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THE POETICAL WORKS OF DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.

VOL. I.

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THE POETICAL WORKS OF DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.

NOW FIRST COLLECTED INTO TWO VOLUMES. WITH EXPLANATORY NOTES.

VOL. I.

[printer's device for George Kearsley]

LONDON: Printed for GEORGE KEARSLEY, at Johnſon's Head, Fleet-ſtreet. M.DCC.LXXXV.

TO Richard Brinſley Sheridan, Eſq.

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Whoſe DRAMATICK PERFORMANCES have been the chief Supports of the Engliſh Stage ſince the Death of Mr. GARRICK,

THIS COLLECTION OF THE POETICAL WORKS OF HIS CELEBRATED PREDECESSOR IS INSCRIBED,

By his moſt obedient, And moſt humble Servant, GEORGE KEARSLEY.

PREFACE.

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THE Publiſher of the preſent Volumes has long obſerved with ſurprize the total neglect ſhewn to the Works of Mr. GARRICK. Though ſix years are now elapſed ſince his death, no one ſtep has been taken towards giving an edition of them. Neither gratitude, friendſhip, affection, nor intereſt have in the ſlighteſt manner interpoſed. His pieces have been ſuffered to remain in the ſame ſtate in which the Author left them, a prey to time; ſubject to every accident; and, as it ſhould ſeem, doomed in a few years to be buried in oblivion.

The Author, careleſs and indifferent about his ſmaller productions, diſperſed them in ſuch a variety of publications, [iv] that, had he been now living, he would probably have found ſome difficulty in aſſembling them together, or even, without aſſiſtance, to recollect them. This difficulty is encreaſing every day. By the death of friends; by the forgetfulneſs of contemporaries; and by the loſs of fugitive pieces, a compleat collection of them (already a taſk not eaſy to be accompliſhed) will in a few years become impoſſible.

It is a conſideration which may not be thought very honourable to human nature, that a man who contributed as much as any one of his time to the innocent amuſement of life; whoſe performances on the ſtage muſt be always remembered with delight by thoſe who had the happineſs of ſeeing them; who had both the inclination and ability to confer favours; who le [...]t behind him many living memorials of his friendſhip and generoſity; and whoſe death, as has been truly [v] ſaid, ‘"eclipſed the gaiety of nations, and impoveriſhed the publick ſtock of innocent pleaſure,"* ſhould hitherto have found no perſon attentive to the calls of reſpect, no one alive to the remonſtrances of gratitude, to erect a monument to his fame, by collecting and publiſhing his fugitive performances.

Abandoned and neglected as theſe have been, both by their Author and his Repreſentatives, the Publiſher has been prevailed upon to ſollicit the aſſiſtance of many of Mr. Garrick's friends, and by their aid he has been enabled to preſent to the Publick a collection which has been long enquired after, and which, from the care with which it has been formed, he truſts will not diſgrace the memory of the Author. Should the ſources from whence the ſeveral pieces have been drawn be enumerated, he is certain that he ſhould be allowed ſome [vi] merit from his induſtry, as almoſt every performance has been ſelected from a different publication, moſt of them very difficult to be procured, and ſome, from their ſcarcity, equal in value to manuſcripts.

It would be impertinent to take up the Reader's time in recommending what has been ſo long and ſo univerſally approved. Mr. Garrick's writings do not want any ſuch aſſiſtance. Their merit has been already fully acknowledged, and require only to be more diffuſed, to be more applauded. They are here claſſed in ſome meaſure according to their ſubjects, and for the moſt part in chronological order. By this means the Prologues and Epilogues, which generally turn on the faſhions or incidents of the day, will ſerve to illuſtrate and keep in memory the foibles, virtues, vices and habits of the times, and exhibit no unfaithful picture of the good ſenſe or folly [vii] which has prevailed heretofore, compared with the preſent or any future period.

To render the preſent edition as compleat as poſſible, the Publiſher has added a ſhort Account of Mr. Garrick's Life and Writings; together with two Liſts, one of his Dramatick Works, and the other of the characters he performed. Both theſe he is informed are compiled with accuracy, and will be allowed to have their uſe. To them he has ſubjoined Mr. Sheridan's elegant Monody; a compoſition which is entitled to equal praiſe in the cloſet that it was honoured with on the Theatre. To conclude: he feels ſome ſatisfaction in reflecting, that through his endeavours the Works and literary fame of Mr. Garrick will be redeemed from that fate into which a few years more would have involved ſo excellent a writer and ſo valuable a man.

A SHORT ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE AND WRITINGS OF DAVID GARRICK, Eſq.
[xi]A SHORT ACCOUNT, &c.

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DAVID GARRICK was born at Hereford, about the month of February, 1716. His grandfather was a merchant of French extraction, as it is ſaid, who left his native country on the revocation of the edict of Nantz in the year 1685. This gentleman had two ſons and two daughters: one of the former became a wine-merchant at Liſbon; and the other, whoſe name was Peter, the father of the late Mr. Garrick, followed the military profeſſion, and had at the time of his death been advanced to a majority in the army. He married a daughter of Mr. Clough, one of the Vicars in Litchfield Cathedral, and happened to be quartered at the Angel-inn in Hereford, where his ſon David (who was baptized* the [xii] 28th of February 1716) was born. Mr. Garrick, the father, afterwards ſettled at Litchfield, and reſided there ſeveral years. A ſhort time before his death he determined to ſell his commiſſion, and for that purpoſe entered into a treaty with a gentleman who had agreed to give him 1100l. for it; but, unfortunately, before the ſale was completed he died, and left a numerous family in a great meaſure unprovided for.

His ſon David received the firſt part of his education at the free ſchool of Litchfield under Mr. Hunter, who had the honour of numbering amongſt his ſcholars, Doctor Johnſon, Chief Juſtice Willes, Doctor Newton, Biſhop of Briſtol, and other men of eminence. Very early in life our Roſcius found a friend in Gilbert Walmſley, Eſq regiſter of the eccleſiaſtical court there; a gentleman then unmarried and well advanced in years, whoſe partiality ſeemed to authoriſe ſome favourable expectations of a permanent proviſion; all which were deſtroyed by Mr. Walmſley's unexpectedly taking a wife. He, however, recommended his young friend to Mr. Colſon, maſter of the academy at Rocheſter, in order to compleat his education; and accordingly, in the month of March, 1736, Mr. Garrick left [xiii] Litchfield, in company with Doctor Samuel Johnſon*, who at the ſame time quitted his profeſſion of a ſchoolmaſter, and came to London, where he afterwards became one of the firſt ornaments of literature.

At the age of about eleven years, Mr. Garrick went over to Liſbon, and was received by his uncle with great kindneſs; but, that ſtrictneſs of morals which a fond relation wiſhed to [xiv] ſee in his nephew not being obſerved at that place, to prevent his being corrupted, it was thought proper to ſend him back to England; his uncle ſtill preſerving a great regard for him, which he ſhewed at his death by leaving him a legacy of 1000l.

It appears from Mr. Walmſley's letters, that Mr. Garrick was intended for the profeſſion of the law; and accordingly, on the 9th day of March 1736*, immediately on his arrival in London, he was entered of the ſociety of Lincoln's-Inn; but it is certain he never paid any attention to the ſtudy of that ſcience; and indeed it is within the memory of many yet living, that his employment for a ſhort time, in the interval between his leaving ſchool and his appearance on the ſtage, was of a nature very different from what he was firſt deſtined to, and what he afterwards purſued with ſo much reputation and ſucceſs. We are credibly informed that he followed the buſineſs of a wine-merchant ſomewhere in or near Durham-yard, being induced thereto, it may be preſumed, by the encouragement and ſupport of his uncle.

To whatever cauſe it was owing, we are not informed; but his ſucceſs in buſineſs was not ſufficient to engage his continuance in it; and [xv] this want of ſucceſs might perhaps ariſe from his attention to a more pleaſing purſuit. He had at ſchool performed the part of Serjeant Kite with applauſe; and he was now prompted to employ the talents which he poſſeſſed for his immediate ſupport. Chetwood mentions, that his facetious good humour gained him entrance behind the ſcenes two or three years in Drury-lane, before he commenced actor, and it is certain that he produced there, his firſt drama called Lethe, in April, 1740, for Mr. Giffard's Benefit. Determining to try his fortune on the ſtage, he went down to Ipſwich, under the name of Lyddel, and performed in a ſtrolling company there. The part in which he firſt appeared was that of Aboan* in Oroonoko; and the approbation he met with in this country excurſion encouraged him to purſue his plan in London. He, therefore, after being (as it is reported) rejected by the manager of Covent Garden, to whom he had offered his ſervice, engaged with Mr. Giffard, at the theatre in Goodman's Fields, in the year 1741. The character he then attempted was that of Richard the Third; and he performed it October 19th, 1741, in a manner which fixed his reputation [xvi] on that baſis upon which it ſtood, as the firſt actor of the times, during the reſt of his life. Two circumſtances were obſerved on his firſt night's performance; one, that, on his entrance on the ſtage, he was under ſo much embarraſſment, that for ſome time he was unable to ſpeak: the other, that, having exerted himſelf with much vehemence in the firſt two acts, he became ſo hoarſe as to be almoſt incapable of finiſhing the character. This difficulty was obviated by a perſon behind the ſcenes recommending him to take the juice of a Seville orange, which he fortunately had in his pocket, and which enabled him to go through the remainder of the character with that degree of excellence which he always afterwards ſhewed in the performance of it, and which produced the applauſe which ever after uniformly attended him in it. The perſon to whom he owed this ſeaſonable relief was the late Mr. Dryden Leach, printer, who uſed often to tell the ſtory to his friends.

It was during this firſt year of his theatrical life that he produced the farce of The Lying Valet; a performance which has given pleaſure to numberleſs ſpectators, even after the principal character ceaſed to be performed by [xvii] its author. At the end of the ſeaſon he went over to Ireland, and in that kingdom added both to his fortune and his fame. The next year (1742 to 1743) he performed at Drury Lane, and the year after (1743 to 1744) at the ſame theatre. At the beginning of this ſeaſon he was involved in a diſpute with Mr. Macklin, who had joined with him in oppoſing the oppreſſions of the managers. That gentleman complained that he was deſerted in the agreement made with the managers, and publiſhed a ſtate of his caſe, in a pamphlet, intituled, ‘"Mr. Macklin's reply to Mr. Garrick's anſwer. To which are prefixed, all the papers which have publickly appeared in regard to this important diſpute."’ The next year (1744 to 1745) he continued at Drury Lane; but the ſucceeding ſeaſon (1745 to 1746) he went again to Dublin, and engaged with Mr. Sheridan as joint ſharer and adventurer in the theatre there. In May 1746, he returned to London, and performed in ſix plays at the end of that month at Covent Garden, by which, we are told, he added 300l. to a great ſum acquired in Ireland*. He performed but one year more as an hired actor (1746 to 1747) which was at Covent Garden theatre, where he produced Miſs in her Teens.

[xviii] The miſmanagement of the patentees of Drury-lane Theatre, after the deaths of Booth and Wilks, and the retirement of Cibber from the ſtage, had ruined every perſon concerned in it. At this period the ſucceſſors of Mr. Fleetwood* became involved in ſo many difficulties, [xix] that it was no longer poſſible for them to [xx] continue the conduct of a buſineſs to which they were ſtrangers, and which they were never likely to ſucceed in. In 1745 that gentleman had left the Theatre to his creditors to manage, after making the beſt terms he was able for himſelf. They conducted the buſineſs of it for two ſeaſons, when, unable to continue the management any longer, the property of the patent, houſe, and ſcenes, was offered to ſeveral perſons: but ſo apprehenſive was every on [...] become of the hazard of intermeddling with the theatre, that no purchaſer was for ſome time to be found. At this juncture the late Mr. Lacy ſtepped forward, and boldly ventured to engage for the purchaſe. Having the reputation of a man of integrity, he ſoon found friends among the monied men to ſupport him in his undertaking; the ſucceſs of it, he prudently concluded, muſt depend in ſome meaſure on the abilities of the perſon with whom he ſhould connect himſelf in the ſcheme. Mr. Garrick's reputation, both as a man and an actor, naturally led him to wiſh for his junction. A treaty was ſoon begun, and an agreement between them afterwards took place. Application was made for a new patent; which was obtained, and both their names inſerted in it*. [xxi] The ſeaſon which began in 1747 was the firſt of their management, and was opened with an admirable Prologue, written by Doctor Johnſon, and ſpoken by Mr. Garrick*. From this time Drury Lane Theatre, which had been ſo fatal to many adventurers, became the ſource of wealth and independence to both partners, who jointly exerted their ſeveral abilities in the management of the undertaking, with a degree of harmony which did credit to their underſtandings, and with a ſhare of ſucceſs which in ſome meaſure muſt be aſcribed to that good correſpondence which ſubſiſted between them.

[xxii] After he had been a manager two years, and the diſſipation of youth had ſubſided, the charms of a lady, who then lived with the counteſs of Barlington as a companion, made a conqueſt of him. It is unneceſſary to add that this lady is at preſent his widow. She is, we are informed, by birth a German. Her parents lived at Vienna; and ſhe appeared on the ſtage there as a dancer. In the year 1746, ſhe came to England, and performed one Seaſon at Drury Lane Theatre. She was then called Madame Eva Maria Violetti. The union between them took place on the 22d day of June, 1749; and we may add, that no marriage ever was attended with more happineſs to both parties than this for near thirty years, during which time, it is on good authority aſſerted, they ſcarce paſſed a day ſeparate from each other.

The theatrical ſeaſon which commenced in the year 1750 was rendered remarkable by the [xxiii] ſpirit of rivalſhip which prevailed at both houſes. At the beginning of Mr. Garrick's management he had engaged Barry, Macklin, Pritchard, Woffington, Cibber, and Clive; and, with theſe excellent performers, it may be imagined the profits of the Houſe were very conſiderable. Soon after, Mr. Barry, who was under articles, refuſed to continue any longer at Drury Lane, and, when ſued for the breach of his contract eſcaped from the penalty by means no way redounding to his honour. Macklin and Mrs. Cibber likewiſe went over to Covent Garden; as did Mrs. Woffington, who is ſaid to have entertained expectations of being united in marriage with Mr. Garrick. With theſe deſerters, aided by the veteran Quin, Mr. Rich opened Covent Garden Theatre. Mr. Garrick, not intimidated by the ſtrength of the oppoſition, took the field on the 5th of September with an occaſional Prologue ſpoken by himſelf*; which was anſwered by another delivered by Mr. Barry; and this again replied to by a very humourous Epilogue, admirably repeated by Mrs. Clive. The play of Romeo and Juliet had lain dormant many years. This was now revived at both Houſes: at Drury Lane, with alterations [xxiv] by Mr. Garrick, who performed the principal character; Mr. Woodward playing Mercutio; and Mrs. Bellamy, Juliet: againſt them at Covent-garden, were Mr. Barry and Mrs. Cibber in the principal characters, and Mr. Macklin in Mercutio. Both houſes began on the firſt of October; and continued to perform it for twelve ſucceſſive nights; when Covent-garden gave up the contention; and its rival kept the field one night more, with the credit of holding out longer than its opponent, though it is ſuppoſed neither ſide reaped much advantage from the ſpirit of perſeverance which had governed them both in this conteſt.

In the year 1754, on the 6th day of March, died Mr. Pelham, who had conducted the buſineſs of government for ſome years before with candour, ability, and integrity. He was ſincerely lamented both by prince and people; and on this occaſion Mr. Garrick diſplayed his poetic talents, in an ode which we are told ran through four editions in a few weeks. It is a performance which does credit to him, both as a man and a poet, and is the firſt in the preſent volumes.

The objectors to Mr. Garrick's management of the theatre had a long time complained [xxv] that he had conducted himſelf with too ſtrict an attention to oeconomy in the ornamental and decorative parts of theatrical exhibitions. They were perpetually throwing out inſinuations, that the manager, relying on his own powers, was determined to regulate the entertainments of the ſtage with an eye only to his own advantage, and without any regard to the ſatisfaction of the public. Theſe murmurs had continued ſome time, when at laſt Mr. Garrick determined to meet the wiſhes of his friends, and to ſilence the diſcontents of his enemies. For this purpoſe he applied to Mr. Denoyer, ſen. to recommend ſome perſon of genius to ſuperintend and contrive a ſplendid ſpectacle to be exhibited at Drury-lane. The perſon fixed upon for the purpoſe was Mr. Noverre, a Swiſs; who immediately received orders to engage the beſt troop of dancers that could be procured. Theſe he ſelected from the foreign theatres; and they conſiſted of Swiſs, Italians, Germans, and ſome French. The entertainment in which they were employed was ſoon afterwards produced. It was called The Chineſe Feſtival; and was, in the theatrical phraſe, got up with great magnificence, and at a very conſiderable expence. The expectations [xxvi] of the managers were however wholly diſappointed in the ſucceſs of the performance. Although but few of the French nation were employed in it, yet a report had been induſtriouſly ſpread, that not only French dancers had been ſent for over, but French dreſſes alſo, and even French carpenters and taylors. The nation was then on the eve of a war; and this afforded an opportunity for engaging the paſſions of thoſe who profeſſed themſelves Antigallicans. They accordingly formed aſſociations, to diſcourage the ſeveral performers, and ſuppreſs the obnoxious performance whenever it ſhould appear. At length, after having taken up more than eighteen months in preparing, it was brought before the publick, and received with all the virulence and oppoſition which might be expected from the violence and heat of the times. The firſt performance of it was on the 8th day of November, 1755, and was honoured with the preſence of his late Majeſty; yet, notwithſtanding that circumſtance, it did not even then eſcape ill treatment. On the ſecond, third, fourth, and fifth nights, the riots continued with increaſing ſtrength, though oppoſed each evening by ſeveral young men of faſhion, who [xxvii] had determined to ſupport the performance. On the ſixth evening the oppoſition acquired freſh vigour and increaſing numbers. They fruſtrated every attempt to proceed in the exhibition; and committed every exceſs which a mob, ſubject to no controul, is apt to indulge itſelf in. That evening was the laſt repreſentation. After receiving aſſurance that the piece ſhould be acted no more, the heroes who had ſignalized themſelves in this important buſineſs proceeded to Mr. Garrick's houſe in Southampton-ſtreet, where they broke his windows, and did other damages. They then diſperſed; and the proprietors of the theatre were obliged to ſubmit to the loſs of more than four thouſand pounds.

