Others there are-but may we not prevail
To let the Gentry tell their own plain tale?
Shall they come in? They'll please you, if they can ;
If not, condemn the Bard-but fpare the man.
For fpeak, think, act, or write in angry times,
A with to please is made the worst of crimes;
Dire flander now with black envenom'd dart,
Stands ever arm'd to stab you to the heart.

Roufe, Britons, roufe for honour of your isle,
Your old good humour; and be seen to smile.
You fay we write not like our fathers-true,
Nor were our fathers half fo ftrict as you.
Damn'd not each error of the poet's pen,
But judging man, remember'd they were men,
Aw'd into filence by the time's abuse,
Sleep many a wife, and many a witty mufe;
We that for mere experiment come out,
Are but the light arm'd rangers on the scout:
High on Parnaflus' lofty fummit ftands
The immortal camp; there lie the chofen bands!
But give fair quarters to us puny elves,
The giants then. will fally forth themselves;
With wit's fharp weapons vindicate the age,
And drive ev'n Arthur's magic from the Stage.

PROL O GUE

то

AL MID A.

WRITTEN BY WILLIAM WHITEHEAD, ESQ.

Spoken by Mr. REDDISH.

RITICS be dumb-To-night a lady fues,
From foft Italia's fhores an English mufe;
Tho' fate there binds her in a pleafing chain,
Sends to our Stage the offspring of her brain,
True to her birth the pants for British bays,
And to her country trufts for genuine praife.
From infancy we'll read in tragic lore,
She treads the path her father trod before;

T

To the fame candid judges trufts her caufe,
And hopes the fame indulgence and applause.
No Salick Law here bars the female's claim,
Who pleads hereditary right to fame.

Of Love and Arms fhe fings, the mighty two,
Whole powers uniting must the world fubdue;
Of Love and Arms! in that heroic age,
Which knew no poet's, no hiftorian's page;
But war to glory form'd th' unletter'd mind,
And chivalry alone taught morals to mankind;
Nor taught in vain, the youth who dar'd aspire
To the nice honours of a lover's fire,

Obferv'd with duteous care each rigid rule,
Each fern command of labour's patient fchool;
Was early train'd to bear the fultry beams
Of burning funs, and winter's fierce extremes;
Was brave, was temperate: to one idol fair
His vows he breath'd, his wishes center'd there :
Honour alone could gain her kind regard,
Honour was virtue, beauty its reward.
And fhall not British breafts, in beauty's caufe,
Adopt to-night the manners which the draws?
Male writers we confefs are lawful prize,
Giants and monsters that but rarely rife!
With their enormous fpoils your triumphs grace,
Attack, confound, exterminate the race;
But when a Lady tempts the critic war,
Be all knights-errant, and protect the fair.

NOU'D thofe, who never try'd, conceive the fweat,
The toil requir'd, to make a Play compleat;

CO

They'd pardon, or encourage all that cou'd
Pretend to be but tolerably good.

Plot, wit, and humour's hard to meet in one,
And yet without 'em all-all's lamely done :

One

!

One wit, perhaps, another humour paints;
A third defigns you well, but genius wants;
A fourth begins with fire-but, ah! to weak too hold
it, faints.

A modern Bard, who late adorn'd the bays,

T

Whofe mufe advanc'd his fame to envy'd praise,
Was ftill obferv'd to want his judgment molt in Plays.
Thofe, he too often found, required the pain,
And ftronger forces of a vig'rous brain :
Nay, even alter'd Plays, like houses mended,
Coft little less than new, before they're ended;
At least, our Author finds the experience true, '
For equal pains had made this wholly new :
And tho' the name feems old, the fcenes will fhow
That 'tis, in fact, no more the fame, than now
Fam'd Chatsworth is, what 'twas fome years ago.
Pardon the boldness, that a Play thou'd dare,
With works of fo much wonder to compare :
But as that fabrick's antient walls or wood
Were little worth, to make this new one good;
So of this Play, we hope, 'tis understood.
For tho' from former Scenes fome hints he draws,
The ground-plot's wholly chang'd from what it was:
Not but he hopes you'll find enough that's new,
In plot, in perfons, wit, and humour too:
Yet what's not his, he owns in other's right,
Nor toils he now for fame, but your delight.
If that's attain'd, what matters whofe the Play's;
Applaud the Scenes, and ftrip him of the praife.

