Can we expect, in thefe enlighten'd days,
A courtly age fhould hold fuch vulgar ways?
Or that a blabbing prologue fhould difclofe,
Scenes, which no Mufe of fashion ever shows.
No, Sirs- -Sethona is the lady's name-
She lives at Memphis-of unfullied fame:
A Tyrant woo'd her---but she lik'd another,
And once 'twas fear'd her lover was her brother.
As for the reft, a little patience borrow,
The Chronicle will tell you all to-morrow.
Authors are now fo over modest grown,
They publish all men's writings, but their own.
But let no living bard conceive offence,
Nor take the general in a partial fenfe.
Peace to all fuch! the lab'ring bee must feed
From flow'r to flow'r; perchance from weed to weed;
And fhould the comb unwelcome flavour yield,
The fault's not in the fabric, but the field;
The critic wafp, mean while upon the wing,
(An infect fraught with nothing but a sting)
Disturbs th' induftrious hive, for malice fake,
Marring that honey, which he cannot make.
An abfent bard, engag'd in diftant war,
This night appears by proxy at your bar:
As o'er Arabia's wilds he took his way,
From fultry Ormus and the realms of day,
His active mind, fuperior to its toil,
Struck out thefe fcenes upon the burning foil.
No cooling grottoes, no umbrageous groves,
To win the Graces, and allure the Loves;
No Heliconian fount, wherein to dip,
And flake the burning fever on his lip;
Before him all is defert, wafle, and dry,
Above him flames the tyrant of the sky;
Around his temples gath'ring whirlwinds fight,
And drifts of icorching duft involve the light:
Oh, fnatch your Poet from impending death,
And on his fhrine we'll hang his votive wreath.

An ADDRESS to the TOWN, by way of EPILOGUE to

TIS WELL IT'S NO WORSE.
Spoken by Mr. KING.

INSTEAD of an Epilogue, round, fmart, and terfe,
Let poor fimple me, and in more fimple verse,
Juft handle the text-It is well it's no worse.

The brat of this night fhould you cherish and nurse,
And hush it, and rock it, tho' you fill not his purse,
The Daddy will fay, that-'Tis well it's no worse.
Or fhould his ftrange fortune turn out the reverse,
That his pockets you fill, tho' his play you should curfe,
Still our author will fay-It is well it's no worse.
Should you put the poor bard and his brat in one herse,
Yet to give to the Actors fome praise not averfe,
WE comfort ourselves-It is well it's no worse.
The town with each poet will pufh carte and tierce;
If the bard can fo guard, that his buff you don't pierce,
Tho' you pink him a little-'Tis well it's no worse.
Should the play-house be full, tho' the critics fo fierce,
The managers, actors, and author afperfe,

We fhrug up our shoulders-'Tis well it's no worse.
But should you to damn be refolv'd, and perverfe,
If quietly after, from hence you difperfe,

We wish you good night-and-'Tis well it's no worse.

PROLOGUE

то

FALSE DELICAC Y.

I'M

WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK.

Spoken by Mr. KING.

''M vex'd-quite vex'd-and you'll be vex'd-that's worse,

To deal with stubborn Scribblers! there's the curfe!

F

Write

Write moral Plays-the Blockhead! why, good people,
You'll foon expect this Houle to wear a Steeple!
For our fine Piece, to let you into facts,
Is quite a Sermon,-only preach'd in A&s.
You'll fcarce believe me, 'till the proof appears,
But even 1, Tom Fool, muft fhed fome tears:
Do, Ladies, look upon me-nay, no fimp'ring-
Think you this face was ever made for whimp'ring?
Can I a cambrick handkerchief difplay,-
Thump my unfeeling breaft, and roar away?
Why this is comical, perhaps he'll fay-
Refolving this ftrange aukward Bard to pump,
I afk'd him what he meant ?-He, fomewhat plump,
New purs'd his belly, and his lips thus biting,
I must keep up the dignity of writing!