It would be impoſſible to enumerate the ſeveral ſmall pieces of poetry which Mr. Garrick uſed to throw out from time to time, as his leiſure permitted, to compliment his friends, or to celebrate public events. We ſhall, however, juſt mention here that in 1755 he wrote ſome verſes on Mr. Maſon's taking orders*; and in 1757 he appears to have been one of the few who had taſte enough to reliſh the beauties of Mr. Gray's celebrated odes. In 1759 Dr. Hill [xxviii] wrote a pamphlet, intituled, "To David Garrick, Eſq the Petition of I, in behalf of herſelf and her ſiſters." The purport of it was to charge Mr. Garrick with miſpronouncing ſome words including the letter I, as furm for firm, vurtue for virtue, and others. The pamphlet is now forgotten; but the Epigram, which Mr. Garrick wrote on the occaſion, deſerves to be preſerved, as one of the beſt in the Engliſh language.

From this period no event of importance occurs in the annals of Mr. Garrick's life until the year 1761. The buſineſs of the theatre went on without interruption; and he continued to acquire both reputation and fortune. In that year, however, he found himſelf obliged to exert his poetical talents, in order to correct the impertinence of an inſignificant individual, a Mr. Fitzpatrick, who, without provocation, and in defiance of decency, carried on a weekly attack againſt him, in a paper called "The Craftſman." The original cauſe of the quarrel, we are informed, was grounded on ſome illiberal reflexions which Mr. Fitzpatrick threw out againſt Mr. Garrick, and which the latter reſented with ſpirit and propriety, though a conſiderable time had elapſed before he was [xxix] provoked to take public notice of him. As Mr. Fitzpatrick's writings are now entirely forgotten, the revenge which Mr. Garrick took of him muſt, from that circumſtance alone, be involved in ſome obſcurity. Thoſe, however, who are unacquainted with either perſons or facts will receive pleaſure in reading Mr. Garrick's admirable ſatire publiſhed on this occaſion, intituled THE FRIBBLERIAD, a Poem, which had the honour of being highly commended by Churchill, who has alſo given a very ſevere correction to the ſame perſon.

However unequal Mr. Fitzpatrick was to the taſk of contending with Mr. Garrick in a literary warfare, yet the rancour which his defeat had engendered pointed out a new mode of attack to diſtreſs his antagoniſt. It had been cuſtomary, on the repreſentation of a new performance, to refuſe admittance at any part of the evening, unleſs the whole price of the entertainment was paid. This had almoſt invariably been the rule; and it had hitherto been ſubmitted to, as a reaſonable demand from the managers, to compenſate for the extraordinary expence which new dreſſes and ſcenes occaſioned. To gratify his reſentment, Mr. Fitzpatrick ſeized on this circumſtance as a ground to diſturb the peace of the theatre, and to involve [xxx] the managers in a conteſt with the publick. For this purpoſe hand-bills were diſperſed about the coffee houſes in the neighbourhood of Drury-lane, recommending a peremptory demand to be made, and requiring an abſolute promiſe to be given that no more than half the uſual price ſhould be taken on any evening of performance after the third act, unleſs at the repreſentation of a new pantomime. A kind of aſſociation was entered into by ſeveral young men, to obtain a redreſs of this grievance, as it was called; and Mr. Fitzpatrick put himſelf at the head of it. The evening on which the attack was made happened to be when the The two Gentlemen of Verona was performed for the alterer's Benefit. The performance accordingly was interrupted, after ſeveral attempts to proceed in it; and the proprietors of the houſe, thinking the requiſition an unjuſt one, and the manner of making it improper to be acceded to, refuſed to ſubmit to it: in conſequence whereof no play was acted that night, and the audience received their money again at the doors, having firſt amuſed themſelves with doing all the miſchief they were able. By this trial, the malecontents had diſcovered their ſtrength, and determined to carry their point [xxxi] in humbling the pride of the manager. On the next performance, which was at the tragedy of Elvira, they collected their whole force, and again prevented the actors proceeding in the play. It was in vain that Mr. Garrick deſired to be heard in defence of the ancient cuſtoms of the theatre. The oppoſition inſiſted on a peremptory anſwer to their demand in the new regulation; which, after ſome time, the proprietors of the houſe were obliged to agree to; and once more peace was reſtored to the theatre after a conſiderable loſs had been ſuſtained, and obliged to be ſubmitted to*.

This ſeaſon was the laſt in which Mr. Garrick could be ſaid to have acted in the regular courſe of his profeſſion. From this time he declined performing any new characters; and, finding his health unſettled by the advice of his phyſician he determined to give himſelf ſome relaxation from care and fatigue. He therefore made the arrangements neceſſary for carrying on the public entertainments during his abſence; and on the 15th of September 1763, the day on which the Houſe opened, he left London, in order to make the tour of France, and Italy. To ſupply his place, he engaged [xxxii] the late Mr. Powell, who had received his inſtructions the preceding ſummer, and whoſe ſucceſs was equal to the abilities he poſſeſſed. To the honour of his employers, it may be added, that his abilities were not higher than the encouragement he received for the exertion of them. Although he was engaged for a term of years at a ſmall ſalary; yet he was, before the ſeaſon cloſed, generouſly allowed an appointment equal to the firſt performer in the houſe. We are credibly informed, the proſits that year exceeded even thoſe in which Mr. Garrick performed in the height of his reputation.

The interval from this period, until the month of April 1765, Mr. Garrick employed in travelling through the principal parts of Europe; and was, at every place where he reſided, and at moſt of the courts to which he was introduced, received in the moſt honourable and cordial manner; by the great, as well as by men of letters; each vying with the other in ſhewing reſpect to the greateſt dramatic character of the age. While he ſtayed at Paris, he amuſed himſelf with reading Fontaine's Fables; which pleaſed him ſo much, that he was induced to attempt an imitation of [xxxiii] them. He accordingly wrote one, called The Sick Monkey; which he tranſmitted over to a friend, to be ready for publication immediately on his arrival. It accordingly made its appearance in two or three days after, with the following motto: ‘"Thurſday afternoon David Garrick, Eſq arrived at his houſe in Southampton-ſtreet, Covent-garden. Public Advertiſer, April 27, 1765."’ And he had the pleaſure of hearing the ſentiments of his friends upon it; many of whom miſtook it for a ſatire upon him, and accordingly expreſſed themſelves in very warm terms on the occaſion.

Immediately on his arrival he reſumed the management of the theatre, and introduced ſome improvements which had been ſuggeſted by his obſervations on the conduct of the foreign ſtages. From the liſt of his works it will be ſeen that he had not been idle while abroad. He produced the next ſeaſon ſeveral new pieces, and in the beginning of 1766 the excellent comedy of The Clandeſtine Marriage, written in concert with Mr. Colman. He alſo, at the requeſt of his Majeſty, appeared again upon the ſtage; and on that occaſiou ſpoke* a new prologue, replete with thoſe ſtrokes [xxxiv] of humour in which, in that ſpecies of compoſition, he manifeſted a ſuperiority over all his contemporaries.

In that year died Mr. Quin* and Mrs. Cibber. Their deaths were very pathetically taken notice of in the prologue to The Clandeſtine Marriage; and for the former Mr. Garrick wrote an epitaph, which was placed over his tomb in the cathedral church of Bath. Mr. Quin was the only performer of any reputation when Mr. Garrick firſt appeared on the ſtage, and he had likewiſe been one of his earlieſt oppoſers. For ſeveral years however before Mr. Quin's death great cordiality had ſubſiſted between him and Mr. Garrick, at whoſe houſe at Hampton he ſpent ſome time a few months before his death, and there firſt diſcovered the ſymptoms of that diſorder which carried him to his grave.

The year 1769 was remarkable for the celebration of a jubilee at Stratford upon Avon, the 6th, 7th, and 8th of September, in honour of Shakeſpeare; a ceremony which very much engaged the public attention. Although it was treated by ſome as a ſubject worthy only [xxxv] of ridicule, yet by others it was deemed a juſt compliment due to the great writer whoſe memory was intended to be honoured by it. The circumſtance which gave riſe to it happened ſome time before, and was as follows: A clergyman, into whoſe poſſeſſion the houſe once belonging to our great poet had come, found that a mulberry-tree, which grew in the garden, and which had been planted, according to tradition, by Shakeſpeare himſelf, overſhadowed his manſion, and made it damp. To remedy this inconvenience, he cauſed it to be cut down, to the great mortification of his neighbours, who were ſo enraged at him, that they ſoon rendered the place, out of revenge, too diſagreeable for him to remain in it. He therefore was obliged to quit it; and the tree, being purchaſed by a carpenter, was retailed, and cut out in various relicks of ſtand-diſhes, teacheſts, tobacco-ſtoppers, and other things; ſome of which were obtained by the corporation of Stratford. The gentlemen belonging to this body ſoon after agreed to preſent Mr. Garrick with the freedom of their borough; and their ſteward communicated their intentions to him in a letter, from whence the following extract is taken: ‘"The corporation of [xxxvi] Stratford, ever deſirous of expreſſing their gratitude to all who do honour and juſtice to the memory of Shakeſpeare, and highly ſenſible that no perſon in any age hath excelled you therein, would think themſelves much honour'd if you would become one of their body. Tho' this borough doth not now ſend members to parliament, perhaps the inhabitants may not be leſs virtuous; and, to render the freedom of this place the more acceptable to you, the corporation propoſe to ſend it in a box made of that very mulberry tree planted by Shakeſpeare's own hand. The ſtory of that valuable relick is too long to be here inſerted: but the gentleman who is ſo obliging as to convey this to you will acquaint you therewith; as alſo that the corporation would be happy in receiving from your hands ſome ſtatue, buſt, or picture of Shakeſpeare, to be placed within their new town-hall; they would be equally pleaſed to have ſome picture of yourſelf, that the memory of both may be perpetuated together in that place which gave him birth, and where he ſtill lives in the mind of every inhabitant."’

The honour propoſed in this letter to be conferred on Mr. Garrick was accepted by him; and the ſame compliment was paid to George [xxxvii] Keate, Eſq who had ſome time before produced a poem, which contained an excellent eulogium on our admirable dramatick bard*. In the month of May the perſons deputed by the corporation waited on Mr. Garrick, and preſented him with the freedom of their borough, accompanied with the following letter:

[xxxviii]

To DAVID GARRICK, Eſq

SIR,

The mayor, aldermen, and burgeſſes of the antient borough of Stratford upon Avon, a town that glories in giving birth to the immortal Shakeſpeare, whoſe memory you have ſo highly honoured, and whoſe conceptions you have ever ſo happily expreſſed—rejoice in an opportunity of adding their mite to that univerſal applauſe your inimitable powers have moſt juſtly merited; and, as a mark of their eſteem and gratitude, have reſpectfully tranſmitted to you the freedom of their borough, in a box made from a mulberry tree, undoubtedly planted by Shakeſpeare's own hand, which they hope you will do them the honour of accepting.

By order of the mayor, aldermen, and burgeſſes in common council.

Signed by W. HUNT, Town-clerk.

The manner in which this entertainment was to have been performed, the diſappointments it ſuſtained, and the ſeveral occurrences [xxxix] which took place at it, are all ſo recent in the memories of moſt of our readers, and were ſo accurately related at the time they happened*, that we ſhall not recapitulate them here. It is ſufficient to obſerve, that accident deprived thoſe who were preſent of part of their entertainment; that all which was exhibited gave general ſatisfaction; and Mr. Garrick, who was a great ſum of money out of pocket by it, framed an entertainment, which was performed at Drury-lane Theatre 92 nights with great applauſe to very crouded audiences. The ode which was ſpoken by him at Stratford was alſo repeated at the ſame theatre, but not with much ſucceſs, being performed only ſeven times.

The management of a theatre is always attended with anxiety and vexation; the difficulty of ſatisfying the ſeveral candidates for theatrical fame is ſo great, that he who can preſerve the friendſhip of thoſe whoſe pieces he rejects, muſt be allowed to poſſeſs very extraordinary abilities. In the year 1772, it was [xl] Mr. Garrick's misfortune to be embroiled with a very iraſcible and troubleſome perſon, who claimed the repreſentation of one of his pieces at Drury-lane; and he inforced his demand in a manner that will ſtamp indelible diſgrace on his memory. He publiſhed a poem to intimidate the manager, called Love in the Suds, containing inſinuations of the baſeſt kind, and which he afterwards denied having had any intentions to convey. As this writer is dead, thoſe reflections on his conduct which had he been living might have appeared here, and which the ſubject naturally ſuggeſts, ſhall be ſuppreſſed. It will be ſufficient to obſerve, that Mr. Garrick had recourſe to the court of King's Bench, to puniſh the infamous libeller of his reputation; and, notwithſtanding he had been a ſecond time inſulted by another publication conceived with equal malignity, he was weak enough to ſtop the proſecution he had commenced, on his adverſary's ſigning an acknowledgment of his offence, which was printed in all the public papers. It cannot be denied but that the intereſts of ſociety demanded that ſo groſs an offender ſhould meet with puniſhment, and that no conceſſions ought to have been allowed to deprecate that ſtroke which the law would have inflicted on ſo heinous a crime.

[xli] From this time no event of importance happened, until the reſolution which Mr. Garrick had begun to form of quitting the ſtage was, to the concern of every one, carried into execution. In the beginning of the year 1776, he entered into an agreement with ſome of the preſent patentees, for the ſale of his intereſt in the theatre; but continued to act during the remainder of that ſeaſon. The laſt night of his performance was for the Theatrical Fund, on the 10th day of June in that year, when he repreſented the character of Don Felix in The Wonder. At the concluſion of the play he came forward, and addreſſed the audience in a ſhort ſpeech, wherein he ſaid, ‘"it had been uſual for perſons in his ſituation to addreſs the publick in an epilogue; and that he had accordingly turned his thoughts that way, but found it as impoſſible to write, as it would be to ſpeak, a ſtudied compoſition; the jingle of rhyme and the language of fiction ill ſuiting his then feelings: that the moment in which he then ſpoke was an awful one to him: that he had received innumerable favours, and took his leave on the ſpot where thoſe favours were conferred."’ He then ſaid, ‘"that, whatever the events of his future life might be, he ſhould [xlii] ever remember thoſe favours with the higheſt ſatisfaction and deepeſt gratitude; and though he admitted the ſuperior ſkill and abilities of his ſucceſſors, he defied them to exert themſelves with more induſtry, zeal, and attention, than he had done."’ This ſpeech, which was delivered with all that emotion which the particular ſituation of the ſpeaker rendered very intereſting and affecting, was received with the loudeſt burſts of applauſe; and he left the ſtage with the acclamations of a numerous and polite audience, who were unable to forbear expreſſing the deepeſt concern for the loſs of their favourite performer.

Mr. Garrick now retired to the enjoyment of his friends, the moſt reſpectable in the kingdom, and of a large fortune, acquired in the courſe of more than thirty years: but the ſtone, which he had been afflicted with ſome time, had already made ſuch inroads on his conſtitution, that he was unable to communicate or receive from his friends that pleaſure which his company afforded, except at times, and in a very partial manner. It is ſuppoſed that he injured his health by the application of quack medicines, and often experienced the moſt violent torments from the ſeverity of his [xliii] diſorder. At Chriſtmas 1778, he went to viſit Lord Spencer at Althorp in Northamptonſhire, during the holidays. He there was taken ill; but recovered ſo far that he was removed to town, where growing worſe, he died in a few days afterwards, at his houſe in the Adelphi, on the 20th day of January, 1779, at the age of 63 years; leaving behind him the character of a friendly, humane, charitable, and (notwithſtanding many idle reports, we may add) liberal man; one who felt for diſtreſs, and relieved it; a chearful companion, a pleaſing writer, and the firſt actor of this or any other age.

A LIST of the CHARACTERS performed by Mr. GARRICK, chronologically arranged.

[xliv]
17411Richard III.In King Richard III.
 2Clodio,Love makes a Man.
 3Chamont,Orphan.
 4Jack Smatter,Pamela.
 5Sharp,Lying Valet.
 6Lotbario,Fair Penitent.
 7Ghoſt,Hamlet.
17428Fondlewife,Old Batchelor.
 9Coſtar Pearman,The Recruiting Officer.
 10Aboan,Oroonoko.
 11Witwou'd,The Way of the World.
 12Bayes,The Rehearſal.
 13Maſter Johnny,The School Boy.
 14King Lear,King Lear.
 15Lord Foppington,The Careleſs Huſband.
 16Captain DureteteThe Inconſtant.
 17Pierre,Venice Preſerved.
 18Captain Brazen,The Recruiting Officer.
 19Captain Plume,The Recruiting Officer.
 20Hamlet.Hamlet.
 21Archer,The Stratagem.
174322Millamour,The Wedding Day.
 23Lord Haſtings,Jane Shore.
 24Sir Harry Wild-air,Conſtant Couple.
 25Abel Drugger,The Alchymiſt.
174426Macbeth,Macbeth.
 27Regulus,Regulus.
[xlv]28Lord Townly,The Provoked Huſband.
 29Biron,The Fatal Marriage.
 30Zaphna,Mahomet.
 31Sir John Brute,The Provoked Wife.
 32Scrub,The Stratagem.
174533King John,King John.
 34Othello,Othello.
 35Tancred,Tancred and Sigiſmunda.
174636Hotſpur,King Henry IV.
174737Fribble,Miſs in her Teens.
 38Ranger,The Suſpicious Huſband.
 39Chorus,King Henry V.
174840Jaffier,Venice preſerved.
 41Young Belmont,The Foundling.
 42Benedick,Much ado about Nothing.
174943Poet,Lethe
 44Drunken Man,Lethe.
 45Frenchman,Lethe
 46DemetriusIrene.
 47Iago,Othello.
 48Dorilas,Merope.
175049Prince Edward,Edward the Black Prince.
 50Horatius,The Roman Father.
 51Romeo,Romeo and Juliet.
 52Oſmyn,The Mourning Bride.
175153Gil Blas.Gil Blas,
 54Alfred,Alfred.
 55Kitely,Every Man in his Humour.
175256Mercour,Eugenia.
 57Loveleſs,Love's laſt Shift.
175358Beverley,The Gameſter.
 59Demetrius,The Brothers.
[xlvi]60Dumnorix,Boadicea.
175461Baſtard,King John.
 62Virginius,Virginia.
 63Luſignan,Zara.
 64Aletes,Creuſa.
 65Don John,The Chances.
 66Achmet,Barbaroſſa.
175567Don Carlos,The Miſtake.
175668Leontes,The Winter's Tale.
 69Athelſtan,Athelſtan.
 70Leon,Rule a wife and have a Wife.
 71Lord Chalkſtone,Lethe.
 72Don Felix,The Wonder.
175773Wilding,The Gameſters.
175874Lyſander,Agis.
 75King Henry IV.King Henry IV. Part II.
 76Pamphlet,The Upholſterer.
 77Marplot,The Buſy Body.
175978Heartley,The Guardian.
 79Periander,Eurydice.
 80Mark Anthony,Antony and Cleopatra.
 81Zamti,The Orphan of China.
 82Oroonoko,Oroonoko.
176083Lovemore,The Way to keep Him.
 84Aemilius,The ſiege of Aquileia.
 85Sir Harry Gubbin,The Tender Huſband.
176186Oakley,The Jealous Wife.
 87Mercutio,Romeo and Juliet.
 88Poſthumus,Cymbeline.
176289Sir John Dorilant,The School for Lovers.
 90Farmer,The Farmer's Return.
[xlvii]176391Alonzo,Elvira.
 92Sir Antony Bramville,The Diſcovery.
 93Sciolto,The Fair Penitent.
176994Ode, on dedicating a Building &c. to Shakeſpeare.