PROLOGU

E,

At the Revival of EVERY MAN IN HIS HUMOUR.
Spoken by MR. GARRICK.

C

RITICS! your favour is our author's right-
The well-known fcenes, we fhall prefent to-night,
Are no weak efforts of a modern pen,

But the ftrong touches of immortal BEN ;
A rough old Bard, whofe honeft pride difdain'd
Applause itself unless by merit gain'd-

And

}

And wou'd to night your loudest praise disclaim, Shou'd his great shade perceive the doubtful frame, Not to his labours granted, but his name, Boldly he wrote, and boldly told the age, "He dar'd not proftitute the ufeful Stage, "Or purchase their delight at fuch a rate, "As for it, he himself muft justly hate : "But rather begg'd they would be pleas'd to fee "From him, fuch plays, as other plays thou'd be; "Wou'd learn from him to fcorn a motley fcene, "And leave their monsters, to be pleas'd with men." Thus fpoke the Bard-and tho' the times are chang'd, Since his free mufe, for fools the city rang'd; And fatire had not then appear'd in state, To lafh the finer follies of the great: Yet let not prejudice infect your mind, Nor flight the gold, becaufe not quite refin'd; With no fmall nicenefs this performance view, Nor damn for low, whate'er is just and true : Sure to thofe fcenes fome honour thou'd be paid, Which Cambden patroniz'd, and Shakespear play'd. Nature was nature then, and still survives; The garb may alter, but the fubftance lives. Lives in this playwhere each may find complete His pictur'd felf Then favour the deceit Kindly forget the hundred years between; Become old Britons, and admire old BEN.

EPILOGUE

то

CARELESS

HUSBAND.

Co

WRITTEN BY COLLEY CIBBER, ESQ.

ONQUEST and freedom are at length our own, Falfe fears of flav'ry no more are shown; Nor dread of paying tribute to a foreign throne. All ftations now the fruits of conquest share, Except (if fmall with great things may compare) Th' oppreft condition of the lab'ring Player.

A

D

We're

.

We're ftill in fears (as you of late in France)
Of the defpotic power of fong and dance :
For while fubfcription, like a tyrant, reigns,
Nature's neglected, and the ftage in chains,
-And English actors flaves to fwell the Frenchman's gains.
Like Afop's crow, the poor out-witted stage,
That liv'd on wholefome plays i' th' latter age,
Deluded once to fing, ev'n juftly ferv'd,

Let fall her cheese to the fox mouth, and ftarv'd:
O that our judgment, as your courage has
Your fame extended, wou'd affert our caufe,
That nothing English might fubmit to foreign laws.
If we but live to fee that joyful day,

Then of the English ftage, reviv'd we may,
As of your honour now, with proper application, fay.
So when the Gallick fox by fraud of peace,
Had lull'd the British lion into ease,

And faw that fleep compos'd his couchant head,
He bids him wake, and fee himself betray'd
In toils of treacherous politics around him laid :
Shews him how one clofe hour of Gallick, thought
Retook thofe towns for which he years had fought.
At this th' indignant favage rolls his fiery eyes,
Dauntlefs, tho' blushing at the base surprise,
Paufes awhile but finds delays are vain :
Compell'd to fight, be fakes his shaggy mane;

He grinds his dreadful pangs; and stalks to Blenheim's

plain.

There with erected crest, and horrid roar,

He furious plunges on through ftreams of gore, And dyes with falie Bavarian blood the purple Danube's fhore,

In one pusht battle frees the destin'd slaves;

Revives old Englife honour, and an empire faves.

}

PRO