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What plagues arise from all the mimic throng,
“ My part's too fhort;--and, fir, my part's too long !
" This calls for incident; that repartee ;,
6. Down the back stairs pen an escape for me.
« Give me a ladder, Mr. Bayes, of rope ;
“ I love to wear the breeches and elope.
“ Something for me the groundling ears to splity.
6. Write a dark closet, or a fainting fit,
« Fix Woodward in some whimsical disgrace :.
Or be facetious with old Shuter's face.''

This is our way ; and yet our bard to-night
Removes each obitacle, and brings to light
Some fcenes we hope he brings to nature true,
Some gleams of humour, and a moral too ;
But no firange monilers offers to your view ;
No forms grotesque and wild, are here at ftrife :
He boafis an etching from the real life;
Exerts his efforts, in a polith'd age,
To drive the Smithfield muses from the stage :
By ealy dialogue would win your praise,
And on fair decency graft all his bays.



P R o L O G U E

L I. L L I P U T.


Spoken by Mr. WOODWARD.
E.HOLD a Conjurer--thai's something new,

For as times ge---my bretliren are but ferri
I'm come with magic ring, and taper wand,
To waft you far from this your native land.
Ladies, don't fear--my coach is large and easy,
I know your humours, and will drive to please ye ;
Gently you'll ride, as in a fairy dream,
Your hoops unsqueez'd, and not a beau mall sercam,
You shall be back in time for cards to-night;
What ftill disordered!.. well,-- know your fright
Swift as queen Mab within her hazle nut,
Hul set you safely down at Lilligus



Away we go-ge'up-Ladies keep your places,
And Gentlemen-for Thame-don't fcrew your faces.
Softly my imps and fiends -you

critics there
Pray you fit ftill or I can never steer,
My dev'ls, are not the dev'ls you need to fear.
Hold fast, my friends above for faith we spin it;
My usual rate's a thousand miles a minute.
A Statesman, now, could tell how high we foar-
Statesmen have been these airy jaunts before.
I see the land-the folks--what limbs! what features!
There's Lords and Ladies too the pretty creatures!

Now to your fight these puppets I'll produce,
Which may, if rightly heeded, turn to use ;
Puppets not made of wood, and play'd with wires,
But lesh and blood, and full of frange desires.
So ftrange-you'll scarce believe me thuld I tell
For giant vices may in pigmies dwell.
Beware you lay not to the Conjurer's charge,
That these in miniature, are you in large :

these little folks have no relation,
As diff'rent in their manners, as their nation,
To'thew your pranks requires no conjuration.
Open your eyes and -your mouths be fhut,
England is vanih'd-(waves his wand)-Enter Lilliput.

(Strikes the curtain, and finks.)


To you


Spoken by Mr. WOODWARD in the Character of



The only relic of the antient Stage!
In Greece no player try'd the arduous talk,
Of acting love, grief, rag“,—without a mask ;
On vizors fram'd of canvas, brass, and wood,
Humours and pallions ready-painted food;


-A Stors,

Actors, from Nature borrowing no grace,
By Rouge, like modern Ladies, form’d the face.
Laïs, without a tooth could charm the beaux,
Ammon might squint, and Venus want a nose.

Poor Harlequin, tho'mak'd, like these once spoke,
And France and Italy adınir'd each joke :
But round. head England, -all things who curtails,
Who cuts off monarchs heads and horses tails-
By malice led, by rage and envy ftung,
Put in my mouth a gag, and ty'd my tongue.
Yet I'll remonftrate-I'll unfold my case -
Yes, I will speak-nay more, l'll Mew my face.

[Pufbes up his makes Hark, a pursuit !-the Critics in full cry! No minilter is half so maul'd as I : Nay, plaster'd on posts, tho' they often announce me, Even Managers doubt if they shou'd not renounce me. Yet 'tis I give a zeft to their comedy scenes, } hold up the tail of their tragedy queens : Without my caprioles, whims, and frolics to-tempt ye, Pit and boxes are thin, and the galleries empty!

Then, firs, let me claim~and claim by old right, The rear of each play, the fag-end of each night! What! discard ine for faces on folly and vice, Compos’d by themselvesand retail'd at half price! Our Poet to night-Arrah, joys, a dear Honey ! Gomes from Irelar.d to pocket your sweet British money Nay, brings in a Scoman-because 'tis the fashion To feast at th' expence of a neighbouring nation. But since after Plays there hou'd come Pantomime, Or Opera thou'd squall--a plain farce is a crime: So, however, with plot, wit, and humour he cram is; 1, Harlequin, humbly beseech you to damn it..

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I A.
Spoken by Mr. Mossop.
ESIDE his native Thames, our Poet long
Hach bung his filent harp, and hum’d his song.


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Kind Commerce whisper'd “ See my blissful state,
* And to no smiles but mine resign thy fate.
e Beneath the pregnant branches reit awhile,
6. Which by my culture spread this favour'd ille;
« On that fair tree the fruits of ev'ry coast,
* All, which the Ganges and the Volga boast,
“All, which the sun's luxuriant beam Tupplies,
" Or flowly ripens under frozen skies,
" In mix'd variety of growth arise. "
• The copious leaves beneficence diffuse,

Which on aficion drops restoring dews,
" And birds of hope among the loaded sprays
• Tune with enchantment their alluring lays,
" To cheer despondence and th' inactive raise.
“ Rest here, the cry'd, and smiling time again
“ May string thy lyre, and I approve the strain.'

At length his muse from exile he recalls,
Uig'd by his patrons in Augufta's walls.
Those gen'rous traders, who alike sustain
Their nation's glory on th' obedient main,
And bounteous raise affiction's drooping train.
They, who benignant to his toils afford
Their Melt'ring favour, have his muse restor’d.
They in her future fame will justly share,
But her disgrace herself muft fingly bear;
Calm hours of learned leisure they have giv'n,
And could no more, for genius is from heav'n.

To open now her long-hid roll the tries,
When vary'd forms of pictur'd paßions rise.
Revenge and pride their furies firft unfold,
By artless virtue fatally controllid.
Scenes wrought with gentler pencils then fucceed,
Where love persuades a faithful wife to bleed;
Where, join' public cares, domestic woe
Is seen from manly fortitude to flow.
But if her colours mock the candid eye
By spurious tinats, unmix'd with nature's dye,
Ye friendly hands, restrain your fruitless aid,
And with just censure let her labours fade.



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RITONS, to-night in native pomp we come,


In those far diftant cimes when Romans knew
The sweets of guarded liberty, like you ;
And, safe from ills which force or faction brings,
Saw freedom reign beneath the smile of kings.

Yet from such times, and such plain chiefs as these, ,
What can we frame a polished age to please ?
Say, can you listen to the artless woes
of an old tale, which every school-boy knows?
Where to your hearts alone the scenes apply, -
No merit their's but pure fimplicity.

Our bard has play'd a moit adventurous part,
And turn'd upon himself the critic's art:
Stripp'd each luxuriant plame from Fancy's wings,
And corn up fimilies like vulgar things.
Nay even each moral, sentimental, stroke,
Where not the character but poet spoke,
He lopp'd, as foreign to his chaite design,
Nor spar'd an aselets tho' a golden line,

These are his arts; if these cannot atone
For all those nameless errors yet unknown,
If shunning faulis which nobler bards commit; ,
He wants iheir force to itrike th' attentive pit, ..
Be just and tell him lo; he asks advice,
Willing to learn, and would not ask it twice.
Your kind applause may bid him write--beware! ?
Or kioder censure teach him to forbcar, .


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