N.B. It has been ſaid that Oreſtes, Sir Francis Wronghead, Doctor Caius, and the Mock Doctor, had been alſo performed by Mr. Garrick; but as the London Play bills afford no authority for ſuch information, the names of theſe Characters are not inſerted in the foregoing Catalogue.

A LIST of Mr. GARRICK'S DRAMATIC WORKS, chronologically arranged.

[xlviii]

He alſo made ſome Alterations in Rule a Wife and have a Wife, Mahomet, &c.

High Life below Stairs, Farce, acted at Drury-lane, 1759, 8vo, has been aſcribed to him; but as it was claimed and acknowledged by his friend, Mr. Townley, Maſter of Merchant Taylors School, in his Life-time, it is not inſerted in the above Liſt.

VERSES To the MEMORY of Mr. GARRICK. SPOKEN AS A MONODY, By Mrs. YATES, AT The Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane.
[lv]VERSES, &c.

[]
IF dying excellence deſerves a tear,
If fond remembrance ſtill is cheriſh'd here,
Can we perſiſt to bid your ſorrows flow
For fabled ſufferers and deluſive woe?
Or with quaint ſmiles diſmiſs the plaintive ſtrain,
Point the quick jeſt—indulge the comic vein—
Ere yet to buried Roſcius we aſſign
One kind regret—one tributary line!
His ſame requires we act a tenderer part:
His memory claims the tear you gave his art!
The general voice, the meed of mournful verſe,
The ſplendid ſorrows that adorn'd his hearſe,
The tnrong that mourn'd as their dead favourite paſs'd,
The grac'd reſpect that claim'd him to the laſt,
[lvi] While Shakeſpeare's image from its hallow'd baſe,
Seem'd to preſcribe the grave, and point the place,
Nor theſe, nor all the ſad regrets that flow
From fond fidelity's domeſtic woe,
So much are Garrick's praiſe—ſo much his due,
As on this ſpot—one tear beſtow'd by you.
Amid the arts which ſeek ingenuous fame,
Our toil attempts the moſt precarious claim!
To him, whoſe mimic pencil wins the prize,
Obedient fame immortal wreaths ſupplies:
Whate'er of wonder Reynolds now may raiſe,
Raphael ſtill boaſts contemporary praiſe:
Each dazzling light and gaudier bloom ſubdu'd,
With undiminiſh'd awe his works are view'd:
E'en beauty's portrait wears a ſofter prime,
Touch'd by the tender hand of mellowing time.
The patient ſculptor owns an humbler part,
A ruder toil, and more mechanic art:
Content with ſlow and timorous ſtroke to trace
The lingering line, and mould the tardy grace:
[lvii] But once atchiev'd, tho' barbarous wreck o'erthrow
The ſacred fane, and lay its glories low,
Yet ſhall the ſculptur'd ruin riſe to day,
Grac'd by defect, and worſhip'd in decay;
Th' enduring record bears the artiſt's name,
Demands his honours, and aſſerts his fame.
Superior hopes the Poet's boſom fire,
O proud diſtinction of the ſacred lyre!
Wide as th' inſpiring Phoebus darts his ray,
Diffuſive ſplendor gilds his votary's lay.
Whether the ſong heroic woes rehearſe,
With epic grandeur, and the pomp of verſe;
Or, fondly gay, with unambitious guile
Attempt no prize but [...]avouring beauty's ſmile;
Or bear dejected to the lonely grove
The ſoft deſpair of unprevailing love;
Whate'er the theme, thro' ev'ry age and clime
Congenial paſſions meet the according rhyme;
The pride of glory, pity's ſigh ſincere,
Youth's earlieſt bluſh, and beauty's virgin tear.
Such is their meed—their honours thus ſecure,
Whoſe arts yield objects, and whoſe works endure.
[lviii] The Actor only, ſhrinks from time's award;
Feeble tradition is his memory's guard;
By whoſe faint breath his merits muſt abide,
Unvouch'd by proof, to ſubſtance unallied!
Ev'n matchleſs Garrick's art to heav'n reſign'd,
No fix'd effect, no model leaves behind.
The grace of action, the adapted mien,
Faithful as Nature to the varied ſcene;
Th' expreſſive glance, whoſe ſubtle comment draws
Entranc'd attention, and a mute applauſe;
Geſture that marks, with force and feeling fraught,
A ſenſe in ſilence, and a will in thought;
Harmonious ſpeech, whoſe pure and liquid tone
Gives verſe a muſick, ſcarce conſeſs'd its own;
As light from gems aſſumes a brighter ray,
And, cloath'd with orient hues, tranſcends the day!
Paſſion's wild break, and ſrown that awes the ſenſe,
And ev'ry charm of gentler eloquence,
All periſhable!—like th' electric fire
But ſtrike the frame, and as they ſtrike, expire;
Incenſe too pure a bodied flame to bear,
Its fragrance charms the ſenſe, and blends with air.
[lix]
Where then, while ſunk in cold decay he lies,
And pale eclipſe for ever veils thoſe eyes!
Where is the bleſt memorial that enſures
Our Garrick's fame?—whoſe is the truſt?—'tis yours.
And O! by ev'ry charm his art eſſay'd
To ſooth your cares! by ev'ry grief allay'd!
By the huſn'd wonder which his accents drew!
By his laſt parting tear, repaid by you!
By all thoſe thoughts, which many a diſtant night
Shall mark his memory with a ſad delight!
Still in your heart's dear record bear his name,
Cheriſh the keen regret that lifts his fame;
To you it is bequeath'd, aſſert the truſt,
And to his worth—'tis all you can—be juſt.
What more is due from ſanctifying time,
To chearful wit, and many a favor'd rhyme,
O'er his grac'd urn ſhall bloom, a deathleſs wreath,
Whoſe bloſſom'd ſweets ſhall deck the maſk beneath.
For theſe, when ſculpture's votive toil ſhall rear
The due memorial of a loſs ſo dear!
[lx] O lovelieſt mourner, gentle muſe! be thine
The pleaſing woe to guard the laurel'd ſhrine.
As Fancy, oft by ſuperſtition led
To roam the manſions of the ſainted dead,
Has view'd, by ſhadowy eve's unfaithful gloom,
A weeping cherub on a martyr's tomb;
So thou, ſweet Muſe, hang o'er his ſculptur'd bier,
With patient woe, that loves the lingering tear;
With thoughts that mourn, nor yet deſire relief,
With meek regret, and fond enduring grief;
With looks that ſpeak—he never ſhall return!
Chilling thy tender boſom, claſp his urn;
And with ſoft ſighs diſperſe th' irreverend duſt,
Which Time may ſtrew upon his ſacred buſt.
[]
TABLE of CONTENTS.

AN ODE ON THE DEATH OF Mr. PELHAM *.

[]
An honeſt man's the nobleſt work of God.
POPE.

Firſt printed 1754.

ODE ON THE DEATH OF Mr. PELHAM.

[3]
LET others hail the riſing ſun,
I bow to that whoſe courſe is run,
Which ſets in endleſs night;
Whoſe rays benignant bleſs'd this iſle,
Made peaceful nature round us ſmile
With calm, but chearful light.
No bounty paſt provokes my praiſe,
No future proſpects prompt my lays,
From real grief they flow;
I catch th' alarm from Britain's fears,
My ſorrows fall with Britain's tears,
And join a nation's woe.
See—as you paſs the crowded ſtreet,
Deſpondence clouds each face you meet,
All their loſt friend deplore:
You read in ev'ry penſive eye,
You hear in ev'ry broken ſigh,
That PELHAM is no more!
[4]
If thus each Briton be alarm'd,
Whom but his diſtant influence warm'd,
What grief their breaſts muſt rend!
Who in his private virtues bleſs'd,
By nature's deareſt tyes poſſeſs'd
The HUSBAND, FATHER, FRIEND!
What! mute ye bards?—no mournful verſe,
No chaplets to adorn his hearſe,
To crown the good and juſt?
Your flow'rs in warmer regions bloom,
You ſeek no penſions from the tomb,
No laurels from the duſt.
When pow'r departed with his breath,
The ſons of flatt'ry fled from death:
Such inſects ſwarm at noon.
Not for herſelf my muſe is griev'd,
She never aſk'd, nor e'er receiv'd,
One miniſterial boon.
Hath ſome peculiar ſtrange offence,
Againſt us arm'd Omnipotence,
To check the nation's pride?
Behold th' appointed puniſhment!
At length the vengeful bolt is ſent,
It fell when PELHAM dy'd!
Uncheck'd by ſhame, unaw'd by dread,
When vice triumphant rears her head,
Vengeance can ſleep no more;
[5] The evil angel ſtalks at large,
The good ſubmits, reſigns his charge,
And quits th' unhallow'd ſhore.
The ſame ſad morn* to Church and State
(So for our ſins 'twas fix'd by fate)
A double ſtroke was giv'n;
Black as the whirlwinds of the north,
St. John's fell genius iſſu'd forth,
And PELHAM fled to heav'n!
By angels watch'd in Eden's bow'rs,
Our parents paſs'd their peaceful hours,
Nor guilt nor pain they knew;
But on the day which uſher'd in
The hell-born train of mortal ſin,
The heav'nly guards withdrew.
Look down, much-honor'd Shade, below!
Still let thy pity aid our woe;
Stretch out thy healing hand:
Reſume thoſe feelings, which on earth
Proclaim'd thy patriot love and worth,
And ſav'd ſinking land.
Search, with thy more than mortal eye,
The breaſts of all thy friends: deſcry
What there has got poſſeſſion.
[6] See if thy unſuſpecting heart,
In ſome for truth miſtook not art,
For principle, profeſſion.
From theſe, the peſts of human kind,
Whom royal bounty cannot bind,
Protect our parent King:
Unmaſk their treach'ry to his ſight,
Drag forth the vipers into light,
And cruſh them ere they ſting.
If ſuch his truſt and honors ſhare,
Again exert thy guardian care,
Each venom'd heart diſcloſe:
On Him, on Him, our all depends,
Oh ſave him from his treach'rous friends,
He cannot fear his foes.
Whoe'er ſhall at the helm preſide,
Still let thy prudence be his guide,
To ſtem the troubled wave;
But chiefly whiſper in his ear,
" That GEORGE is open, juſt, ſincere,
" And dares to ſcorn a knave."
No ſelfiſh views t' oppreſs mankind,
No mad ambition fir'd thy mind,
To purchaſe fame with blood;
Thy boſom glow'd with purer heat;
Convinc'd that to be truly great,
Is only to be good.
[7]
To hear no lawleſs paſſion's call,
To ſerve thy King, yet feel for all,
Such was thy glorious plan!
Wiſdom with gen'rous love took part,
Together work'd thy head and heart,
The Miniſter and Man.
Unite, ye kindred ſons of worth;
Strangle bold faction in its birth;
Be Britain's weal your view!
For this great end let all combine,
Let virtue link each fair deſign,
And PELHAM live in YOU.

ADVERTISEMENT To the SECOND EDITION.

[]

The Author of the foregoing ODE has heard with pleaſure that what he had written from his concern for the death of a good and great man has been favourably received. He is not vain enough to think that the Poem has any merit but what reſults from the truth and mere feeling of the ſubject-matter.—In this edition he has altered ſome Stanzas which were too haſtily publiſhed in the firſt, and hopes he has now made it more worthy of his Readers.

THE FRIBBLERIAD.

[]
Foemina, Vir, Neutrum.
PUL. in HERMOPH.

Firſt printed in the Year 1761.

ADVERTISEMENT.

[13]

BE it known unto you, gentle or ungentle reader, that the author of the following poem is a volunteer in the ſervice, or rather a poetical knight-errant, who, according to the oath taken at the late inſtallation, is exhortca and admoniſhed (by Apollo to be ſure) to uſe his ſword in defence of all equity and juſtice to the utmoſt of his power. His brother Quixote, of immortal memory, tried his proweſs upon Sheep and Windmills—Our champion does the very ſame; and calls forth to the field an unknown knight, who has the formidable X, Y, Z, in his train.—And, that he may not be thought to engage with too great odds on his ſide, he oppoſes to them his own three truſty ſquires, A, B, C, who are reſolved to ſtand by him, and fight all the weapons through, from Epic Poetry to Epigram, as long as there is a letter left ſtanding in the Engliſh alphabet—and now, Mr. Churchill may know, that there is

—A Quixote of the age will dare,
To wage a war with dirt, and fight with air.

When the aforeſaid unknown knight ſhall pleaſe to appear with his beaver up, he may expect that our adventurer will ſhew his face too.—In the [14] mean time, we will divert him in our turn with a little buſh-fighting, which he has been endeavouring to entertain the town with for more than a twelvemonth paſt.

It is therefore proper to inform thee, reader, for as yet perhaps thou haſt not heard of it, that there is a certain weekly paper, called the Craftſman, ſtill exiſting, if it may be called exiſtence to crawl about from week to week, and be kept alive by thoſe laſt reſources of hungry ingenuity, falſehood and defamation. In this ſaid paper, a certain gentleman, who ſubſcribes himſelf X, Y, Z, a volunteer too in the ſervice, has thrown about his dirt in a moſt extraordinary manner, and has attacked our Stage Hero, with unwearied malevolence, both in his public and private character; but, indeed, his rancour being too much for his wit, he has let his heart indulge itſelf at the expence of his head, and has moſt imprudently made aſſertions, in the bitterneſs of his ſpirit, which can be contradicted by every attender upon the theatre.—It would be endleſs, and out of place here, to point out his want of taſte, and even common truth, in his account of the manner of Mr. Garrick's ſpeaking and acting in his various characters; of his moſt ungentleman-like, as well as unjuſt, abuſe of his perſon, voice, age, &c. &c. &c.; for there is no kind of meanneſs, as Montaigne well obſerves, that a true malignant ſpirit will not deſcend to.—To give one inſtance [15] among a thouſand of his upright intentions—This worthy gentleman, Mr. X, Y, Z, not content with expoſing his impotent malice weekly to the publick, was at the pains and expence to collect his papers into one volume*, and even ſend them to ſome of Mr. Garrick's friends, left the obſcurity and diſreputation of the paper, in which they firſt made their appearance, ſhould have kept his malice totally a ſecret—The Reviewers gave their ſentiments of this curious collection, in the following manner—

‘"Theſe are the overflowings of ſpleen, ignorance, conceit, and diſappointment."’ Crit. Rev. Jan. 1761.

‘"The deſign of publiſhing theſe important pieces of criticiſm, is, to prevent the ſad misfortune of their ſinking into oblivion with a laſt year's news-paper. If we believe the author, all the praiſes that have hitherto been given to Mr. Garrick, as an actor, are ſo entirely without foundation, that ‘"he never did, nornever could, ſpeak ten ſucceſſive lines of Shakeſpeare with grammatical propriety."’ This is an aſſertion ſo contrary to the opinion of many better critics than this author ſhews himſelf to be, and in reality ſo oppoſite [16] to truth, that it is alone ſufficient to invalidate all his reaſonings upon the ſubject."’ Monthly Rev. Dec. 1760.

It would take up too much time at preſent, to exhibit our hero X, Y, Z, in all his proper colours: we ſhall leave that taſk to a much abler hand, who will very ſoon more fully detect and expoſe him and his deſigns*.—But to return to our poem—

It may properly be called an Iliad in a nutſhell; for, though it does not conſiſt of many [17] more than four hundred lines, it contains all the eſſential epic properties—the plan, ſentiments, [18] character, diction, moral, metre, and even the heroes themſelves, all in miniature.

The following epigram, printed in the Ledger, was the corner-ſtone of the whole, and furniſhed us with ideas of the redoubted Fitzgig, the Achilles of the Fribbleriad—

To X, Y, Z.
Inded moſt ſeverely poor Garrick you handle,
Not bigots damn more with their bell, book, and candle;
Though you with the town about him diſagree,
He joins with the town in their judgment of thee:
[19] So dainty, ſo deviliſh, is all that you ſcribble,
Not a ſoul but can ſee 'tis the ſpite of a Fribble;
And all will expect you, when forth you ſhall come,
With a round ſmirking face, and a jut with your bum.

If X, Y, Z, is really ſuch a thing as here repreſented, he is moſt welcome to the honour we have done him; if he is not, he may thank his own malignant d ſpoſition, that made it natural to ſuppoſe, that ſuch poor ſpite could proceed from no one, who was not, in his perſon, manners, mind, and heart, an arrant FRIBBLE.

THE FRIBBLERIAD.

