Actors, from Nature borrowing no grace,
By Rouge, like modern Ladies, form'd the face.
Lais, without a tooth could charm the beaux,
Ammon might fquint, 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 horfes tails-
By malice led, by rage and envy flung,
Rut 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, I'll fhew my face.
[Pufbes up his mask.
Hark, a purfuit !-the Critics in full cry!
No minifter is half fo maul'd as I:
Nay, plafter'd on pofts, tho' they often announce me,
Even Managers doubt if they fhou'd not renounce me.
Yet 'tis I give, a zeft to their comedy fcenes,
I 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! difcard me for faces on folly and vice,, Compos'd by themfelves-and retail'd at half price! Our Poet to-night-Arrah, joys, a dear Honey! Comes from Ireland to pocket your fweet British moneyNay, brings in a Scofman-becaufe 'tis the fashion. To feaft at th' expence of a neighbouring nation. But fince after Plays there hou'd come Pantomime, Or Opera fhou'd fquall-a plain farce is a crime: So, however, with plot, wit, and humour he cram it, 1, Harlequin, humbly befeech you to damn it.
A DI C I A...
Spoken by MR. Mossop.
ESIDE his native Thames, our Poet long
Hath hung his filent harp, and hufh'd his fong.
Kind Commerce whisper'd" See my blifsful ftate,
"And to no fmiles but mine refign thy fate.
"Beneath the pregnant branches reft awhile,
"Which by my culture fpread this favour'd ifle;
On that fair tree the fruits of ev'ry coaft,
All, which the Ganges and the Volga boast,
"All, which the fun's luxuriant beam fupplies,
"Or flowly ripens under frozen skies,
"In mix'd variety of growth arise.
"The copious leaves beneficence diffuse,
"Which on affliction drops restoring dews,
"And birds of hope among the loaded sprays
Tune with enchantment their alluring lays,
"To cheer defpondence and th' inactive raife.
"Reft here, the cry'd, and fmiling time again
"May ftring thy lyre, and I approve the train."
At length his mufe from exile he recalls,
Urg'd by his patrons in Augufta's walls.
Thofe gen'rous traders, who alike sustain
Their nation's glory on th' obedient main,
And bounteous raife affliction's drooping train.
They, who benignant to his toils afford
Their fhelt'ring favour, have his muse reftor'd.
They in her future fame will juftly share,
But her difgrace herfelf muft fingly bear;
Calm hours of learned leifure they have giv'n,
And could no more, for genius is from heav'n.
To open now her long-hid roll fhe tries,
When vary'd forms of pictur'd paffions rife.
Revenge and pride their furies firft unfold,
By artless virtue fatally controll'd.
Scenes wrought with gentler pencils then fucceed,
Where love perfuades a faithful wife to bleed;
Where, join'd to public cares, domestic woe
Is feen from manly fortitude to flow.
But if her colours mock the candid eye
By fpurious tincts, unmix'd with nature's dye,
Ye friendly hands, reftrain your fruitless aid,
And with just cenfure let her labours fade.
Spoken by MR. BARRY.
RITON S, to-night in native pomp we come,
True heroes all, from virtuous antient Rome;
In thofe far diftant times when Romans knew
The fweets of guarded liberty, like you;
And, fafe from ills which force or faction brings,
Saw freedom reign beneath the fmile of kings.
Yet from fuch times, and fuch plain chiefs as thefe,
What can we frame a polished age to please ?
Say, can you liften to the artlefs woes
Of an old tale, which every fchool-boy knows?
Where to your hearts alone the fcenes apply, -
No merit their's but pure fimplicity.
Our bard has play'd a most adventurous part,
And turn'd upon himself the critic's art :
Stripp'd each luxuriant plume from Fancy's wings,
And torn up fimilies like vulgar things.
Nay even each moral, fentimental, stroke,,
Where not the character but poet spoke,
He lopp'd, as foreign to his chafte defign,
Nor fpar'd an ufelets tho' a golden line.
