And without help of art, or boaft of knowledge,
They cure more women, faith, than all the College!
But to the point-I come with low petition,
For, faith, poor Bayes is in a fad condition;

The huge tall bangman ftands to give the blow, And only waits your pleafures-ay, or no. If you should-Pit, Box, and Gallery, egad! Joy turns his fenfes, and the man runs mad: But if your ears are thut, your hearts are rock, And you pronounce the fentence-block to block, Down kneels the Bard, and leaves you when he's dead, The empty tribute of an Author's head.

A

PROLOGUE

TO

CHRISTMAS

TALE.

Mufic plays, and feveral perfons enter with different kinds of dishes. After them, Mr. PALMER, in the Character CHRISTMAS.

of

G

O on-prepare my bounty for my friends,

And fee that mirth with all her crew attends:

To the AUDIENCE.

Behold a perfonage well known to fame;

Once lov'd and honour'd-Christmas is my name!
My officers of ftate my tafte difplay;

Cooks, fcullions, paftry-cooks, prepare my way!
Holly, and ivy, round me honours fpread,
And my retinue fhew, I'm not ill-fed :

Minc'd pies by way of belt, my breath divide,
And a large carving knife, adorns my side;
'Tis no Fop's weapon, 'twill be often drawn;
This turban for my head is collar'd brawn!
Tho' old, and white my locks, my cheeks are cherry,
Warm'd by good fires, good cheer, I'm always merry:
With carrol, fiddle, dance, and pleasant tale,
Jeft, gibe, prank, gambol, mummery, and ale,

*Alluding to Bayes's Prologue to the Rehearsal.

1

I, English hearts rejoic'd in days of yore;
For new frange modes, imported by the score,
You will not fure turn Christmas out of door!
Suppofe yourselves well feated by a fire,

(Stuck clofe, you feem more warm than you defire)
Old father Christmas now in all his glory,
Begs, with kind hearts, you'll liften to his flory:
Clear well your minds from politics and spleen,
Hear my Tale out-fee all that's to be feen!
Take care, my children, that you well behave,
You, Sir, in blue, red cape-not quite fo grave:
That critic there in black-fo ftern and thin,
Before you frown, pray let the tale begin-
You in the crimfon capuchin, I fear you,
Why, Madam, at this time fo cross appear you?
Excufe me pray-I did not fee your husband near you.
Don't think, fair Ladies, I expect that you,
Should hear my tale--you've fomething else to do:
Nor will our beaux, old English fare encourage;
No foreign tafte could e'er digeft plumb-porridge.
I have no fauce to quicken lifeless finners,
My food is meant for honeft hearty grinners!
For you you fpirits with good ftomachs bring;
O make the neighb'ring roof with rapture ring;
Open your mouths, pray fwallow every thing!
Critics beware, how you our pranks defpife;
Hear well my tale, or you fha'nt touch my ples;
The proverb change-be merry, but not wife.

R E F US A L.

WRITTEN BY MR. CIBBER.

Spoken by the AUTHOR.

ALLANTS! behold before your eyes the wight,
Whofe actions stand accountable to-night,

For all your dividends of profit or delight.

New Plays resemble bubbles, we must own,
But their intrinfic value foon is known:
There's no impofing pleasure on a Town.
And when they fail, count o'er his pains and trouble,
His doubts, his fears, the Poet is the bubble.

As Heroes by the Tragic Mufe are fung;
So to the Comic, knaves and fools belong:
Follies, to-night, of various kinds we paint,
One, in a female philofophic Saint,

That wou'd by learning Nature's laws repeal,
Warm all her fex's bofoms to rebel,
And only, with Platonic raptures, fwell.
Long the refifts the proper ufe of beauty,
But flesh and blood reduce the dame to duty.
A Coxcomb too of modern ftamp we fhow,
A wit but impudenta South Sea Beau.
Nay more our Mufe's fire (but pray protect her)
Roafts, to your tafte, a whole South Sca Director.
But let none think we bring him here in fpite,
For all their actions, fure, will bear the light;
Befides, he's painted here in height of power,
Long e'er we laid fuch ruin at his door:

}

When he was levee'd, like a Statefman, by the Town,
And thought his heap'd up millions all his own.
No, no; ftock's always at a thousand here,

He'll almoft honeft on the Stage appear.