[21]
WHO is the Scribbler, X, Y, Z,
Who still writes on, though little read?
Whoſe falſehood, malice, envy, ſpite,
So often grin, yet ſe dom bite?
Say, Garrick, does he write for bread,
This friend of yours, this X, Y, Z?
For pleaſure ſure, not bread—'twere vain
To write for that he ne'er could gain:
No calls of nature to excuſe him,
He deals in rancour to amuſe him;
A man, it ſeems—'tis hard to ſay—
A woman then?—a moment pray;—
Unknown as yet by ſex or feature,
Suppoſe we try to gueſs the creature;
Whether a wit, or a pretender?
Of maſculine or female gender?
Some things it does may paſs for either,
And ſome it does belong to neither:
It is ſo fibbing, ſlandering, ſpiteful,
In phraſe ſo dainty, ſo delightful;
So fond of all it reads add writes,
So waggiſh when the maggot bites;
Such ſpleen, ſuch wickedneſs, and whim,
It muſt be woman, and a brim.
[22] But then the learning and the Latin!
The ends of Horace come ſo pat in,
And, wanting wit, it makes ſuch ſhift
To fill up gaps with Pope and Swift,
As cunning houſewives bait their traps,
And take their game with bits and ſcraps;
For playhouſe critics, keen as mice,
Are ever greedy, ever nice;
And rank abuſe, like toaſted cheeſe,
Will catch as many as you pleaſe.
In ſhort, 'tis eaſily diſcerning,
By here and there a patch of learning,
The creature's male—ſay all we can,
It muſt be ſomething like a man—
What, like a man, from day to ſhrink,
And ſeek revenge with pen and ink?
On miſchief bent, his name conceal,
And like a toad in ſecret ſteal,
There ſwell with venom inward pent,
Till out he crawls to give it vent.
Hate join'd with fear will ſhun the light,
But hate and manhood fairly fight—
'Tis manhood's mark to face the foe,
And not in ambuſh give the blow;
The ſavage thus, leſs man than beaſt,
Upon his foe will fall and feaſt,
From buſh, or hole, his arrows ſend,
To wound his prey, then tear and rend;
For fear and hatred in conjunction
Make wretches, that feel no compunction.
[23]
With colours flying, beat of drum,
Unlike to this, ſee Churchill come!
And now like Hercules he ſtands,
Unmaſk'd his face, but arm'd his hands;
Alike prepar'd to write or drub!
This holds a pen and that a club!
A club! which nerves like his can wield,
And form'd, a wit like his to ſhield.
" Mine is the Roſciad, mine, he cries;
Who ſays 'tis not, I ſay, he lies.
To falſehood and to fear a ſtranger,
Not one ſhall fear my fame or danger;
Let thoſe who write with fear or ſhame,
Thoſe Craftſmen ſcribblers, hide their name!
My name is Churchill!"—Thus he ſpoke,
And thrice he wav'd his knotted oak:
That done, he paus'd—prepar'd the blow,
Impartial bard! for friend and foe.
If ſuch are manhood's feats and plan,
Poor X, Y, Z, will prove no man.
Nor male? nor female?—then on oath
We ſafely may pronounce it both.
What! of that wriggling, fribbling race,
The curſe of nature, and diſgrace?
That mixture baſe, with fiends ſet forth,
To taint and vilify all worth—
Whoſe rancour knows nor bounds nor meaſure,
Feels every paſſion, taſtes no pleaſure;
The want of power, all peace deſtroying,
For ever wiſhing, ne'er enjoying—
[24] So ſmiling, ſmirking, ſoft in feature,
You'd ſwear it was the gentleſt creature—
But touch its pride, the lady-fellow,
From ſickly pale, turns deadly yellow—
Male, female, vaniſh—fiends appear—
And all is malice, rage, and fear!
What in the heart breeds all this evil,
Makes man on earth a very devil?
Corrupts the mind, and tortures ſenſe?
Malignity with impotence.
Say, Goſſip Muſe, who lov'ſt to prattle,
And fill the town with tittle-tattle,
To tell a ſecret ſuch a bliſs is!
Say for what cauſe theſe Maſter-Miſſes
To Garrick ſuch a hatred bore,
That long they wiſh'd to pinch him ſore;
To bind the monſter hand and foot,
Like Gulliver in Lilliput,
With birchin twigs to flea his ſkin,
And each to ſtick him with a pin?—
Are things ſo delicate, ſo fell!
Can Cherubims be imps of hell?
Tell us how ſpite a ſcheme begot,
Who laid the eggs, who hatch'd the plot:
O ſing in namby-pamby feet,
Like to the ſubject, tripping neat;
Snatch every grace that fancy reaches;
Relate their paſſions, plottings, ſpeeches;
You, when their PANFRIBBLERIUM ſat,
Saw them conven'd, and heard their chat:
[25] Saw all their wriggling, fuming, fretting,
Their nodding, friſking, and curvetting;
Each minute ſaw their rage grow ſtronger,
Till the dear things could hold no longer;
But out burſt forth the dreadful vow,
TO DO A DEED!—but when? and how?
And where?—O Muſe, thy lyre new-ſtring,
The how, the where, the when to ſing!
Say in what ſign the ſun had enter'd,
When theſe ſweet ſouls on plotting ventur'd—
'Twas when the balmy breath of May
Makes tender lambkins ſport and play;
When tenderer fribbles, walk, and dare,
To gather noſegays in the air—
'Twas at that time of all the year
When flowers and butterflies appear,
When brooding warmth on nature lies,
And circulates the blood of flies—
Then Fribbles were with Fribbles leaguing,
And met for plotting and intriguing.
There is a place, upon a hill,
Where cits of pleaſure take their fill,
Where hautboys ſcream, and fiddles ſqueak,
To ſweat the ditto once a week;
Where joy of late unmix'd with noiſe
Of romping girls and drunken boys;
Where decency, ſweet maid, appear'd,
And in her hand brought Johnny Beard;
'Twas here—(for public rooms are free)
They met to plot, and drink their tea.
[26] Each on a ſattin ſtool was ſeated,
Which, nicely quilted, curtain'd, pleated,
Did all their various ſkill diſplay:
Each work'd his own, to grace the day—
Above the reſt, and ſet apart,
A chair was plac'd; where curious art
With lace and fringe to honour meant
Him, they ſhould chuſe their Preſident.
No longer now the kettle ſimmers,
The ſmoke aſcends, or cotton glimmers;
The tea was done, the cups revers'd;
Lord TRIP began—"May I be curs'd;
" May this right hand grow brown and ſpeckled,
" This noſe be pimpled, face be freckled,
" May my ſick monkey ne'er get up;
" May my ſweet Dido die in pup,
" Nay may I meet a worſe diſaſter,
" My finger cut, and have no plaiſter—
" No cordial drops when dead with vapour,
" Be taken ſhort and have no paper—
" If I don't feel your wrongs and ſhame,
" With ſuch a zeal for FRIBBLE fame—
" So much my heart for vengeance thumps,
" You ſee it raging through my jumps"—
Then, opening wide his milk-white veſt,
They ſaw it fluttering in its neſt.
Some felt his heart, and ſome propoſe
Their drops—his lordſhip to compoſe—
The perturbation, all agree,
Was partly fidgets, partly tea.
[27] While ſome the drops, ſome water get,
Sir COCK-A-DOODLE, Baronet,
Aroſe—"Let not this accident
" The buſineſs of the day prevent!
" That lord's my friend, my near relation,
" But what's one lord to all our nation?
" Friendſhip to patriot eyes looks ſmall,
" And COCK-A-DOODLE feels for all.
" Shall one, though great, encreaſe your care,
" While ſtill unhonour'd ſtands that chair?
" Might I preſume to name a creter,
" Form'd for the place by art and nater;
" I would a dainty Wit propoſe
" To ſerve our friends, deſtroy our foes:
" To fill the chair ſo nicely [...]it,
" His pride and paſſion match his wit;
" His wit has ſo much power and might,
" It yields to nothing but his ſpite—
" For wit may have its ebbs and flows,
" But malice no abatement knows."
Propoſe! they cried, we truſt in you—
Name him, Sir COCK-A-DOODLE—do—
" Would you have one can joke and ſcribble?
" Whoſe heart and very ſoul is FRIBBLE—
" Would you have one can ſmile, be civil,
" Yet all within a very devil—
" Lay pretty ſchemes, like cobwebs ſpin 'em,
" To catch your hated foe within 'em,
" Let him a thouſand times break thro 'em,
" Th' ingenious creter ſhall renew 'em—
[28] " If miſchief is your wiſh and plan,
" Let *FIZGIG, FIZGIG, be the man!
" What ſay you?—Brethren! ſhall it be?
" Has he your voice?"—All cry'd, ouy, ouy.
At which, ONE larger than the reſt
With viſage ſleek, and ſwelling cheſt,
With ſtretch'd-out fingers, and a thumb
Stuck to his hips, and jutting bum,
Roſe up!—All knew his ſmirking air;
They clap'd, and cry'd—the chair, the chair!
He ſmil'd: and to the honour'd ſeat,
Paddled away with mincing feet:
So have I ſeen on dove-houſe top
With cock'd-up tail, and ſwelling crop,
A pouting pigeon waddling run,
Shuffling, riggling, noddling on.
Some minutes paſs'd in forms and greeting,
PHIL. WHIFFLE op'd the cauſe of meeting.
" In forty-eight—I well remember—
" Twelve years or more; the month November;
" May we no more ſuch miſery know!
" Since Garrick made OUR SEX a ſhew;
" And gave us up to ſuch rude laughter,
" That few, 'twas ſaid, could hold their water:
" For He, that player, ſo mock'd our motions,
" Our dreſs, amuſements, fancies, notions,
[29] " So liſp'd our words, and minc'd our ſteps,
" He made us paſs for demi-reps.
" Though wiſely then we laugh'd it off,
" We'll now return his wicked ſcoff.
" Genteel revenge is ever ſlow,
" The dear Italians poiſon ſo.—
" But how attack him? far, or near?
" In front, my friends, or in the rear?"
All ſtarted up at once to ſpeak,
As if they felt ſome ſudden tweak:
'Twas quick reſentment caus'd the ſmart,
And piere'd them in the tendereſt part.
For theſe dear ſouls are like a ſpinnet,
Which has both ſharp and ſweet within it:
Preſs but the keys, up ſtart the quills:
And thus perk'd up theſe Jack-my-Gills.
Each touching, bruſhing, as they roſe,
Together ruſtled all their cloaths.
Thus, when all huſh'd, at Handel's air,
Sit, book in hand, the Britiſh fair,
A ſudden whiz the car receives,
When ruſtling, buſtling, turn the leaves.
In all the dignity of form,
The chairman roſe to huſh the ſtorm;
To order call'd, and try'd to frown—
As all got up, ſo all ſat down:
Sir DIDDLE then he thus addreſs'd—
" 'Tis yours to ſpeak, be mute the reſt."
When thus the knight—"Can I diſſemble?
"Conceal my rage, while thus I tremble?
[30] " O FIZGIG! 'tis that Garrick's name,
" Now ſtops my voice, and ſhakes my frame—
" His pangs would pleaſe—his death—oh lud!
" Blood, Mr. FIZGIG, blood, blood, blood!"
The thought, too mighty for his mind,
O'ercame his powers; he ſtar'd; grew blind:
Cold ſweat his faded cheek o'erſpread,
Like dew upon the lily's head;
He ſqueak'd and ſigh'd—no more could ſay
But blood—bloo—blo—and died away.
Thus when in war a hero ſwoons,
With loſs of blood, or fear of wounds,
They bear him off—and thus they bore
Sir DIDDLE to the garden-door;
Where ſat LORD TRIP—where ſtood for uſe,
Salts, hartſhorn, peppermint, and eau de luce.
A pauſe enſued:—at length began
The valiant captain, PATTYPAN.
With kimbow'd arm, and toſſing head,
He bridled up—"Wear I this red?
" Shall blood be nam'd, and I be dumb?
" For that, and that alone, I come.
" Glory's my call, and blood my trade;
And thus"—then forth he drew his blade.
At once the whole aſſembly ſhrieks,
At once the roſes quit their cheeks;
Each face o'ercaſt with deadly white,
Nor paint itſelf could ſtand the fright;
The roof with order, order, rings,
And all cry out—NO NAKED THINGS!
[31] The captain ſheath'd his wrath in pride,
And ſtuck the bodkin by his ſide.
More ſoft, more gentle than a lamb,
The reverend Miſter MARJORAM
Aroſe—but firſt, with finger's tip,
He pats the patch upon his lip;
Then o'er it glides his healing tongue,
And thus he ſaid—or rather ſung.
" Sure 'tis the error of the moon!
" What, fight a mimic, a buffoon!
" In France he has the church's curſe,
" And England's church is ten times worſe.
" Have you not read the holy writ,
" Juſt publiſh'd by a reverend wit?
" That every Actor is a thing,
" A Merry Andrew, paper king,
" A puppet made of rags and wood,
" The loweſt ſon of earth, mere mud;
" Mere public game, where'er you meet him,
" And coblers as they pleaſe may treat him?
" Slave, coxcomb, venal, and what not?
" Ten thouſand names that I've forgot—
" Then riſque not thus a precious life,
" In ſuch a low, unnatural ſtrife,
" And ſure, to ſtab him would be cruel.—
" I vote for—arſenick in his gruel."
He ſaid, and ſmil'd; then ſunk with grace,
Lick'd the patch'd lip, and wip'd his face.
A buz of rapture fill'd the room,
Like bees about a ſhrub in bloom:
[32] All whiſper'd round—"Was it not fine?
" O very—Very—'Twas divine!"
But ſoon as from the chair was ſeen
A waving hand, and ſpeaking mein,
A calm came on—the Chairman bow'd—
And ſmirking ſpoke—"I'm pleas'd and proud
" To mix my ſentiments with yours:
" 'Tis prudence every point ſecures.
" Two friends with rapture I have heard;
" One favours arſenick, one the ſword
" In both there's danger—but, ſucceeding,
" Short pangs in poiſoning, leſs in bleeding;
" A ſudden death's not worth a ſhilling—
" I'd have our foe nine years a killing."
Then from his boſom forth he drew
A crow-quill pen—"Behold, for you
" And your revenge, this inſtrument!
" From hell it came, to me 'twas ſent:
" Within is poiſon, ſword, and all;
" Its point a dagger, dipt in gall:
" Keen lingering pangs the foe ſhall feel,
" While clouds the hand that ſtabs conceal:
" With this, while living, I'll diſſect him;
" Create his errors, then detect 'em;
" Swell tiny faults to monſtrous ſize!
" Then point them out to purblind eyes,
" Which, like Polonious, gaze in air,
" For ouzel, camel, whale, or bear.
" His very merit I'll pervert,
" And ſwear the ore is ſand and dirt—
[33] " I know his quick and warm ſenſations,
" And thence will work him more vexations—
" Attended with ſome noiſy cit,
" Of ſtrong belief, but puny wit;
" I'll take my ſeat, be rude and loud,
" That each remark may reach the crowd;
" At Lear will laugh, be hard as rocks,
" And ſit at Scrub like barbers blocks:
" When all is ſtill, we'll roar like thunder;
" When all applauſe—be mute, and wonder!
" In this I boaſt uncommon merit—
" I like, have prais'd, his genius, ſpirit:
" His various powers, I own, divert me—
" 'Tis his ſucceſs alone has hurt me—
" My patriot hand, like Brutus, ſtrikes,
" And ſtabs, and wounds, where moſt it likes:
" He, as a Roman, gave the blow;
" I, as a FRIBBLE, ſtab your foe;
" He mourn'd the deed, would not prevent it,
" I'll do the deed—and then *lament it."—
At this all tongues their hearts obey,
A burſt of rapture forc'd its way,
Bravo!—Braviſſimo!—Huzza!
All roſe at once—then hand in hand,
Each link'd to each, the heroes ſtand—
Like Fairies form a magic round,—
Then vow, and tremble at the ſound—
By all that's dear to human kind,
By every tye can FRIBBLES bind;
[34] They vow, that with their lateſt breath
They'll ſtand by Fizgig—life or death.
The kiſs goes round the parting friends—
The chair is left—th' aſſembly ends.
Then each, his ſpirit to recruit,
For biſcuits call, and candied fruit;
And ſip, his flutter'd nerves to heal,
Warm water, ſack, and orange-peel—
Then made as warm as warmth could make them,
All to their ſeveral homes betake them—
Save one, who, harraſs'd with the chair,
Remain'd at Hampſtead, for the air.
Now, GARRICK, for the future know
Where moſt you have deſerv'd a foe—
Can you their rage with juſtice blame?
To you they owe their public ſhame.
Though long they ſlept, they were not dead;
Their malice wakes in X, Y, Z.—
And now burſts forth their treaſur'd gall,
Thro' him—COCK FRIBBLE of them all!

THE SICK MONKEY*. A FABLE.

[]
"Thurſday Afternoon, DAVID GARRICK, Eſq arrived at his Houſe in Southampton-ſtreet, Covent-Garden." Public Advertiſer, April 27, 1765.

Firſt publiſhed 1765.

THE SICK MONKEY. A FABLE.
ADDRESSED To Mr. GARRICK, upon his Arrival.

