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But to be grave-if four old-age with care,
Will lock up, with their gold, the captive fair;
We hope the sons of freedom not so few,
Nor so be-devil'd, be-macaronied too,
But some old-fashion'd folks will lend their aid,
And with their country free each captive maid ;
For what is gold or beauty in a nation,
Unless you give it a free circula ion ?

Should it be said (alas! with truth) that some
Among the fair ramble too far from home,
In giddy whirls forget their sex and state,
Then let each Gadder feel a dif'rent fate!
Let there no female Rakes in Britain be,
Nor female Slaves--but let us all agree,
That those too loose be fait, and those too fast be free!

T

PR OL 0 G U E

O THE
SIEGE OF A QU ILE A.

Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.
THEN Philip's son led forth his warlike band,

To die, or conquer,
To fan the fire, a martial muse he chose ;
From Homer's song a new Achilles rose !
When generous Athens her prime trophies won,
Vanguith'd Darius, and Darius' fon,
The stage breath'd war - the soldiers bosom burn'd,
And fiercer to the field each chief return'd:
Now, when the world resounds with loud alarms,
When victory fits plan'd on Britain's arms,
Be war our theme: the hero's glorious toil,
And virtue springing from the iron foil !
Our scenes present a fiege in ttory known ;
Where magnaninity, and valour fhone :
If nature guides us, if the hand of truth
Draws the just portrait of a Roman youth,
Who, with the best and noblett passions fir'd,
In the same moment, conquer'd and expir'd ;
Perhaps your hearts may own the pictur'd woe,
And from a fonder fource your forrows flow :

Whilft

Whilst warm remembrance aids the poet's strain,
And England weeps for English heroes Nain.

WH

P.Ro L 0 G U E

TO
P HI L A S Τ Ε R.

Spoken by Mr. King.
HILE modern tragedy, by rule exact,

Spins out a thin-wrought fable, act by act,
We dare to bring you one of those bold plays,
Wrote by rough English wits in former days ;
Beaumont and Fleicher! those tuin fars, that run
Their glorious course round Shakespear's golden fun;
Or when Philafter Hamlet's place fupply'd,
Or Beslus walk'd the itage by Falstaff's fide.
Their souls, well pair'd, thot fire in mingled rays,
Their hands together twin'd the social bays,
'Till fashion drove, in a refining age,
Virtue from court, and nature from the stage.
Then nonsense, in heroicks, seem'd sublime ;
Kings rav'd in couplets, and maids figh'd in rhime.
Next, prim, and trim, and delicate, and chaste,
A hash from Greece and France, came modern taste.
Cold are her sons, and so afraid of dealing
In rant and fultian, they ne'er rise to feeling.
Oh, say, ye hard, of phlegm, say, where's the name
That can with Fletcher, urge a rival claim ?
Say, where's the poet, train'd in pedant schools,
Equal to Shakespear, who o'erleap'd all rules ?

Thus of our bards we boldly speak our mind;
A harder talk, alas, remains behind :
To-night, as yet by public eyes unseen,
A raw, unpractis'd novice, fills the scene.
Bred in the city, his theatric ftar
Brings him at length, on this lide Temple Bar;
Smit

with the mufe, the ledger he forgot,
And when he wrote his name, he made a blot.
Him while perplexing hopes and fears embarras,
Skulking (like Hamlet's rat) behind the arras,
Me a dramatic fellow-feeling draws,
Without a fee, to plead a brother's cause.

Genius is rare ; and while our gicat comptroller,
No more a manager, turns arrant stroller,
Let new adventurers your care engage,
And nurse the infant saplings of the Itage !

PR 0 L 0 OG UE

ΤΟ
LOVE'S L A S T SHIFT,

OR, THE
FOOL IN FASHION.
WRITTEN BY A FRIEND.
Spoken by MR. VERBRUGGEN.