Thefe are his arts; if thefe cannot atone
For all thofe nameless errors yet unknown,
If fhunning faults which nobler bards commit,.
He wants their force to itrike th' attentive pit, ..
Be juft and tell him fo; he afks advice,
Willing to learn, and would not afk it twice.
Your kind applaufe may bid him write-beware!!
Or kinder cenfure teach him to forbear,
PROLOGUE, written and spoken by Mr. WOODWARD, on his first Appearance on Covent Garden Theatre, October 5, in the Character of MARPLOT, after having been Manager at Dublin four Years.
EHOLD! the prodigal return'd-quite tameAnd (though you'll hardly think it) full of fame : Afham'd! fo long t'have left my patrons here
On random fchemes-the Lord knows what and where !
-With piteous face (long ftranger to a grin).
Receive the penitent and, let him in!
Forgive his errors-ope the friendly door;
And, then, he's your's 1 *—and your's 2-and your's 3: -as heretofore
-Ye Gods! what havock does ambition make-
Ambition drove me to the grand mistake!
Ambition made me mad enough to roam-
But, now, I feel (with joy) that bome is bome-
-Faith! they put powder in my drink, d'ye fee
Or elfe, by Pharaoh's foot, it could not be !
Belike queen Mab toucht me (at full o'th' moon)
With a Field Marshal Manager's battoon-
And, fo, I dreamt of riches-honour-pow'r
"Twas but a dream tho'-and, that dream is o'er➡➡ ..
-How happy, now, I walk my native ground;
Above-below-nay! faith-all round and rounds ·.
I guefs fome pleasures in your bofoms burn,
To fee the prodigal poor fon return-
Perhaps! I'm vain, tho', and the cafe miftake;
No-no-yes-yes-for old acquaintance fake.
Some gen'rous, hofpitable, fmiles you'll fend--
Befides! I own my faults and mean to mend —
+-Oh, ho! they ring-how Sweet that found appears
After an abfence of four tire fome years-
Marplot, to-night-fo fays the bill of fare I,
Now waits your pleasure, with his ufual air-
Oh! may I as the part ftill o'er and o'er!
But never BE the BUSY body more.
1, 2, 3, Pit, Boxes, Galleries.
The warning-bell rings,
‡ Pointing to a play-hill,
E PILOGUE,
Defigned to be Spoken by Mrs. WOFFINGTON, in the Character of a Volunteer, in the Year 1746.
Enter, reading a Gazette:
URSE on all cowards, fay I why, blefs my eyes
No, no, it can't be true: this Gazette lies:
Our men retreat before a fcrub banditti,
Who fcarce cou'd fright the buff coats of the city!
Well, if 'tis fo, and that our men can't ftand,
'Tis time we women take the thing in hand.
Thus, in my country's caufe, I now appear,
A bold, fmart, Khevenhuller'd volunteer.
And really, mark fome heroes in the nation,
Ye'll think this no unnatural transformation:
For if in valour real manhood lies,
All cowards are but-women in difguife.
They cry thefe rebels are fo flout and tall:
Ay, Lord, I'd lower the proudest of them all:
Try but my mettle, place me in the van,
And poft me, if I don't bring down my man.
Had we an army of fuch valorous wenches,
What men, d'ye think, wou'd dare attack our trenches?
Oh! how th' artillery of our eyes wou'd maul 'em!
ut our mask'd batteries! Lord, how they wou'd gall 'em!
No rebel 'gainst fuch force durft take the field,
For, damme, but we'd die before we'd yield.
Joking apart: we women have flrong reason,
To ftop the progrefs of this popifh treafon ;
For now, when female liberty's at stake,
All women ought to bufle for its fake.
Shou'd thefe audacious fons of Rome prevail,
Vows, convents, and that heathen thing a veil,
Muft come in fashion; and fuch inftitutions
Wou'd fuit but oddly with our conftitutions:
What gay coquet wou'd brook a nun's profeffion
And I've fome private reafons 'gainst confeffion.
Befides, our good men of the church, they fay,
(Who, now, thank heav'n, may love as well as pray)
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