[37]
REturn'd from travel to your native ſhore,
Again to make us laugh or cry,
To turn your back, we hope, no more,
Nor from your colours fly.
Whether you fled for health, or quiet,
Harraſs'd with rule, or ſick with riot,
Or whether you have kept us lean,
As ſlander ſays,
With lenten plays,
To make our appetites more keen;
Whether it be or this or that,
No matter what,
For we before the curtain ſee but blindly;
Now you are come
To us, and home,
We greet you, Sir, and greet you kindly.
[38] My Muſe is honeſt, as ſhe's bold,
A forward Miſs,
Who loves to prate—but hold—
I quite forgot;
Before I tell you what ſhe is,
I'll tell you what ſhe's not.
No bird of prey, with wild uproar,
Like Churchill to diſturb the grove;
Nor comes ſhe, like the harmleſs dove,
To bill, and coo, and love,
—And nothing more.
In ſhort; to ſpeak more plainly,
Nor be it thought I ſpeak it vainly,
Averſe to flattery and ſpite,
She is a modeſt, ſober dame,
I wiſh all females were the ſame,
And will not ſcratch or bite:
She is not one of thoſe
Who ſhew their genius in their dreſs,
Whoſe inky fingers, unpinn'd cloaths,
The ſlip-ſhod ſhoe, and ſnuffy noſe,
Denote her wit, and ſluttiſhneſs:
Who with a Play, like piſtol cock'd, in hand,
Bid Managers to ſtand:
[39]" Deliver, Sir,
" Your thoughts on this
" Before you ſtir—
" —But, Madam—Miſs
" Your anſwer ſtrait;
" I will not wait—
" 'Tis fit you know
" I'll hear no reaſon,
" This very ſeaſon,
" AY or No."
Not to kill more precious time,
In dropping ſenſe to pick up rhime;
Or, like friend Shandy, rattle,
And loſe my matter in my prattle;
Without much wit digreſſion's tame,
So I ſhall give it o'er;
And beat about the buſh no more,
But ſtart my game.
The Critick's pen has various uſes,
It praiſes now, and now abuſes,
Does this and that,
Or both together,
As fancy ſtrikes or rhimes come pat,
Stabs with the point, or tickles with the feather.
Authors, like bees, buz round, and round
Dramatic ground;
For all they meet
Have ſharp and ſweet;
[40] They do no ill,
Would fools fit ſtill;
Provoke 'em, and they're dangerous things;
And ev'ry Player
Should equally beware
Their honey as their ſtings.
GARRICK! thou mighty chief of kings and queens,
Deſpotic tyrant of the ſcenes!
Think'ſt thou all human race to mock,
In buſkin, and in ſock,
And will not fools
Thy mock'ry ridicules,
From CHALKSTONE's Lord, to dainty FRIBBLE,
Rave, chatter, write,
In various ways diſplay their ſpite?
For all can talk, and ſome can ſcribble.
Others again
Take up the pen,
In panegyrick's gaudy colours paint thee;
As humour flows,
Now friends, now foes,
In proſe and verſe, and verſe and proſe,
Bedevil thee, and ſaint thee.
And can ſuch Criticks teaze thee?
And can ſuch praiſes pleaſe thee?
[41] O, if they can,
Alas! poor man,
No more deride
Thy neighbour's weakneſs, folly, pride,
But cure thy own,
If thou art able,
While I make known
My friendſhip to thee in a Fable.
An APE there was, an APE of merit,
A lively, ſportive, pleaſant thing,
Had ſo much fancy, whim, and ſpirit,
And made ſuch ſport,
He got to Court,
And ſhew'd his tricks before the LION-KING.
Such honour gave him fame,
And rais'd his name;
From far and near they came to ſee
This MONKEY-prodigy!
Though none were more expert and quick,
In tumbling backward o'er a ſtick;
Though none with a more lordly pride,
And happy eaſe, did e'er beſtride
The rugged, Ruſſian bear;
Though he could ſkip it up and down,
And pick the pocket of a clown,
Or whip away his hat,
Or fondle with a cat,
The wonder of the Fair!
[42]
This was not all—he had the art
Of acting ſtill a higher part:
To each profeſſion that he ſaw,
Phyſick, Divinity, or Law,
He ludicrouſly ſhap'd him:
So much poſſeſs'd of all their notions,
Their humours, oddities, and motions,
That not a ſoul eſcap'd him.
In ridicule's enchanted glaſs,
Whatever forms are ſhewn,
We all can ſee another's face,
But never find our own.
To flatter SELF we all incline,
For SELF we plan and labour;
" Pluck not, good Sir, a hair of mine,
" And you may ſcalp my neighbour."
Each laugh'd to ſee his friend the jeſt,
And prais'd the MONKEY highly,
Not openly, but ſlily,
At court you find a thouſand ſuch:
But what was beſt,
Though there were none
By turns he did not fall upon,
Each thought himſelf the only one
The MIMIC could not touch:
Bleſt fools! who boaſt your happy lot
From ridicule ſecure,
Though leopard-ſtain'd, you ſee no ſpot,
INIMITABLY pure!
[43]
Whether the Jackanapes was clever,
Or the court not over nice,
By various tricks he crept in favour,
And for thoſe tricks had DOUBLE PRICE!
Thus FORTUNE, in a whim,
Reſolv'd to turn his brain,
And fill'd his cup up to the brim,
Th' in toxicating cup of joy,
Which better heads than his deſtroy,
No wonder he was vain!
Whenever goſſip FAME prates loud,
ENVY, in turn, as loud will tattle,
And ſcribblers to her ſtandard croud,
Cry, HAVOCK! and prepare for battle.
MALEVOLENCE, with lynx's eye,
The moſt minute defects will ſpy;
And even FRIENDSHIP, ſhame upon our kind!
Is to thoſe faults not always blind.
The looking up fatigues the ſight,
And mortals when they ſoar,
Should they once reach a certain height,
All wiſh to have them lower:
And friends there are in this good town
Will lend a hand to help them down.
[44]About, about my pen,
Nor loſe the Fable in thy railing!
But to our MONKEY back again,
Who found that Brutes, as well as Men,
Have this ſame curſed failing.
The moment he got fame and wealth
(How ill exchang'd for eaſe and health!)
The envious crew
Poor PUG purſue,
Abuſe his active, pliant ſpirit;
But chiefly thoſe
Were mark'd his foes,
Who felt a ſatire in his merit.
The dull and ſluggiſh were the firſt
To ſhew their teeth, if not to bite;
The Hog, the Bear, the Aſs had burſt,
Had they not grunted, roar'd, and bray'd their ſpite.
This furious ſtir
Awak'd the Critic CUR;
Hound, Greyhound, Maſtiff, anſwer to the call,
The little Dogs and all.
The game's in view:
For man and beaſt
Scandal's a feaſt,
Where both with appetite fall to.
The bloated Toad, in ſilence, ſtole
To gather poiſon in her hole:
[45] As miſchief never knows delay,
She rouz'd the Viper in her way;
A neighbour, and her boſom friend:
For tho' ſhe crawl'd and could not run,
She kept this maxim ſtrict'y,
(Ye ſons of Law, attend!)
That miſchief, if it muſt be done,
'Twere well it were done quickly.
But then his friends—Did they oppoſe?
(A luke-warm friend's the worſt of foes)
The Goat look'd wife, and wagg'd his beard.;
The Spaniel ſhook his ears;
The Fox turn'd up his pointed noſe;
Thoughtful and dull the Cat appear'd,
Or elſe in whiſpers purr'd her fears:
The Steed a lone was firm and faſt,
The generous Steed ſtood by him to the laſt.
PUG ſickens, mopes, and looks like death,
Speaks faintly, and ſcarce draws his breath;
Some call it Megrim, ſome the Spleen;
Words often us'd that little mean:
But Scandal, with her face demure,
Hints it is heat of blood,
By which is underſtood,
An old Amour:
In ſhort, they ranſack all diſeaſes,
And give him that their fancy pleaſes.
[46]Among the reſt,
That fits him beſt,
Which beſt the Doctor ſerves:
Of which he moſt avails him,
When knowledge fails him,
And, with a face of wiſdom, calls it—Nerves.
The Horſe, who ſaw his friend's diſtreſs,
Did thus his honeſt mind expreſs:
" Come, prithee, rouze; this life's the devil;
" What ſigh and ſob, and keep within?
" What YOU, who us'd to friſk and revel,
" For ever chatter, and for ever grin?
" Zounds—it would make a parſon ſwear!—
" Get on my back, and take the air."
Away they went, and as they paſs,
The Hog, the Dog, the Bear, the Aſs,
Pug's diff'rent foes in diff'rent places;
If in the leaſt they ſhew'd their ſpite,
The Horſe would winny, ſnort, and bite,
And throw the dirt into their faces.
For all this care,
This exerciſe and air,
Yet ſtill the MONKEY pin'd,
For well we are aſſur'd,
That when the grief is in the mind,
'Tis ſooner got than cur'd.
[47]In this condition,
What to preſcribe him?—a Phyſician.
There is a certain way of life,
Which all muſt take,
For faſhion's ſake,
Or be with all the world at ſtrife:
The rich muſt to the Doctor give,
The poor to Nature truſt, and live.
It muſt be ſo;—or could the tribe
Of thoſe who quack, or who preſcribe,
In folly find fuch ample gain?
Could noſtrums ſwell the Advertiſer?
Or the wiſe heads of Warwick-lane
Buy Wig enough to make them wiſer?
Our patient cannot wait;
" Send for a doctor ſtrait!"
But not a formal, half-bred fool,
Who cures by chance, and kills by rule,
A perriwig-pated block:
Phyſicians for the Brutes were Fowls,
And tho' the ſworn practitioners were OWLS,
They choſe a neighbouring COCK.
He enters with a ſtately tread,
His comb and wattles dignify his head:
No outward ſign was ever ſeen,
That promis'd half ſo much within;
[48] And yet—ye ſons of Phyſick, bluſh!
The wine was better than the buſh.
His learning back'd by penetration,
A kind of Radcliffe-inſpiration,
Bound by no partial, pedant laws,
Shot through each ſymptom to its cauſe:
A rarity without diſpute!
He was an honeſt COCK to boot.
Yet with this genius, worth, and knowledge,
He had a ſtain, a deep diſgrace,
No mortal merit could efface,—
—He was not of the College!
But hold—our hero out of ſight,
Muſt now again be brought to light:
We left him in the Doctor's care,
Who with a ſerious face,
Attending to the caſe,
Did thus his mind declare:
" I could, like any learned brother,
" With a hard name my ign'rance ſmother;
" 'Tis one of our eſtabliſh'd laws,
" Which daily we fulfil,
" Whene'er our ſkill can't find a cauſe,
" To make a cauſe to ſuit our skill;
" Thus we ſeldom meet diſgrace,
" We only can miſtake the caſe.
" What are theſe papers by your ſide?
" 'Tis phyſick, Sir, to cure my pride:
[49] " This heap of papers, verſe and proſe,
" Is the joint malice of my foes;
" There's not a day but ſomething's ſent me,
" To fret me, and torment me."
This ſaid, the converſation stops:
For PUG was faint, and calls for drops;
With rage ſubdu'd, the patient panted,
Which ſtruck a light the Doctor wanted,
Who thus pronounc'd—"I know your ail;
" 'Tis not in your heart or head,
" As ſome have ſaid;
" Where then, good Doctor?—in your tail."
His Tail of moſt uncommon make,
In action like the ſerpent kind,
A thouſand diff'rent forms could take,
Twirl, twiſt, and vary to his mind.
If Lords were ap'd—this pliant queue
Was croſs his breaſt a ribbon blue,
Or green, or red,—and then ſlap-daſh,
A Chaplain's ſcarf, or Col'nel's ſaſh:
Whene'er the city ſtruck his brain,
'Twas round his neck a Lord Mayor's chain:
Or were his part to liſp and trip it,
Hey, preſto!—'twas a lady's tippet!
But now depriv'd of ſpirit, life, and ſtrength,
It lies a languid, lank, inanimated length.
[50] The Doctor paus'd—then ſilence broke,
" I'll ſtrike a maſter ſtroke!
" This Tail of yours we muſt amend,
" Give it new life and force,
" And if we gain that end,
" The reſt will come of courſe:
" With that ſame malice of your foes,
" Both verſe and proſe,
" Curl it each night and morning;
" But then take warning—
" Never again to caſt your eyes
" On what is wrote, or may be writ,
" Whether it is, or is not wit;
" For there the magic lies."
'Tis beſt by craft, and not by book,
To cure theſe mental fevers;—
The MONKEY all for goſpel took,
The ſick are great believers.
So well the Doctor's words he noted,
His tail that night was papilloted;
His greedy eyes, to cure his head,
No more on paper-diet fed.
The cauſe remov'd, effects will ceaſe,
Depriv'd of oil, the flame goes out,
Our APE began to be at peace,
His Tail to move about:
The more 'twas curl'd,
The more 'twas twirl'd;
[51] With head and heart
The Tail took part,
Life friſks in ev'ry vein,
—PUG was himſelf again!
The MONKEY got his health,
The Doctor wealth,
Of patients he had plenty:
For though the cure was half a joke,
'Twas wonder'd at by ſilly folk,
And that's nineteen in twenty.
To fix his cure, Hiſtorians ſay,
That, like Sir WILFUL in the play,
He talk'd of foreign parts:
Left all his griefs and cares behind,
Sail'd with the firſt fair wind,
And hey for ITALY and Arts!
What he got there no creature knows,
Nor he himſelf can tell us;
What lightly comes, as lightly goes,
With all ſuch pretty fellows.
He ſkip'd the country o'er,
And then return'd,
With what he learn'd,
A greater MONKEY than before.
[52]
THE Fable told, the Moral comes;—
GARRICK, don't fret, and bite your thumbs,
But take the Monkey's place;
The ſame's your caſe;
The ſame preſcription we adviſe:
Should Spleen and Spite,
Nay, though Critic Truth ſhould write,
(For who is always in the right?)
Shut your ears, and cloſe your eyes:
Whate'er is publiſh'd, buy the heap,
You'll have it cheap,
But not to read, or hear it read:
Would you ſtrike detraction dead,
The Doctor's method cannot fail;
Keep the poiſon from your HEAD,
And clap it to your TAIL.

AN ODE UPON DEDICATING A BUILDING, AND ERECTING A STATUE, TO SHAKESPEARE, AT STRATFORD UPON AVON*.

[]

ADVERTISEMENT.

[55]

COULD ſome gentlemen of approved ability have been prevailed upon to do juſtice to the ſubject of the following Ode, the preſent apology would have been unneceſſary;—but as it was requiſite to produce ſomething of this kind upon the occaſion, and the lot having unluckily fallen on the perſon perhaps the leaſt qualified to ſucceed in the attempt, it is hoped the candour of the public will eſteem the performance rather as an act of duty, than vanity in the author.

As ſome news-paper writers have illiberally endeavoured to ſhake the poetic character of our immortal bard (too deeply indeed rooted in the heart to be affected by them) it is recommended to thoſe who are not ſufficiently eſtabliſhed in their dramatic faith, to peruſe a work lately publiſhed, called, An Eſſay on the Genius and Writings of SHAKESPEARE, by which they will with much ſatisfaction be convinced, that England may juſtly boaſt the honour of producing the greateſt dramatic poet in the world.

To ſtrengthen and juſtify the general admiration of this aſtoniſhing Genius, it has been [56] thought proper to ſubjoin to the Ode ſome undeniable teſtimonies (both in proſe and verſe) of his unequalled original talents*.

If it ſhall be found, that ſpeaking that part of the Ode, which has uſually been conveyed in recitative, produces a better effect, the Author flatters himſelf he may lay claim to ſome little merit on that account: As to the Ode itſelf, he preſents it to the public as an object of their good-nature,—to his friends as an exerciſe of their partiality—to his enemies, as a lucky opportunity of venting their wit, humour, criticiſm, ſpleen, or whatever elſe they pleaſe, ſhould they think it worthy of their notice.

ODE.