WIT

IT bears so thin a crop this duller age,

We're forc'd to giean it from the barren flage: Ev'n players fledg'd by nobler pens, take wing. Themselves, and their own rude com posures ling. Nor need our young one dread a mip-wreck here; Whe trades without a flock, has novght to fear. In ev'ry smile of yours a prize he draws ; And if you damn him, he's but where he was. Yet where's the reason for the critic crew, With killing blafts, like winter, to pursue The tender plant, that ripens but for you? Nature, in all her works, requires time, Kindness, and years, 'tis makes ihe virgin climb. And Mogi, and haien to th’expected prime; And then, if uniaoghe fancy fail to please, Y'inttred the willing pupil by degrees; By gentle lesions you your joys improve, And inould her aukward pallion into love, Ev'n folly has its growth : Few fools are made ; You drudge and sweat for't, as it were a trade. "Tis half the labour of your trifling age, To fathion you fit subjects for the stage. Well! if our author fail to draw you like; In the first draught, you're not t'expect Vandyke. What tho'ro matier-ftroke in this appears, Yet some may features find resembling theirs.

Nor

}

Nor do the bad alone his colours share ;
Neglected virtue is at least shewn fair,
And that's enough o' conscience for a play'r.
But if you'd have him take a bolder Aight,
And draw your pictures by a truer light,
You must yourselves, by follies yet unknown,
Inspire his pencil, and divert the town.
Nor judge, by this, his genius at a stand;
For Time, that makes new fools, may mend his hand.

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WA

AR is no more ; those thunders cease to rowi,

That lately Mook the globe from pole to pole;
When Britain fought and triumph'd o'er her foe,
Wherever winds can waft or waters flow,
She, and the only could, bade discord cease,
And having humbled, gave the nations peace.
May its wish'd influence, thro' this favour'd ifle,
On ev'ry brow, in ev'ry bosom, smile!
'Twas union made her queen of land and main :
'Tis that alone her triumphs can maintain ;
Improve those blessings, a.ts will now adorn,
And send them safe to Britons yet unborn,

O might no other strife your hearts divide,
Than how a culprit-author should be try'd ;
Ours, whom no mean, no partial interest moves,
Would be the vi&tim of that peace he loves.
Yet, why this fear? Good-nature is your boast :
And, who most want it, ever feel it most.
Abroad, you knew to conquer and to spare :
And, as your cause, your conduct too was fair.
Then, what you gave so nobly to the foe,
At home, and to a friend, you sure will show.

His scenes, to-night, no feign'd adventure bring ;
If tears shall flow, from real ills they spring.
What Lisbon trembling faw and truly mourn’d;
What her first Muse in epic strains adorn'd;
What Paris nexe bedew'd with copious tears.
Now, to the sons of Britain, late appears,

o

T.

To you, wherever truth and nature reign,
And terror thakes, and pity melts the strain ;
Wherever these declare the genuine bard,
Your warm applauses are his sure reward :
Then, while such judges strike our author's view,
His fears are from himself, and not from you.

P R o L o Ġ U E

Τ Ο Τ Η Ε M A L E - COQUE TT E.

WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY MR. GARRICK.

W

HY to this farce this title given,

Of Seventeen Hundred Fifty Seven?
Is it a register of falhions,
of follies, frailties, fav’rite paffions?
Or is't defign'd to make appear,
How happy, good, and wile you were,
In this fame memorable year?
Sure with our author wit was scarce,
To croud so many virtues in a farce,
Perhaps 'tis meant to make you stare,
Like clothes hung out at country fair ;
On which strange

monsters glare and grin,
To draw the gaping bumpkins in.-
Tho' 'tis the genius of the age,
To catch the eye with title-page;
Yet here we dare not so abuse ye-
We have some monsters to amuse ye.

Ye flaves to faliion, dupes of chance,
Whom fortune leads her fickle dance:
Who, as the dice shall smile or frown,
Are rich and poor, and up and down;
Whose minds eternal virgils keep:
Who- like Macbeth, have morder'd seep!--
Each modish vice this night shall rise,
Like Bar quo's ghost, before your eyes ;
While conscious you, fall start and roas.
Hence, horrid farce !- we'll see no more !
-Ye Ladies, too-maids, widows, wives
Now tremble for your naughty lives!

How

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