Such is our fare, to feed the mind our aim,
But Poets ftand, like warriors, in their fame;
One ill day's work brings all their past to fhame.
Thus having tafted of your former favour,
The chance feems now for deeper takes than ever.
As, after runs of luck, we're more accurft,
To lofe our winnings, than have loft at firit;
A first take loft has often fav'd from ruin,

But on one caft to lofe the tout-is hard undoing,
But be it as it may-

Fear now were folly

the dye is thrown,

-Pals the Rubicon.

}

PRO

PROLOGUE

то THE

GRECIAN DAUGHTER. Spoken by Mr. WESTON.

H'

He peeps in at the Stage Docr.

[P! mufic! mufic!-Have you more to play?
Somewhat I'd offer-Stop your cat-gut, pray.
Will you permit, and not pronounce me rude,
A Bookfeller one moment to intrude?

My name is Fools Cap :-Since you faw me laft,
Fortune hath giv'n me a rare helping caft.
To all my toils a wife hath put a flop-
A devil then; but now I keep a fhop.
My mafter died, poor man!-He's out of print
His widow,-fhe had eyes, and took my hint.
A prey to grief fhe could not bear to be,
And fo turn'd over a new leaf with me.

I drive a trade; have Authors in my pay,
Men of all work, per week, per fheet, per day.
Trav'llers who not one foreign country know;
And Paft'ral Poets in the found of Bow.
Tranflators-from the Greek they never read;
Cantabs and Sophs-in Covent-Garden bred.
Hiftorians, who can't write ;-who only take
Sciffars and pafte;-cut, vamp; a book they make.
I've treated for this Play; can buy it too,
If I could learn what you intend to do.
If for nine nights you'll bear this tragic ftuff;
I have a News-paper, and there can puff.

A news paper does wonders!-None can be
In debt, in love, dependent, or quite free,
Ugly or handfome, well, or ill in bed,
Single or married, or alive or dead,

But we give life, dea.h, virtue, vice with eafe;
In fhort, a News-paper does what we please.
There jealous Authors at each other bark;

Till truth leaves not one glimpfe, no, not one fpark;
But lies meet lies, and joftle in the dark.
Our Bard within has often felt the dart
Sent from our quiver, levell'd at his heart.

}

I've prefs'd him, ere he plays this defp'rate game,
To answer all, and vindicate his name,
But he, convinc'd that all but Truth muft die,
Leaves to it's own mortality the Lie.

Would any know, while Parties fight pellmell,
How he employs his pen ?-his Play will tell.
To that he trufts; that he submits to you,
Aim'd at your tend'reft feeling,-moral,-
The Scenes, he hopes, will draw the heart-felt tear:
Scenes that come home to ev'ry bofom here.

-new.

If this will do, I'll run and buy it ftraight; Stay-Let me fee;-I think I'd better waitYes;-I'll lie fnug, till you have fix'd it's fate.

EPI L OGU E

то THE

LY A

YAR.

Between Mifs GRANTHAM and OLD WILDING.

M. Gr.

WRITTEN BY A MAN OF FASHION.

HOLD,

OLD, Sir.

Our plot concluded, and ftrict juftice done,
I et me be heard as counfel for your fon.
Acquit I can't; I mean to mitigate:
Profcrible all lying, what would be the fate
Of this, and every other earthly state?
Confider, Sir, if once you cry it down,
You'll fhut up ev'ry coffee-house in town:
The tribe of politicians will want food;
Ev'n now half-famil'd-for the public good.
All Grub-ftreet murderers of men and fenfe,
And every office of intelligence,

All would be bankrupts, the whole lying race,
And no Gazette to publish their disgrace.

}

O. Wild. Too mild a fentence! muft the good and great Patriots be wrong'd, that Bookfellers may eat?

M. Gr. Your patience, Sir; yet hear another word. Turn to that hall where juftice wields her fword: Think in what narrow limits you would draw, By this profcription, all the fons of law:

E 2

For