[57]
TO what bleſt genius of the iſle
Shall gratitude her tribute pay,
Decree the feſtive day,
Erect the ſtatue, and devote the pile?
Do not your ſympathetic hearts accord,
To own the "boſom's lord?"
'Tis he! 'tis he!—that demi-god!
Who Avon's flow'ry margin trod,
While ſportive Fancy round him flew,
Where Nature led him by the hand,
Inſtructed him in all ſhe knew,
And gave him abſolute command!
'Tis he! 'tis he!
" The god of our idolatry!"
To him the ſong, the Edifice we raiſe,
He merits all our wonder, all our praiſe!
Yet ere impatient joy break forth,
In ſounds that lift the ſoul from earth;
[58] And to our ſpell-bound minds impart
Some faint idea of his magic art;
Let awful ſilence ſtill the air!
From the dark cloud, the hidden light
Burſts tenfold bright!
Prepare! prepare! prepare!
Now ſwell at once the choral ſong,
Roll the full tide of harmony along;
Let rapture ſweep the trembling ſtrings,
And Fame expanding all her wings,
With all her trumpet-tongues proclaim
The lov'd, rever'd, immortal name!
Shakeſpeare! Shakeſpeare! Shakeſpeare!
Let th' enchanting found
From Avon's ſhores rebound;
Thro' the air
Let it bear
The precious freight the envious nations round!
CHORUS.
Swell the choral ſong,
Roll the tide of harmony along,
Let Rapture ſweep the ſtrings,
Fame expand her wings,
With her trumpet-tongues proclaim
The lov'd, rever'd, immortal name,
Shakeſpeare! Shakeſpeare! Shakeſpeare!
[59]AIR.
I.
Sweeteſt bard that ever ſung,
Nature's glory, Fancy's child,;
Never ſure did witching tongue
Warble forth ſuch wood-notes wild!
II.
Come each Muſe, and ſiſter Grace,
Loves and Pleaſures hither come;
Well you know this happy place,
Avon's banks were once your home.
III.
Bring the laurel, bring the flow'rs,
Songs of triumph to him raiſe;
He united all your pow'rs,
All uniting, ſing his praiſe!
[60]
Tho' Philip's fam'd unconquer'd ſon,
Had ev'ry blood-ſtain'd laurel won;
He ſigh'd—that his creative word
(Like that which rules the ſkies)
Could not bid other nations riſe,
To glut his yet unſated ſword:
But when our Shakeſpeare's matchleſs pen,
Like Alexander's ſword, had done with men;
He heav'd no ſigh, he made no moan,
Not limited to human kind,
He fir'd his wonder-teeming mind,
Rais'd other worlds, and beings of his own!
AIR.
When Nature, ſmiling, hail'd his birth,
To him unbounded pow'r was given;
The whirlwind's wing to ſweep the ſky,
" The frenzy-rowling eye,
To glance from heav'n to earth,
From earth to heav'n!"
O from his muſe of fire
Could but one ſpark be caught,
Then might theſe humble ſtrains aſpire
To tell the wonders he has wrought.
[61] To tell,—how fitting on his magic throne,
Unaided and alone,
In dreadful ſtate,
The ſubject paſſions round him wait;
Who tho' unchain'd, and raging there,
He checks, inflames, or turns their mad career;
With that ſuperior ſkill,
Which winds the fiery ſteed at will,
He gives the awful word—
And they all foaming, trembling, own him for their Lord.
With theſe his ſlaves he can controul,
Or charm the ſoul;
So realiz'd are all his golden dreams,
Of terror, pity, love, and grief,
Tho' conſcious that the viſion only ſeems,
The woe-ſtruck mind finds no relief:
Ingratitude would drop the tear,
Cold-blooded age take fire,
To ſee the thankleſs children of old Lear
Spurn at their king, and fire!
With his our reaſon too grows wild!
What nature had disjoin'd,
The poet's pow'r combin'd,
Madneſs and age, ingratitude and child.
[62] Ye guilty, lawleſs tribe,
Eſcap'd from puniſhment, by art or bribe,
At Shakeſpeare's bar appear!
No bribing, ſhuffling there—
His genius, like a ruſhing flood,
Cannot be withſtood,
Out burſts the penitential tear!
The look appall'd, the crime reveals,
The marble-hearted monſter feels,
Whoſe hand is ſtain'd with blood.
SEMI-CHORUS.
When law is weak, and juſtice fails,
The poet holds the ſword and ſcales.
AIR.
Though crimes from death and torture fly,
The ſwifter muſe,
Their flight purſues,
Guilty mortals more than die!
They live indeed, but live to feel
The ſcourge and wheel,
" On the torture of the mind they lie;"
Should harraſs'd nature ſink to reſt,
The Poet wakes the ſcorpion in the breaſt,
Guilty mortals more than die!
[63]
When our Magician, more inſpir'd,
By charms, and ſpells, and incantations fir'd,
Exerts his moſt tremendous pow'r;
The thunder growls, the heav'ns low'r,
And to his darken'd throne repair,
The Demons of the deep, and Spirits of the air!
But ſoon theſe horrors paſs away,
Thro' ſtorms and night breaks forth the day:
He ſmiles,—they vaniſh into air!
The buſkin'd warriors diſappear!
Mute the trumpets, mute the drums,
The ſcene is chang'd—Thalia comes,
Leading the nymph Euphroſyne,
Goddeſs of joy and liberty!
She and her ſiſters, hand in hand,
Link'd to a num'rous frolick band,
With roſes and with myrtle crown'd,
O'er the green velvet lightly bound,
Circling the Monarch of th' inchanted land!
[64]AIR.
I.
Wild, frantick with pleaſure,
They trip it in meaſure,
To bring him their treaſure,
The treaſure of joy.
II.
How gay is the meaſure,
How ſweet is the pleaſure,
How great is the treaſure,
The treaſure of joy!
III.
Like roſes freſh blowing,
Their dimpled-cheeks glowing,
His mind is o'erflowing;
A treaſure of joy!
IV.
His rapture perceiving,
They ſmile while they're giving,
He ſmiles at receiving,
A treaſure of joy.
[65]
With kindling cheeks, and ſparkling eyes,
Surrounded thus, the Bard in tranſport dies;
The little Loves, like bees,
Cluſt'ring and climbing up his knees,
His brows with roſes bind;
While Fancy, Wit, and Humour ſpread
Their wings, and hover round his head,
Impregnating his mind.
Which teeming ſoon, as ſoon brought forth,
Not a tiny ſpurious birth,
But out a mountain came,
A mountain of delight!
LAUGHTER roar'd out to ſee the ſight,
And FALSTAFF was his name!
With ſword and ſhield he, puffing, ſtrides;
The joyous revel-rout
Receive him with a ſhout,
And modeſt Nature holds her ſides:
No ſingle pow'r the deed had done,
But great and ſmall,
Wit, Fancy, Humour, Whim, and Jeſt,
The huge, miſ-ſhapen heap impreſs'd;
And lo—SIR JOHN!
A compound of 'em all,
A comic world in ONE.
[66]AIR.
A world where all pleaſures abound,
So fruitful the earth,
So quick to bring forth,
And the world too is wicked and round.
As the well-teeming earth,
With rivers and ſhow'rs,
Will ſmiling bring forth,
Her fruits and her flow'rs;
So Falſtaff will never decline;
Still fruitful and gay,
He moiſtens his clay,
And his rain and his rivers are wine;
Of the world he has all, but its care;
No load, but of fleſh, will he bear;
He laughs off his pack,
Takes a cup of old ſack,
And away with all ſorrow and care.
[67]
Like the rich rainbow's various dyes,
Whoſe circle ſweeps o'er earth and ſkies,
The heav'n-born muſe appears;
Now quench'd in ſhow'rs, ſhe fades away,
Now blends her ſmiles and tears.
Sweet Swan of Avon! ever may thy ſtream
Of tuneful numbers be the darling theme;
Not Thames himſelf, who in his ſilver courſe
Triumphant rolls along,
Britannia's riches and her force,
Shall more harmonious flow in ſong.
O had thoſe bards, who charm the liſt'ning ſhore
Of Cam and Iſis, tun'd their claſſic lays,
And from their full and precious ſtore,
Vouchſaf'd to fairy-haunted Avon praiſe!
(Like that kind bounteous hand*,
Which lately gave the raviſh'd eyes
Of Stratford ſwains
A rich command,
Of widen'd river, lengthen'd plains,
And opening ſkies)
Nor Greek, nor Roman ſtrains would flow along,
More ſweetly clear, or more ſublimely ſtrong,
Nor thus a ſhepherd's feeble notes reveal,
At once the weakeſt numbers, and the warmeſt zeal.
[68]AIR.
I.
Thou ſoft-flowing Avon, by thy ſilver ſtream,
Of things more than mortal, ſweet Shakeſpeare would dream,
The fairies by moon-light dance round his green bed,
For hallow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head.
II.
The love-ſtricken maiden, the ſoft-ſighing ſwain,
Here rove without danger, and ſigh without pain:
The ſweet bud of beauty no blight ſhall here dread,
For ballow'd the turf is which pillow'd his head.
III.
Here youth ſhall be fam'd for their love and their truth,
And chearful old age feel the ſpirit of youth;
For the raptures of fancy here poets ſhall tread,
For hallow'd the turf is that pillow'd his head.
IV.
Flow on, ſilver Avon, in ſong ever flow,
Be the ſwans on thy boſom ſtill whiter than ſnow,
Ever full be thy ſtream, like his fame be it ſpread,
And the turf ever hallow'd which pillow'd his head.
[69]
Tho' bards with envy-aching eyes,
Behold a tow'ring eagle riſe,
And would his flight retard;
Yet each to Shakeſpeare's genius bows,
Each weaves a garland for his brows,
To crown th' heaven-diſtinguiſh'd Bard.
Nature had form'd him on her nobleſt plan,
And to the genius join'd the fecling man.
What tho' with more than mortal art,
Like Neptune he directs the ſtorm,
Lets looſe like winds the paſſions of the heart,
To wreck the human form;
Tho' from his mind ruſh forth, the Demons to deſtroy,
His heart ne'er knew but love, and gentleneſs and joy.
AIR.
More gentle than the ſouthern gale,
Which ſoftly fans the bleſſem'd vale,
And gathers on its balmy wing
The fragrant treaſures of the ſpring,
Breathing delight on all it meets,
" And giving, as it ſteals, the ſweets."
[70]
Look down, bleſt SPIRIT, from above,
With all thy wonted gentleneſs and love;
And as the wonders of thy pen,
By heav'n inſpir'd,
To virtue fir'd,
The charm'd, aſtoniſh'd ſons of men!
With no reproach, even now, thou view'ſt thy work,
Where no alluring miſchiefs lurk,
To taint the mind of youth.
Still to thy native ſpot thy ſmiles extend,
And as thou gav'ſt it fame, that fame defend;
And may no ſacrilegious hand
Near Avon's banks be found,
To dare to parcel out the land,
And limit Shakeſpeare's hallow'd ground*.
For ages free, ſtill be it unconfin'd,
As broad, and general, as thy boundleſs mind.
Can Britiſh gratitude delay,
To him the glory of this iſle,
To give the feſtive day
The ſong, the ſtatue, and devoted pile?
To him, the firſt of poets, beſt of men?
" We ne'er ſhall look upon his like again!"
[71]DUETT.
Shall the hero laurels gain,
For ravag'd fields, and thouſands ſlain?
And ſhall his brows no laurels bind,
Who charms to virtue human kind?
CHORUS.
We will,—his brows with laurel bind,
Who charms to virtue human kind:
Raiſe the pile, the ſtatue raiſe,
Sing immortal Shakeſpeare's praiſe!
The ſong will ceaſe, the ſtone decay,
But his Name,
And undiminiſh'd fame,
Shall never, never paſs away

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.
[75]PROLOGUES and EPILOGUES.

[]

I. EPILOGUE to *LETHE, or ESOP IN THE SHADES.
Spoken by Mrs. Clive and Mr. Raftor, in the Characters of Miſs Lucy and Mr. Thomas .

Thomas.
FArewel my cares; farewel domeſtick ſtrife;
How bleſt the huſband! when reform'd the wife!
Lucy.
I'm not reform'd—
Tho.
Not reform'd, my dear!
Lucy.
No—
Tho.
No!
Lucy.
No! no! no! can't you hear?
Tho.
Then all my hopes are gone!
Lucy.
With all my heart;
You may go too—I'm ready, ſir, to part.
Tho.
[76]
Did you not promiſe, Lucy, to reform?
Lucy.
You promis'd too—and how did you perform?
You well may drop your lip and change your ſaucy tone!
Go, get you hence, you worthleſs drone!
Tho.
Pray follow, Lucy, do.
Lucy.
I'll follow ſtraight,
My pleaſures—not you—
When thou art gone, I'll ne'er on man rely;
Next time, by golls, I'll taſte before I buy:
Contented now, the huſband is retir'd;
Like other wives, I'll ſtay, and be admir'd.
And now, I'll chuſe a lover to my gouſt,
Iriſh and French I've try'd, but they'll not do,
I muſt have Britiſh fare, and one of you.
Firſt, I'll beg leave to view the upper places—
Ha! ha! they grin ſo, one can't diſtinguiſh faces.
I'll paſs the footmen; they're not worth my care;
I married one—and lazy rogues they are!
Next to the boxes let my eyes deſcend;
I ſurely, there, ſhall find ſome one my friend—
O lack! how fine they are! but we ſhall ne'er agree;
They like themſelves ſo well—they'll ne'er like me:
Beſides, of all things, I abhor a beau,
For, when try'd, 'tis doubtful, whether man or no.
Next, let me view my laſt reſort—the Pit;
Here's choice enough; the Merchant, Soldier, Cit,
The ſurely Critic, and the threadbare Wit.
[77] As for the Rakes, they are too common grown,
For Men, who ſtrive at all, are good at none:
Nor will the Wit or ſurly Critic ſerve me;
For, one would beat me; and the other ſtarve me.
The Merchant now and Soldier's left behind;
To both I feel my heart ſomewhat inclin'd:
Which ſhall I chooſe? Each has a noble ſoul!
Which ſhall I have? I'll have 'em both, by goll.
No doubt, you'll all approve my patriot paſſion;
My heart is fix'd for Trade and Navigation:
I hope you'll not refuſe your gen'rous voice;
Applaud me, Britons, and approve my choice.

II. EPILOGUE to the MOCK-DOCTOR*.

[78]
HOW happy chance may alter one's condition,
Behold poor Gregory a rich phyſician!
My axe is chang'd and dwindled to a pen,
To trees once fatal, fatal now to men.
No more ſhall woollen caps theſe looks diſgrace,
Of ſcanty bobs, full bottoms ſhall take place,
Beſpread my rump, and dignify my face.
Ladies, ſurvey me well behind, before,
The Doctor now, plain Gregory no more.
Declare your thoughts, are any of our tribe
Better prepar'd to viſit or preſcribe?
I've got my dreſs, have taken my degrees,
Prepar'd at once to kill and take my fees.
Ay, but ſays ſome, this Doctor ſcarce can read;
Does he know when to bliſter, purge or bleed?
Learning, 'tis true, like many more I want;
But then, like many more, I prate and cant;
For tho' my brethren may look wiſe and big,
Their knowledge lies not in the head, but wig.
[79] If this is granted, all may plainly ſee,
That few in knowledge can compare with me.
(Stroaks his wig.
This night a female patient try'd my ſkill,
And tho' I gave her neither ſlop nor pill,
By other means I ſoon perform'd a cure,
Miſs could not talk—no common caſe I'm ſure;
Punch I preſcrib'd the beſt ſpecifick potion,
To oil the tongue, and give that member motion;
But ſoon as e'er I knew the maid's condition,
I thought a pimp more proper than phyſician:
In ſhort, I brought the lovers face to face,
The beſt preſcription in a tickliſh caſe;
They married ſoon, and fell to bill and cooing,
Which op'd her lips, and ſet her tongue a-going.
Now, ladies, if you ſtand my friends, you're ſure
If love's your caſe, to find a ſpeedy cure.
I'm always yours, employ me as you pleaſe,
Pimp or Phyſician, give me but my fees.

III. PROLOGUE to *PAMELA.
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

[80]
AS in the airy regions of romance,
The advent'rous Knight ſets out with ſhield and lance,
Strait his diſintereſted valour flies
To helpleſs Damſels, and to Beauty's cries;
This only motive riſing in his breaſt,
The god-like plea—of innocence diſtreſs'd.
Thus dares our Author Errant of to-night
In Virtue's aid romantically fight;
Sacred to Her, the champion pen he draws,
Enough rewarded—to ſupport her cauſe.
To-night his honeſt labour means to prove,
A low-born virtue worth a great man's love;
An honeſt pride, where conſcious honour glows;
An artleſs innocence—whence truth ſtill flows;
[81] A ſenſe proceeding but from nature's light,
(For little knowledge ſerves us to be right)
A merit greatly poor, that far outſhines
The glare of titles, or the wealth of mines.
Such ſtedfaſt honeſty ſhould find ſucceſs
O'er the abandon'd authors of diſtreſs,
O'er thoſe who glory to betray a maid,
Who welcome guilt, and make deceit a trade.
Yet ſome there are leſs liable to blame,
Who only want reflection to reclaim,
Who bend unthinking to the Syren's voice,
The reprobates of cuſtom, not of choice;
Who deaf to precept, plead example ſtill,
And think the mode indemnifies the ill.
To ſuch our Author offers this addreſs,
Not certain nor deſpairing of ſucceſs;
Amongſt this caſt of men he hopes to find
Some converts—for the honour of mankind;
On minds like theſe his morals may prevail,
And who eſcap'd a Sermon, feel this Tale.

IV. EPILOGUE to the LYING VALET*.
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

[82]
THAT I'm a lying rogue, you all agree;
And yet look round the world and you will ſee
How many more my betters lye as faſt as me.
Againſt this vice we all are ever railing,
And yet, ſo tempting is it, ſo prevailing,
You'll find but few without this uſeful failing.
Lady or Abigail, my Lord or Will,
The lye goes round, and the ball's never ſtill.
My lies were harmleſs, told to ſhew my parts;
And not like thoſe when tongues belye their hearts.
In all profeſſions you will find this flaw;
And in the greateſt too, in phyſic and in law.
The gouty ſerjeant cries, with formal pauſe,
" Your plea is good, my friend, don't ſtarve the cauſe."
But when my Lord decrees for t'other ſide,
Your coſts of ſuit convince you—that he ly'd.
[83]
A Doctor comes, with formal wig and face;
Firſt feels your pulſe, then thinks, and knows your caſe.
" Your fever's ſlight, not dangerous, I aſſure you;
" Keep warm, and repetatur bauſtus, sir, will cure you."
Around the bed next day his friends are crying;
The patient dies, the Doctor's paid for lying.
The Poet, willing to ſecure the Pit,
Gives out his play has humour, taſte, and wit:
The cauſe comes on, and, while the judges try,
Each groan and catcall gives the bard the lye.
Now let us aſk, pray, what the ladies do?
They too will fib a little, entre nous.
" Lord! ſays the Prude, (her face behind her fan)
" How can our ſex have any joy in man?
" As for my part, the beſt could ne'er deceive me,
" And were the race extinct, 'twould never grieve me:
" Their ſight is odious! but their touch—O gad!
" The thought of that's enough to drive one mad."
Thus rails at man the ſqueamiſh Lady Dainty,
Yet weds, at fifty-five, a rake of twenty.
In ſhort, a beau's intrigues, a lover's ſighs,
The courtier's promiſe, the rich widow's cries,
And patriot's zeal, are ſeldom more than lies.
[84] Sometimes you'll ſee a man belye his nation,
Nor to his country ſhew the leaſt relation.
For inſtance now—
A cleanly Dutchman, or a Frenchman grave,
A ſober German, or a Spaniard brave,
An Engliſhman a coward or a ſlave.
Mine, tho' a fibbing, was an honeſt art;
I ſerv'd my maſter, play'd a faithful part:
Rank me not, therefore, 'mongſt the lying crew,
For, tho' my tongue was falſe, my heart was true.

V. EPILOGUE to REGULUS*.
Spoken by Mrs. WOFFINGTON.

[85]
IF one could credit what theſe Poets tell us,
Theſe Greeks and Romans were ſurprizing fellows.
But when compar'd with heroes now-a-days,
Who can believe one word our Author ſays?
To-night fam'd Regulus appear'd before ye,
Brimfull of honour and his country's glory;
So fraught with virtue and with patriot zeal,
He laid down life to ſerve the public weal.
Bleſs me! was ever man ſo wildly frantick!
We have no patriots now are ſo romantick;
We've no State Quixotes as they had of yore;
Our Patriots huff, 'tis true, and rant and roar,
And talk of this and that—but nothing more.
Their ladies too were form'd with ſtrange ingredients;
They lov'd their huſbands, and were all obedience:
[86] And though their mates for many years would roam,
The conſtant doves would ſtay till they come home.
Martia, if what they ſay can gain belief,
For loſs of huſband almoſt dy'd with grief;
And what is ſtranger ſtill, they all agree
That Regulus was turn'd of ſixty-three.
Would any modern lady break her heart,
Becauſe an aged ſpouſe reſolves to part?
Would ſhe to thwart his will be ſo uncivil?
O no—the man might go to Carthage—or the devil.
What mighty ſtuff compos'd theſe ſons of freedom!
The Claſſicks ſay (I'm told by thoſe that read 'em)
That they were mortals of ſuch wond'rous merit,
That e'en when old, they fought and liv'd with ſpirit.
Romans at ſixty-three, as I'm alive,
Were better men than ours at thirty-five.
In ſhort, if all that's ſaid and wrote be true,
And they when old ſuch mighty feats could do,
O Lord! they play'd the devil ſure at twenty-two!
Thus far with trifling jeſts to pleaſe the age,
And to preſerve the cuſtom of the ſtage—
And now let ſerious, nobler thoughts, impart
The warmeſt wiſhes to each Engliſh heart;
[87] May ev'ry Matron Marcia's truth approve,
And ev'ry Maid like conſtant Clelia love!
May ev'ry Decius find a faithful friend,
And ev'ry Corvus meet the villain's end!
May ev'ry Briton hold his Country dear,
And Truth, not Party, ev'ry action ſteer!
May Regulus's conduct point the way,
And no falſe glitter lead our youths aſtray!
May ev'ry virtue be tranſplanted home,
And Britain boaſt the worth of ancient Rome!

VI. EPILOGUE to The ASTROLOGER*.
Spoken by Mrs. WOFFINGTON.

[88]
WELL, what's the ſentence? What's our Author's fate?
I fear his conj'ring ſcheme is out of date;
For look but round 'mongſt men of all conditions,
You'll find no conj'rers now but Politicians:
Conſulting ſtars is now quite out of faſhion;
Our wiſer dames conſult their inclination:
[89] And as a ſure defence againſt all ills,
Are led by thoſe unerring guides—their wills.
No planet's aſpect now controuls your birth,
We are the ſtars alone preſide on earth:
I told our Author ſo—'twas true, he ſwore;
The man is married—and could ſay no more.—
Long have our ſenſeleſs play-wrights, void of ſpirit,
From Moliere's humour pilfer'd all their merit:
Our Author ſcorn'd in foreign climes to roam,
He thought ſome merit might be found at home.
Upon the Patriot principle he ſtood,
And, tho' his head may fail, his heart is good.
But leaving him to mourn for ſcribbling crimes,
I'll take his hint, and warn the preſent times.
A modiſh frenzy ſo corrupts the town,
That nought but Alamode de France goes down:
We all ſubmit to this fantaſtic yoke,
Like them we dreſs, we dance, we eat, we joke;
From top to toe they change us at their will;
All but our hearts—and thoſe are Britiſh ſtill.
Rouze, rouze, for ſhame! This modiſh peſt oppoſe!
Nor meanly ape your vain inſulting foes!
To kill this fatal weed for ever toil,
Nor let it e'er take root in Britiſh ſoil!
Let low inglorious arts to France belong,
The cloſe deceit, falſe heart and double tongue!
[90] Let us by noble, generous arts be known,
By valour, wit, and honeſty, our own!
Produce your Worthies, Britain; and be taught,
That none like Shakeſpeare writ, or Marlb'rough fought.
By theſe to former heights your glories raiſe,
Nor yield to France the Laurels or the Bays!

