spot design'd,
To pierce the heart, and humanize the mind;

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But if an empty house, the actor's curse,

Shews us our Lears, and Hamlets, lose their force ; 6Unwilling we must change the nobler scene,

And in our turn, present you barlequin :
Quit poets, and set carpenters to work,
Shew gaudy fuenes, or mount the vaulting Turk.
For tho' we actors one and all agree
Boldly to struggle for our--vanity;
If want comes on, importance must retreat ;
Our firfi, great, ruling passion is to eat.
To keep the field, all-methods we'll pursue ;
The confict glorious! for we fight for you :
And should we fail to gain the with'd applause,
At least we're vanquish'd in a noble cauie.

Ε Ρ Ι Ι Ο G U E

то

CAIUS MARIU S. i Spoken by Mrs. Barry, who acted LAVINIA. А

MISCHIEF on't! tho' I'm again alive,

May I believe this Play of ours fail thrive ?
• This drumming, trumpeting, and fighting play:
Why, what a devil will the people say?
The nation that's without, and hears the din,
Will fwear we're raising volunteers again.
For know, our Poet, when this Play was made,
Had nought but drums and trumpets in his head;
Had banilh'd poetry, and all her charms,
And needs the fool would be a man at arms.
No 'Prentice e'er, grown weary of indentures,
Had such a longing mind to seek adventures,
Nay, sure at last th’ Infection gen'ral grew;
For t’other day I was a captain too:
Neither for Flanders nor for France to roam,
But, just as you were all, to stay at home.
And now for you who here come wrapt in cloaks,
Only for love of Under hill and nurse Noakes,
Our poet says, One day t'a play ye come,
Wbich lerres ye half a year for wit at home.

Birt

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