You may; but, if you do, Sir, I must tell ye,
You'll not keep up that dignity of belly.
Still he preach'd on-" Bards of a former age
"Held up
abandon'd Pictures on the Stage;

}

Spread out their Wit with fafcinating art, "And catch'd the Fancy, to corrupt the Heart; "But, happy change!-in these more moral days, "You cannot fort with Virtue, ev'n in Plays; "On Virtue's fide his pen the Poet draws, "And boldly afks a Hearing for his Caufe." Thus did he prance and fwell -The man may prate, And feed thefe whimfies in his addle pate, That you'll protect his Mufe, becaufe fhe's good, A Virgin, and fo chafte !--O lud! O lud! No Mufe the Critic Beadle's lafh escapes, Tho' virtuous, if a Dowdy and a Trapes: If his come forth a decent, likely Lafs, You'll fpeak her fair, and grant the proper pafs; Or fhould his brain be turn'd with wild pretences, In three hours time you'll bring him to his fenfes ; And well you may, when in your pow'r you get him; In that short space, you blifter, bleed, and fweat him. Among the Turks, indeed, he'd run no danger; They facred hold a Madman and a Stranger.

PRO

PROLO G U E

TO

BAR
R BAR O S $
Written by Mr. GARRICK, and Spoken by him in the
Character of a Country Boy.

Is

Meafter! Meafter !

not my Meafter here among you pray?

Nay, speak-my Meafter wrote this fine new Play-
The Actor-folks are making fuch a clatter!

They want the Pro-log,-I know nought o' th' matter!
He must be there among you look ab ut-

A weezen, pale fac'd man, do find him out-
Pray, Meafter, come or all will fall to fheame,
Call Mifter-hold-I must not tell his name.

Law! what a croud is here! what a noife and pother!
Fine lads and laffes! one o'top o' t'other.

[Pointing to the Rows of Pit and Gallery,

I cou'd for ever here with wonder geaze!

I ne'er faw church fo full in all my days!-
Your fervant, Surs !-what do you laugh for? Eh?
You donna take me fure for one o' th' Play!
You thou'd not flout an honeft Country lad,-
You think me fool, and I think you half mad:
You're all as trange as I, and stranger too,

And, if you laugh at me, I'll laugh at you. [Laughing.
I donna like your London tricks, not I,

And fince you've rais'd my blood, I'll tell you why?
And if you wull, fince now I am before ye,
For want of Pro-log, I'll relate my ftory.

I came from country here to try my fate,
And get a place among the Rich and Great;
But troth I'm fick o' th' journey I ha' ta'en,
I like it not-wou'd I were whoame again.-
First, in the City I took up my station,
And got a place, with one of th' Corporation,
A round big man--he eat a plaguy deal,
Zooks! he'd have beat five ploomen at a meal!
But long with him I cou'd not make abod›,

661814 A

For, cou'd you think't ?-He eat a great Sea-toad!
It came from Indies-'twas as big as ine,
He call'd it Belly patch and Capajee:
F 2

Law!

Law! how I ftar'd!-I thought,-who knows, but I,
For want of monsters, may be made a pye;
Rather than tarry here for bribe or gain,
I'll back to whoame, and country-fare again.
I left Toad-eater; then I farv'd a Lord,

And there they promis'd!-but ne'er kept their word,
While 'mong the Great, this geaming work the trade is,
They mind no more poor fervants, than their Ladies.
A Lady next, who lik'd a fmart young lad,
Hir'd me forthwith-but, troth, I thought her mad.
She turn'd the world top down, as I may fay,
She chang'd the day to neet, the neet to day!
One day I flood with coach, and did but ftoop
To put the foot-board down, and with her hoop
She cover'd me all o'er-where are you, Lout?
Here, Madam, for Heaven's fake, pray let me out.
I was fo fheam'd with all her freakish ways,
She wore her gear fo fhort, fo low her stays-
Fine folks fhew all for nothing now-a days!

Now I'm the Poet's mon-I find with wits,
There's nothing fartain-Nay, we eat by fits.
Our meals, indeed, are flender,-what of that?
There are but three on's-Meafter, I, and Cat.
Did you but fee us all, as I'm a finner,

You'd scarcely fay, which of the three is thinner.
My wages all depend on this night's piece,
But thou'd you find that all our fwans are geefe !
E'feck I'll truft no more to Meafter's brain,
But pack up all, and whistle whoame again.

PROLOGUE

то

CLEMENTIN A.

BY GEORGE COLMAN, ESQ.

Spoken by Mr. BENSLEY.

N thefe, our moral and religious days,

I Men dread the crying fin of writing Plays:

While fome, whofe wicked wit incurs the blame,
Howe'er they love the treffpafs, fly the shame.

}