VII. PROLOGUE To the SUSPICIOUS HUSBAND*.
Spoken by Mr. RYAN.

[91]
WHILE other culprits brave it to the laſt,
Nor beg for mercy 'till the judgment's paſt;
Poets alone, as conſcious of their crimes,
Open their trials with imploring rhymes.
Thus cram'd with flattery and low ſubmiſſion,
Each trite dull Prologue is the bard's petition.
A ſtale device to calm the critick's fury,
And bribe at once the judges and the jury.
But what avail ſuch poor repeated arts?
The whimp'ring ſcribbler ne'er can touch your hearts:
Nor ought an ill-tim'd pity to take place—
Faſt as they riſe deſtroy th' increaſing race:
The vermin elſe will run the nation o'er—
By ſaving one, you breed a million more.
Tho' diſappointed Authors rail and rage,
At fancy'd parties, and a ſenſeleſs age,
Yet ſtill has juſtice triumph'd on the ſtage.
[92] Thus ſpeaks and thinks the Author of to-day,
And ſaying this, has little more to ſay.
He aſks no friend his partial zeal to ſhew,
Nor fears the groundleſs cenſures of a foe;
He knows no friendſhip can protect the fool,
Nor will an Audience be a party's tool.
'Tis inconſiſtent with a free-born ſprit,
To ſide with folly, or to injure merit.
By your deciſion he muſt fall or ſtand,
Nor, tho' he feels the laſh, will blame the hand.

VIII. EPILOGUE to the ſame PLAY.
Spoken by Mrs. PRITCHARD.

[93]
THO' the young Smarts, I ſee, begin to ſneer,
And the old ſinners caſt a wicked leer:
Be not alarm'd, ye Fair—you've nought to fear.
No wanton hint, no looſe ambiguous ſenſe,
Shall flatter vicious taſte at your expence.
Leaving for once thoſe ſhameleſs arts in vogue,
We give a Fable for the Epilogue.
An Aſs there was, our Author bid me ſay,
Who needs muſt write—he did—and wrote a Play.
The parts were caſt to various beaſts and fowl:
Their ſtage a barn—the Manager an Owl!
The houſe was cramm'd at fix, with friends and foes;
Rakes, Wits, and Criticks, Citizens, and Beaux.
Theſe characters appear'd in different ſhapes
Of Tigers, Foxes, Horſes, Bulls and Apes;
[94] With others too, of lower rank and ſtation:—
A perfect abſtract of the brute creation!
Each, as he felt, mark'd out the Author's faults,
And thus the Connoiſſeurs expreſs'd their thoughts.
The Critick-curs firſt ſnarl'd—the rules are broke!
Time, Place, and Action, ſacrific'd to joke!
The Goats cry'd out, 'twas formal, dull, and chaſte—
Not writ for beaſts of gallantry and taſte!
The Horned-Cattle were in piteous taking,
At Fornication, Rapes, and Cuckold-making!
The Tigers ſwore, he wanted fire and paſſion.
The Apes condemn'd—becauſe it was the faſhion!
The generous ſteeds allow him proper merit,
Here mark'd his faults, and there approv'd his ſpirit:
While brother bards bray'd forth with uſual ſpleen,
And, as they heard, exploded every ſcene.
When Reynard's thoughts were aſk'd, the ſhrugging ſage,
Fam'd for hypocriſy, and worn with age,
Condemn'd the ſhameleſs licence of the ſtage.
At which the Monkey ſkipp'd from box to box,
And whiſper'd round the judgment of the Fox,
Abus'd the moderns, talk'd of Rome and Greece;
Bilk'd every Box-keeper; and damn'd the piece.
[95]
Now, every Fable has a Moral to it:
Be Churchman, Stateſman, any thing—but Poet.
In Law or Phyſick, quack in what you will;
Cant and grimace conceal the want of ſkill.
Secure in theſe his gravity may paſs—
But here no artifice can hide the Aſs.

IX. EPILOGUE,*
Spoken by Mrs. WOFFINGTON, at the Opening of Drury-Lane Theatre, 1747.

[96]
SWEET doings truly! we are finely fobb'd!
And at one ſtroke of all our pleaſures robb'd!
No beaux behind the ſcenes! 'tis innovation!
Under the ſpecious name of reformation!
Public complaint, forſooth, is made a puff,
Senſe, order, decency, and ſuch like ſtuff.
But arguments like theſe are mere pretence,
The beaux, 'tis known, ne'er give the leaſt offence;
Are men of chaſteſt conduct, and amazing ſenſe!
Each actreſs now a lock'd-up nun muſt be,
And prieſtly managers muſt keep the key.
I know their ſelfiſh reaſons; tho' they tell us,
While ſmarts, and wits, and other pretty fellows,
Murmur their paſſions to our flutt'ring hearts,
The ſtage ſtands ſtill, and we neglect our parts.
[97] But how miſtaken in this ſilly notion!
We hear 'em talk without the leaſt emotion;
Juſt, as our tea, we ſip each tender ſtrain,
Too weak to warm the heart, or reach the brain.
If harmleſs, why are we debarr'd our rights?
Damſels diſtreſs'd have ever found their knights.
Shall we, the Dulcineas of the ſtage,
In vain aſk ſuccour in this fighting age?
Will you, Choice Spirits, who direct the town,
Suffer ſuch impoſitions to go down?
Can it be thought this law will ever paſs,
While doors are only wood, and windows glaſs?
Beſides, our play-houſe guards are pamve men:
Strike without fear; they muſt not ſtrike again.
Ev'n Fribble here, to draw his ſword may venture,
May curſe the creters, beat his man and enter—
The jealous Moor not roars in louder ſtrains,
Than all our Nymphs for loſs of abſent Swains.
" We had been happy, tho' the Houſe had fail'd,
" Maſters and all, had not this ſcheme prevail'd.
" For ever now farewell the plumed beaux,
" Who make ambition—to conſiſt in cloaths.
" Farewel conquetry, and all Green-room joys,
" Ear-thrilling whiſpers*, Deard's deluding toys,
[98] " Soul-melting flatt'ry, which ev'n prudes can move,
" Sighs—tears—and all the circumſtance of love,
" Farewell!—
" But oh! ye dreadful criticks, whoſe rude throats
" Can make both play'rs and maſters change their notes,
" 'Tis in your pow'r—you any lengths will run;
" Help us; or elſe—our occupation's gone."

X. EPILOGUE to the FOUNDLING*.
Spoken by Mrs. CIBBER.

[99]
I KNOW you all expect, from ſeeing me,
An Epilogue, of ſtricteſt purity;
Some formal lecture, ſpoke with prudiſh face,
To ſhew our preſent joking, giggling race,
True joy conſiſts in—gravity and grace!
But why am I for ever made the tool
Of every ſqueamiſh, moralizing fool?
Condemn'd to ſorrow all my life, muſt I
Ne'er make you laugh, becauſe I make you cry?
Madam (ſay they) your face denotes your heart,
'Tis your's to melt us in the mournful part.
So from the looks, our hearts they prudiſh deem!
Alas, poor ſouls!—we are not what we ſeem!
Tho' prudence oft' our inclination ſmothers,
We grave ones love a joke—as well as others.
From ſuch dull ſtuff, what profit can you reap?
You cry—'tis very fine!—
(yawns)
and fall aſleep.
[100] [...]appy that bard, bleſt with uncommon art,
Whoſe wit can chear, and not corrupt the heart!
Happy that Play'r, whoſe ſkill can chaſe the ſpleen,
And leave no worſe inhabitant within.
'Mongſt friends, our Author is a modeſt man,
But wicked wits will cavil at his plan.
Damn it (ſays one) this ſtuff will never paſs,
The Girl wants Nature, and the Rake's an aſs.
Had I, like Belmont, heard a damſel's cries,
I would have pink'd her keeper, ſeiz'd the prize.
Whipt to a coach, not valu'd tears a fardin,
But drove away like ſmoke—to Covent-Garden;
There to ſome houſe convenient would have carry'd her,
And then—dear ſoul!—the devil ſhould have marry'd her.
But this our Author thought too hard upon her,
Beſides, his ſpark, forſooth, muſt have ſome honour!
* The fool's a Fabuliſt!—and deals in fiction,
Or he had giv'n him vice—without reſtriction.
Of fable, all his characters partake,
Sir Charles is virtuous—and for virtue's ſake;
Nor vain nor bluſt'ring is the Soldier writ,
His Rake has conſcience, modeſty, and wit.
The Ladies too!—how oddly they appear!
His Prude is chaſte, and his Coquet ſincere:
[101] In ſhort, ſo ſtrange a group ne'er trod the ſtage,
At once to pleaſe, and ſatirize the age!
For you, ye fair, his muſe has chiefly ſung,
'Tis you have touch'd his heart, and tun'd his tongue.
The ſex's champion, let the ſex defend;
A ſoothing Poet is a charming friend:
Your favours here beſtow'd, will meet reward,
So as you love dear flatt'ry—ſave your Bard.

XI. OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK at the Opening of Drury-Lane Theatre, 8 Sept. 1750.

[102]
AS Heroes, States, and Kingdoms riſe and ſall,
So (with the mighty to compare the ſmall)
Thro' int'reſt, whim, or if you pleaſe thro' fate,
We feel commotions in our mimic ſtate:
The ſock and buſkin fly from ſtage to ſtage;
A year's alliance is with us—an age!
And where's the wonder? All ſurprize muſt ceaſe
When we reflect how int'reſt or caprice
Makes real Kings break articles of peace.
Strengthen'd by new allies, our foes prepare;
Cry havock! and let ſlip the dogs of war.
To ſhake our ſouls, the *papers of the day
Drew forth the adverſe pow'r in dread array;
A pow'r might ſtrike the boldeſt with diſmay.
[103] Yet fearleſs ſtill we take the field with ſpirit,
Arm'd cap-a-pé in ſelf-ſufficient merit.
Our ladies too, with ſouls and tongues untam'd,
Fire up like Britons when the battle's nam'd:
Each female heart pants for the glorious ſtrife,
From Hamlet's * mother, to the Cobler's wife.
Some few there are, whom paltry paſſions guide,
Deſert each day, and ſly from ſide to ſide:
Others, like Swiſs, love fighting as their trade,
For beat or beating—they muſt all be paid.
Sacred to SHAKESPEARE was this ſpot deſign'd,
To pierce the heart, and humanize the mind.
But if an empty Houſe, the Actor's curſe,
Shews us our Lears and Hamlets loſe their force;
Unwilling we muſt change the nobler ſcene,
And in our turn preſent you Harlequin;
Quit Poets, and ſet Carpenters to work,
Shew gaudy ſcenes, or mount the vaulting Turk:
For tho' we Actors, one and all, agree
Boldly to ſtruggle for our—vanity,
If want comes on, importance muſt retreat;
Our firſt great ruling paſſion is—to eat.
To keep the field, all methods we'll purſue;
The conflict glorious! for we fight for you:
And ſhould we fail to gain the wiſh'd applauſe,
At leaſt we're vanquiſh'd in a noble cauſe.

XII. An OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE,
Spoken by Mrs. CLIVE, at Drury-Lane Theatre, October, 1750.

[104]
(Enters haſtily, as if ſpeaking to one who would oppoſe her.)
I'LL do't, by heav'n I will!—pray get you gone:
What! all theſe janglings, and I not make one!
Was ever woman offer'd ſo much wrong?
Theſe creatures here would have me hold my tongue!
I'm ſo provok'd!—I hope you will excuſe me:
I muſt be heard—and beg you won't refuſe me.
While our mock heroes, not ſo wiſe as raſh,
With indignation hold the vengeful laſh,
And at each other throw alternate ſquibs,
Compos'd of little wit—and ſome few fibs,
I, Catherine Clive, come here t' attack 'em all,
And aim alike at little *, and at tall .
But firſt, ere with the buſkin chiefs I brave it,
A ſtory is at hand, and you ſhall have it.
[105]
Once on a time, two boys were throwing dirt;
A gentle youth was one, and one was ſomewhat pert:
Each to his maſter with his tale retreated,
Who gravely heard their diff'rent parts repeated,
How Tom was rude, and Jack, poor lad, illtreated.
The maſter paus'd—to be unjuſt was loth;
Call'd for a rod, and fairly whipt them both.
In the ſame maſter's place, lo! here I ſtand,
And for each culprit hold the laſh in hand.
Firſt for our own—oh, 'tis a pretty youth!
But out of fifty lies I'll ſift ſome truth.
'Tis true, he's of a choleric diſpoſition,
And fiery parts make up his compoſition.
How have I ſeen him rave when things miſcarried!
Indeed he's grown much tamer ſince he married.
If he ſucceeds, what joys his fancy ſtrike!
And then he GETS—to which he's no diſlike.
Faults he has many—but I know no crimes;
Yes, he has one—he contradicts ſometimes:.
And when he falls into his frantick fit,
He bluſters ſo, he makes e'en ME ſubmit.
So much for him—The other youth comes next,
Who ſhews by what he ſays, poor ſoul, he's vext.
He tells you tales how cruelly THIS treats us,
To make you think the little monſter beats us.
[106] Would I have whin'd in melancholy phraſe,
* How bouncing Bajazet retreats from Bayes?
I, who am woman, would have ſtood the fray,
At leaſt not ſnivell'd thus, and run away!
Should any Manager lift arm at me,
I have a tyrant arm as well as he!—
In fact, there has ſome little bouncing been,
But who the bouncer was, enquire within.
No matter who I now proclaim a peace,
And hope henceforth hoſtilities will ceaſe:
No more ſhall either rack his brains to teaſe ye,
But let the conteſt be—who moſt ſhall pleaſe ye.

XIII. EPILOGUE to GIL BLAS*.
Spoken by Mrs. PRITCHARD.

[107]
AS the ſucceſs of Authors is uncertain,
Till all is over, and down drops the curtain;
Poets are puzzled in our dangerous times,
How to addreſs you in their after-rhymes.
If they implore and beg with abject mind,
Their meaneſs rather makes you ſick than kind.
And if they bounce and huff it to the town.
Then you are up—and take the bullies down.
Of beaux and politicks and ſuch like ſtuff,
And e'en of tawdry too, you've had enough—
On all degrees from courtier to the cit,
Such ſtale dull jokes have been ſo often writ,
That nothing can be new—but decency and wit.
Thus far our bard—The reſt is mine to ſay,
I am his friend, ſo, will attack his play.
[108] How could his thoughtleſs head with any truth
(If Spaniſh Dons are like our Engliſh youth)
Make his wild rake ſo ſink from upper life,
To quit his miſtreſs for a lawful wife!
The Author might have married him—but then
He ſhould have had his miſtreſs back again.
This is the ſcheme our Engliſh Dons purſue,
Tho' one's too much, there's taſte in having two.
As for the lady, I diſlike her plan,
With you, I'm ſure, ſhe had not paſs'd for man.
Had ſhe with our young bloods contriv'd this freak,
She had been blown and ruin'd in a week.
And if of virtue they could not have trick'd her,
They'd damn'd her for a fool—perhaps have kick'd her.
But jeſt apart—for all our bard has wrote,
Our moſt alluring bait's the petticoat.
Before that magick ſhrine the proudeſt fall,
'Tis that enchanting circle draws in all.
Let fools ſay what they will, experience teaches,
'Tis beſt to marry firſt—then wear the breeches.

XIV. PROLOGUE to TASTE:*
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK, in the Character of an Auctioneer.

[109]
BEFORE this Court I Peter Puff appear,
A Briton born, and bred an Auctioneer;
Who for myſelf, and eke a hundred others,
My uſeful, honeſt, learned, bawling brothers,
With much humility and fear implore ye,
To lay our preſent deſp'rate caſe before ye.—
'Tis ſaid this night a certain wag intends
To laugh at us, our calling, and our friends:
If lords and ladies, and ſuch dainty folks,
Are cur'd of auction-hunting by his jokes;
Should this odd doctrine ſpread throughout the land,
Before you buy, be ſure to underſtand,
[110] Oh think on us what various ills will flow,
When great ones only purchaſe—what they know.
Why laugh at TASTE? It is a harmleſs faſhion,
And quite ſubdues each detrimental paſſion;
The fair one's hearts will ne'er incline to man,
While thus they rage for—china and japan.
The Virtuoſo too, and Connoiſſeur,
Are ever decent, delicate, and pure;
The ſmalleſt hair their looſer thoughts might hold,
Juſt warm when ſingle—and when married cold;
Their blood at ſight of beauty gently flows;
Their Venus muſt be old, and want a noſe!
No am'rous paſſion with deep knowledge thrives;
'Tis the complaint indeed of all our wives!
'Tis ſaid Virtû to ſuch a height is grown,
All artiſts are encourag'd—but our own.
Be not deceiv'd, I here declare on oath,
I never yet ſold goods of foreign growth:
Ne'er ſent commiſſions out to Greece or Rome;
My beſt antiquities are made at home.
I've Romans, Greeks, Italians near at hand,
True Britons all—and living in the Strand.
I ne'er for trinkets rack my pericranium,
They furniſh out my room from Herculaneum.
But huſh—
Should it be known that Engliſh are employ'd,
Our manufacture is at once deſtroy'd;
[111] No matter what our countrymen deſerve,
They'll thrive as antients, but as moderns ſtarve.
If we ſhould fall, to you it will be owing;
Farewel to Arts—they're going, going, going;
The fatal hammer's in your hand, oh Town!
Then ſet Us up—and knock the POET down.

