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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 tame

And (though you'll hardly think it) full of fame : Asham'd! so long t’have left my patrons here On random schemes-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 I Land your's 2-and your's 3

-as heretoforeYe Gods ! what havock does ambition makeAmbition 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 see? Or else, by Pharaob's foot, it could not be ! Belike queen Mab touche me (at full o'th' moon) With a Field Marfhal Manager's battoonAnd, so, I dreamt of ricbes--honour-pow'r 'Twas but a dream tho'-and, that dream is o'erco. -How happy, now, I walk my native ground; Above-below--nay! faith-all round and rounds, I guess some pleasures in your bosoms burn, To see the prodigal poor fon return Perhaps ! I'm vain, tho', and the case mistake; No-no-yes-yes- for old acquaintance fake. Some gen'rous, hospitable, smiles you'll send. Besides ! I own my faults and mean to mendt-Oh, ho! they ring-how sweet that sound appears After an absence of four tire fome years Marplot, to-night-lo fays the bill of fare f, Now waits your pleasure, with his usual air---Oh! may I act the part fill o'er and o'er! But never BE, the BUSY body more.

* 1, 2, 3, Pit, Boxes, Galleries.
+ The warping-bell rings, Pointing to a play-hill.

PRO.

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An E PILOGUE,
Designed to be spoken by Mrs. WOFFINGTON, in the
Character of a Volunteer, in the Year 1746.

Enter, reading a Gazetta:
TURSE on ali cowards, say I ! why, bless my eyes

No, no, it can't be true: this Gazette lies :
Our men retreat before a scrub banditti,
Who scarce cou'd fright the buff coats of the city!
Well, if 'cis so, and that our men can't stand,
'Tis time we women take the thing in hand.
Thus, in my country's cause, I now appear,
A bold, smart, Khevenhuber'd volunteer.
And really, mark some heroes in the nation,
Ye'll think this no unnatural transformation :
For if in valour real manhood lies,
All cowards are but women in disguise.
They cry these rebels are so stout and tall :
Ay, Lord, I'd lower the proudest of them all :
Try but my mettle, place me in the van,
And post me, if I don't bring down my man.
Had we an army of such 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 of

'em !
No rebel 'gainit such force durft take the field,
For, damme, but we'd die before we'd yield.

Joking apart : we women have strong reason,
To stop the progress of this popith treason;
For now, when female liberty's at stake,
All women ought to bulle for its fake.
Shou'd these audacious fons of Rome prevail,
Vows, convents, and that heathen thing a veil, ;
Must come in fashion ; and such institutions
Wou'd swit but oddly with our constitutions :
What gay coquet wou'd brook a nun's prosessioni
And I've some private realons 'gainst confession.

Befides, our good men of the church, they say,
(Who, now, thank heay'n, may love as well as pray)

Iduit..?

Muft then be only wed to cloyster'd houses :
Stop,—there we're fobb’d of twenty thousand spouses :
And, faith, no bad ones, as l'm told; then judge ye,
Is't fit we lose our -benefit of clergy.

In freedom's cause, ye patriot-fair, arise,
Exert the sacred influence of your eyes ;
On valiant merit deign alone to smile,
And vindicate the glory of our ille ;
To no base coward prostitute your charms,
Disband the lover who deserts his arms;
So shall you fire each hero to his duty,
And British rights be sav'd by British beauty.

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Spoken by Mrs. Jewell.
ONFIDING in the justice of the place,

To you the Maid of, Bath fubinits her cale :
Wrongid and defeated of three several spouses,
She lays her damages for nine full houses.
Well, firs, you've heard the parties pro and con,
Do the pro's carry it? Shall the suit go on?
Speak hearts for us, to them we make appeal ;
Tell us not what you think, but what you feel :
Ask us, why bring a private.cause to view ?
We answer, with a figh-because 'tis true :
For tho' invention is our.poet's trade,
Here he but copies parts, which others play'd..
For on a ramble late, one starry night,
With Asmodeo, his familiar sprite,
High on the wings, by his conductor's fide,
This guilty scene the indignant Bard descry'd:

CET) Soaring in air, his ready pen he drew,

od or And dath'd the glowing satire as he few : For in these rank luxuriant times there needs Some strong bold hand to pluck the noxious weeds.

The

The rake of fixty, crippl'd hand and knee, ,
Who fins on claret, and repenis on tea :
The witless Macaroni, wbo puroins
A few cant words, which some pert gambler coins:
The undomestic Amazonian dame,
Staunch to her Coterie, in despite of fame:
These are the vi&tims of our poet's plan,
But most, that minfieran unfeeling man.
When such a foe provokes him to the fight,
Tho' maim'd, out rallies the puillant knight:
Like Withrington, maintains the glorious trife,
And only yields his laurel.-- with his life.

PRO OLOGUE

TO

THE

C

Α Ρ U C Η Ι Ν.

C

WRITTEN BY GEORGE COLMAN, ESQ

Spoken by Mr. Foote.
RITICS, whene'er I write, in every scene

Discover meanings that I never mean;
Whatever character I bring to view,
I am the father of the child ’ris true,
But every babe his christening owes to you.
". The comic poet's eye, with humorous air,
Glancing from Watling.street to Grosvenor-square,
He bodies forth a light ideal train,
And turns to fhape the phantoms of his brain :
Meanwhile your fancy takes more partial ainr,
And gives to airy nothing, place and name."

A limner once, in want of work, went down
To try his fortune in a country town ;
The waggon, loaded with his goods, convey'd
To the same spot his whole dead lock in trade,
Originals and copies--ready made.
To the new painter all the country came,
Lord, Lady, Doctor, Lawyer, 'Squire, and Dame,
The humble Curate, and the Curate's wife,
All ak a likenesstaken from the life.

Behold

}

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Behold the canvas on the easel stand !
A pallet grac'd his thumb, and brushes fill'd his hand :
But, ah ! the painter's skill they little knew,
Nor by what curious rules of art he drew.
The waggon-load unpack’d, his antient store,
Furnith'd for each a face drawn long before,
God, Dame, or Hero of the days of yore.
The Cæsars, with a litile alteration,
Were turn'd into the Mayor and Corporation:
To reprefent the Rector, and the Dean,
He added wigs and bands to Prince Eugene :
The Ladies, blooming all, deriv'd their faces
From Charles the Second's beauties, and the Graces.
Thus done, and circled in a splendid frame,
His works adorn'd each room, and spread bis fame.
The countrymen of taste, admire and stare,
" My Lady's leer! Sir John's majestic air !
Miss.Dimple's languish too !-extremely like!
And in the file and manner of Vandyke !
Oh! this new limner's pictures always strike!
Old, young, fat, lean, dark, fair ; or big, or little ;
The very man or woman to a tittle !"

Foote and this limner in some points agree,
And thus, good Sirs, you often deal by me.
When, by the royal licence and protection,
I few my small academy's collection,
The Connoisseur takes out his glass, to pry
Into each picture with a curious eye ;.
Turns topsy-turvy my whole composition,
And makes mere portraits all my exhibition.
But fill the copy's so exact, you say ;
Alas, the same thing happens every day!
How many a modish well dress'd Fop you meet,
Exactly suits his shape-in Monmouth street;
In Yorkshire warehouses, and Cranborn-alley,
'Tis wonderful how shoes and feet will tally!
As honest Crispin understands his trade,
On the true human scale his lasts are made,
The measure of each sex and age to hit,
And every Moe, as if bespoke, will fit.
My warehouse thus for nature's walks supplies
Shoes for all ranks, and laits of every size,

Sic

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