No. XV. PROLOGUE to EUGENIA*.
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

[112]
TO damn or not—that is the queſtion now,
Whether 'tis beſt to deck the Poet's brow;
With hands and hearts unanimous befriend him,
Or take up arms, and by oppoſing end him?
But hold, before you give the fatal word,
I beg that I, as counſel, may be heard;
And what few counſel ever yet have done,
I'll take no bribe, and yet plead pro and con.
Firſt for the town and us—I ſee ſome danger,
Should you too kindly treat this reverend ſtranger;
If ſuch good folks, theſe wits of graver ſort,
Should here uſurp a right to ſpoil your ſport;
And curb our ſtage ſo wanton, bold and free!
To the ſtrict limits of their purity;
Should dare in theatres reform abuſes,
And turn our actreſſes to pious uſes!
Farewel the joyous ſpirit-ſtirring ſcene!
Farewel the—the—you gueſs the thing I mean!
[113] If this wiſe ſcheme, ſo ſober and ſo new,
Should paſs with us, would it go down with you?
Should we ſo often ſee your well-known faces?
Or would the ladies ſend ſo faſt for places;—
Now for the Author—His poetick brat
Throughout the town occaſions various chat;
What ſay the ſnarlers?—'tis a French tranſlation;
That we deny, but plead an imitation*;
Such as we hope will pleaſe a free-born nation.
His muſe, tho' much too grave to dreſs or dance,
For ſome materials took a trip to France;
She owns the debt, nor thinks ſhe ſhall appear,
Like our ſpruce youths, the worſe for going there:
Tho' ſhe has dealt before in ſportive ſong,
This is her firſt ſtage-flight, and 'twould be wrong,
Nay, poaching too, to kill your bards too young.
Poets, like foxes, make beſt ſport when old,
The chace is good, when both are hard and bold;
Do you, like other ſportſmen then, take heed,
If you deſtroy the whelps, you ſpoil the breed;
Let him write on, acquire ſome little fame,
Then hunt him, criticks, he'll be noble game.

XVI. PROLOGUE to the GAMESTER*.
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

[114]
LIKE fam'd La Mancha's knight, who, launce in hand,
Mounted his ſteed to free th' enchanted land,
Our Quixote bard ſets forth a monſter-taming,
Arm'd at all points, to fight that hydra—gaming.
Aloft on Pegaſus he waves his pen,
And hurls defiance at the caitiff's den.
The firſt on fancy'd giants ſpent his rage,
But this has more than windmills to engage.
He combats paſſion, rooted in the ſoul,
Whoſe powers at once delight ye and controul;
Whoſe magic bondage each loſt ſlave enjoys,
Nor wiſhes freedom, tho' the ſpell deſtroys.
To ſave our land from this magician's charms,
And reſcue maids and matrons from his arms,
Our knight poetic comes—And oh, ye fair!
This black enchanter's wicked arts beware!
His ſubtle poiſon dims the brighteſt eyes,
And at his touch, each grace and beauty dies.
[115] Love, gentleneſs and joy, to rage give way,
And the ſoft dove becomes a bird of prey.
May this our bold advent'rer break the ſpell,
And drive the daemon to his native hell.
Ye ſlaves of paſſion, and ye dupes of France,
Wake all your pow'rs from this deſtructive trance!
Shake off the ſhackles of this tyrant vice:
Hear other calls than thoſe of cards and dice!
Be learn'd in nobler arts, than arts of play,
And other debts than thoſe of honour pay.
No longer live inſenſible to ſhame,
Loſt to your country, families and ſame.
Could our romantic muſe this work atchieve,
Would there one honeſt heart in Britain grieve?
T [...]' attempt, tho' wild, would not in vain be made,
If ev'ry honeſt hand would lend its aid.

XVII. PROLOGUE,
Spoken by Mr. FOOTE, at Drury-lane Theatre, October 1753.

[116]
THE many various objects that amuſe
Theſe buſy curious times, by way of news,
Are plays, elections, murders, lott'ries, Jews;
All theſe compounded fly throughout the nation,
And ſet the whole in one great fermentation!
True Britiſh hearts the ſame high ſpirit ſhew,
Be they to damn a farce, or ſight a foe.
One day for liberty the Briton fires,
The next he flames—for Canning or for Squires *.
In like extremes your laughing humour flows;
Have ye not roar'd from Pit to Upper Rows,
And all the jeſt was, what?—a fidler's noſe.
[117] Purſue your mirth; each night the jeſt grows ſtronger,
For as you fret the man, his noſe looks longer.
Among the trifles which occaſion prate,
Ev'n I, ſometimes, am matter of debate.
Whene'er my faults or follies are the queſtion,
Each draws his wit out, and begins diſſection.
Sir Peter Primroſe, ſmirking o'er his tea,
Sinks from himſelf, and politics, to me.
Papers, boy!—here, Sir!—Tam, what news today?
Foote, ſir, is advertis'd—what, run away?
No, ſir, he acts this week at Drury-lane;
How's that, (cries Feeble Grub) Foote come again?
I thought this fool had done his devil's dance;
Was not he hang'd ſome months ago in France?
Upſtarts Machone, and thus the room harangu'd;
'Tis true, his friends gave out that he was hang'd,
But to be ſure 'twas all a hum, becaſe
I have ſeen him ſince—and after ſuch diſgrace
No gentleman would dare to ſhew his face.
To him reply'd a ſneering bonny Scot,
Yew raiſin reet, my frynd, haunged he was not,
But neether you nor I caun tell how ſoon he'll gaung to pot.
Thus each, as fancy drives, his wit diſplays;
Such is the tax each ſon of folly pays.
[118] On this, my ſcheme, they many names beſtow,
'Tis fame, 'tis pride, nay werſe—the pocket's low.
I own I've pride, ambition, vanity,
And what is ſtill more ſtrange, perhaps you'll ſee,
Tho' not ſo great a portion of it—modeſty.
For you I'll curb each ſelf-ſufficient thought,
And kiſs the rod whene'er you point the fault.
Many my paſſions are, tho' one my view,
They all concenter—in the pleaſing you.

XVIII. PROLOGUE to VIRGINIA*.
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

[119]
PROLOGUES, like compliments, are loſs of time,
'Tis penning bows, and making legs in rhime;
'Tis cringing at the door with ſimple grin,
When we ſhould ſhew the company within—
So thinks our bard, who ſtiff in claſſic knowledge,
Preſerves too much the buckram of the college—
Lord, ſir, ſaid I, an audience muſt be woo'd,
And, lady-like, with flattery purſu'd,
They nauſeate fellows that are blunt and rude.
Authors ſhould learn to dance as well as write.
Dance at my time of life! Zounds what a ſight!
Grown Gentlemen ('tis advertis'd) do learn by night.
Your modern Prologues, and ſuch whims as theſe,
The Greeks ne'er knew—turn, turn to Sophocles;
[120] I read no Greek, ſir—when I was at ſchool,
Terence had prologues—Terence was no fool:
He had, but why? (reply'd the bard in rage)
Exotic monſters had poſſeſs'd the ſtage,
But we have none in this enlighten'd age!
Your Btitons now, from gallery to pit,
Can reliſh nought but ſterling, attic wit:
Here take my play, I meant it for inſtruction,
If rhymes are wanting for its introduction,
E'en let that nonſenſe be your own production.
Off went the poet—it is now expedient,
I ſpeak as manager, and your obedient.
I, as your cat'rer, would provide you diſhes,
Dreſs'd to your palate, ſeaſon'd to your wiſhes—
Say but you're tir'd with boil'd and roaſt at home,
We too can ſend for nicities from Rome:
To pleaſe your taſtes will ſpare nor pains nor money,
Diſcard ſirloins, and get you maccaroni.
Whate'er new guſto for a time may reign,
Shakeſpeare and beef muſt have their turn again.
If novelties can pleaſe, to-night we've two—
Tho' Engliſh both, yet ſpare 'em as they're new.
To one at leaſt your uſual favour ſhew—
A female aſks it—can a man ſay no?—
Should you indulge our * novice yet unſeen,
And crown her with your hands a tragic queen;
[121] Should you with ſmiles a confidence impart,
To calm thoſe fears which ſpeak a feeling heart;
Aſſiſt each ſtruggle of ingenuous ſhame
Which curbs a genius in its road to fame;
With one wiſh more, her whole ambition ends;
She hopes ſome merit, to deſerve ſuch friends.

XIX. EPILOGUE to the ſame PLAY.
Spoken by Mrs. CIBBER.

[122]
THE poet's pen can, like a conjurer's wand,
Or kill, or raiſe his heroine at command:
And I ſhall, ſpirit-like, before I ſink,
Not courteouſly enquire, but tell you what you think.
From top to bottom, I ſhall make you ſtare,
By hitting all your judgments to a hair!
And firſt with you above, I ſhall begin—
(Upper Gallery.
Good-natur'd ſouls, they're ready all to grin.
Tho' twelve-pence ſeat you there, ſo near the cieling,
The folks below can't boaſt a better feeling.
No high-bred prudery in your region lurks,
You boldly laugh and cry, as nature works.
Says John to Tom—(ay, there they ſit together,
As honeſt Britons as e'er trod on leather)
" 'Tween you and I, my friend, 'tis very vild,
" That old Vergenus ſhould have ſtuck his child:
[123] " I would have hang'd him for't, had I been ruler,
" And duck'd that Apus too, by way of cooler."
Some maiden dames, who hold the middle floor,
(Middle-gallery.
And fly from naughty man at forty-four;
With turn'd up eyes, applaud Virginia's 'ſcape,
And vow they'd do the ſame to ſhun a rape;
So very chaſte, they live in conſtant fears,
And apprehenſion ſtrengthens with their years.
Ye bucks, who from the pit your terrors ſend,
Yet love diſtreſſed damſels to befriend;
You think this tragic joke too far was carried;
And wiſh, to ſet all right, the maid had married:
You'd rather ſee (if ſo the fates had will'd)
Ten wives be kind, than one poor virgin kill'd.
May I approach unto the boxes, pray—
And there ſearch out a judgment on the play?
In vain, alas! I ſhould attempt to find it—
Fine ladies ſee a play, but never mind it
'Tis vulgar to be mov'd by acted paſſion,
Or form opinions, 'till they're fix'd by faſhion.
Our author hopes, this fickle goddeſs, mode,
With us will make, at leaſt, nine days abode;
To preſent pleaſure he contracts his view,
And leaves his future fame to time and you.

XX. PROLOGUE to BARBAROSSA.*
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK in the Character of a Country Boy.

[124]
Meaſter! Meaſter!
IS not my meaſter here among ye, pray?
Nay, ſpeak; my meaſter wrote this fine new play.
The actor-folks are making ſuch a clatter!
They want the pro-log. I know nought o' th' matter!
He muſt be there among you; look about;
A weezen, pale-fac'd man; do, find him out.
Pray, meaſter, come, or all will fall to ſheame:
Call miſter—hold—I muſt not tell his name.
Law! what a crowd is here! what noiſe and pother!
Fine lads and laſſes! one o' top o' t'other.
(Pointing to the rows of Pit and Gallery.
I could for ever here with wonder geaze!
I ne'er ſaw church ſo full in all my days!
[125] Your ſervunt, Surs!—what do you laugh for? Eh!
You donna take me ſure for one o' th' play?
You ſhould not flout an honeſt country-lad;
You think me fool, and I think you half mad:
You're all as ſtrange 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 ſince you've rais'd my blood, I'll tell you why:
And if you wull, ſince now I am before ye,
For want of pro-log, I'll relate my ſtory.
I came from country here to try my fate,
And get a place among the rich and great;
But troth I'm ſick 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 could not make abode,
For, could you think't? he eat a great ſea-toad!
It came from Indies; 'twas as big as me;
He call'd it belly-patch and capapee.
Law! how I ſtar'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.
[126]
I left toad-eater; then I ſarv'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 their ſervants, than their ladies.
A lady next, who lik'd a ſmart young lad,
Hir'd me forthwith—but troth, I thought her mad.
She turn'd the world top down, as I may ſay,
She chang'd the day to neet, the neet to day!
I was ſo ſheam'd with all her freakiſh ways,
She wore her gear ſo ſhort, ſo low her ſtays,
Fine folks ſhew all for nothing now-a-days!
Now I'm the poet's man—I find with wits,
There's nothing ſartain—nay, we eat by fits.
Our meals, indeed, are ſlender—what of that?
There are but three on's—meaſter, I, and cat.
Did you but ſee us all, as I'm a ſinner,
You'd ſcarcely ſay which of the three was thinner.
My wages all depend on this night's piece,
But ſhould you find that all our ſwans are geeſe!
E'feck I'll truſt no more to meaſter's brain,
But pack up all, and whiſtle whoame again.

XXI. EPILOGUE to the ſame PLAY,
Spoken by Mr. WOODWARD in the Character of a Fine Gentleman.

[127]
Enter—ſpeaking without.
'PSHAW! damn your epilogue, and hold your tongue—
Shall we of rank be told what's right and wrong?
Had you ten epilogues, you ſhould not ſpeak 'em,
Tho' he had writ 'em all in linguum Grecum.
I'll do't, by all the gods! (you muſt excuſe me)
Tho' author, actors, audience, all abuſe me!
(To the audience.
Behold a gentleman!—and that's enough!
Laugh if you pleaſe—I'll take a pinch of ſnuff!
I come to tell you (let it not ſurpriſe you)
That I'm a wit—and worthy to adviſe you.
How could you ſuffer that ſame country booby,
That pro-logue ſpeaking ſavage, that great looby,
[128] To talk his nonſenſe?—give me leave to ſay,
'Twas low, damn'd low!—but ſave the fellow's play:
Let the poor devil eat; allow him that,
And give a meal to meaſter, mon, and cat;
But why attack the faſhions? ſenſeleſs rogue!
We have no joys but what reſult from vogue:
The mode ſhould all controll—nay, ev'ry paſſion,
Senſe, appetite, and all, give way to faſhion:
I hate as much as he, a turtle feaſt,
But 'till the preſent turtle-rage has ceas'd,
I'd ride a hundred miles to make myſelf a beaſt.
I have no ears; yet op'ras I adore!
Always prepar'd to die—to ſleep—no more!
The ladies too were carp'd at, and their dreſs,
He wants 'em all ruff'd up like good queen Beſs!
They are, forſooth, too much expos'd and free:
Were more expos'd, no ill effects I ſee,
For more or leſs, 'tis all the ſame to me.
Poor gaming too, was maul'd among the reſt,
That precious cordial to a high-life breaſt!
When thoughts ariſe, I always game or drink,
An Engliſh gentleman ſhould never think—
The reaſon's plain, which ev'ry ſoul might hit on—
What trims a Frenchman, overſets a Briton.
In us reflection breeds a ſober ſadneſs,
Which always ends in politics or madneſs:
I therefore now propoſe, by your command,
That tragedies no more ſhall cloud this land;
[129] Send o'er your Shakeſpeares to the ſons of France,
Let them grow grave—let us begin to dance!
Baniſh your gloomy ſcenes to foreign climes,
Reſerve alone to bleſs theſe golden times,
A Farce or two—and Woodward's pantomimes.

XXII. PROLOGUE to the FAIRIES*.
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

[130]
Enter—interrupting the Band of Muſick.
A MOMENT ſtop your tuneful fingers, pray,
While here, as uſual, I my duty pay.
(To the audience.
Don't frown, my friends,
(to the band)
you ſoon ſhall melt again;
But, if not there, is ſelt each dying ſtrain,
Poor I ſhall ſpeak, and you will ſcrape in vain.
To ſee me now, you think the ſtrangeſt thing!
For, like friend Benedict, I cannot ſing:
Yet in this prologue, cry but you Coraggio!
I'll ſpeak you both a jig and an adagio.
A Perſian king, as Perſian tales relate,
Oft' went diſguis'd, to hear the people prate;
So, curious I, ſometimes ſteal forth incog.
To hear what critics croak of me—king Log.
Three nights ago, I heard a tête à tête
Which ſix'd, at once, our Engliſh Operas' ſate:
[131] One was a youth born here, but fluſh from Rome;
The other born abroad, but here his home;
And firſt the Engliſh foreigner began,
Who thus addreſs'd the foreign Engliſhman:
An Engliſh Opera! 'tis not to be borne;
I, both my country, and their muſic ſcorn,
Oh, damn their Ally Croakers, and their Early Horn.
Signor ſi—bat ſons—wors recitativo:
Il tutto, è beſtiale e cativo,
This ſaid, I made my exit, full of terrors!
And now aſk mercy, for the following errors:
Excuſe us firſt, for fooliſhly ſuppoſing;
* Your countryman could pleaſe you in compoſing;
An Op'ra too—play'd by an Engliſh band,
Wrote in a language which you underſtand—
I dare not ſay, WHO wrote it—I could tell ye,
To ſoften matters—Signor Shakeſpearelli:
This aukward drama (I confeſs th' offence)
Is guilty too, of poetry and ſenſe,
And then the price we take—you'll all abuſe it,
So low, ſo unlike Op'ras—but excuſe it,
We'll mend that fault, whenever you ſhall chuſe it.
Our laſt miſchance, and worſe than all the reſt,
Which turns the whole performance to a jeſt,
OUR ſingers are all well, and all will do their beſt.
[132] But why ſhould this raſh fool, this Engliſhman,
Attempt an op'ra?—'tis the ſtrangeſt plan!
Struck with the wonders of his maſter's art*,
Whoſe ſacred dramas ſhake and melt the heart,
Whoſe heav'n-born ſtrains the coldeſt breaſt inſpire,
Whoſe chorus-thunder ſets the ſoul on fire!
Inflam'd, aſtoniſh'd, at thoſe magic airs,
When Sampſon groans, and frantic Saul deſpairs,
The pupil wrote—his work is now before ye,
And waits your ſtamp of infamy, or glory!
Yet, ere his errors and his faults are known,
He ſays, thoſe faults, thoſe errors, are his own;
If through the clouds appear ſome glimm'ring rays,
They're ſparks he caught from his great maſter's blaze!

XXIII. *PROLOGUE to BRITANNIA,
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK, in the Character of a Sailor, fuddled and talking to himſelf.

[133]
He enters, ſinging.
WELL, if thou art, my boy, a little mellow?
A ſailor, half ſeas o'er—'s a pretty fellow!
What cheer ho?
(to the pit)
Zounds, I carry too much ſail—
No—tight and trim—I ſcud before the gale
he ſtaggers forward, then ſtops.
But ſoftly tho'—the veſſel ſeems to heel:
Steady, ſteady, boy!—muſt not ſhew her keel.
[134] And now, thus ballaſted, what courſe to ſteer?
Shall I again to ſea, and bang Mounſeer?
Or ſhall I ſtay and toil with Sall and Sue
Doſt love 'em, boy? By this right hand I do!
A well-rigg'd girl is ſurely moſt inviting:
There's nothing better, except flip and fighting:
I muſt not ſkulk; my country now commands!
Shall I turn in, when honour pipes all hands?
What! ſhall we ſons of beef and freedom ſtoop,
Or lower our flag to ſlavery and ſoup?
What! ſhall theſe parly-vous make ſuch a racket,
And ſhall not we, my boys, well trim their jacket?
What! ſhall Old England be a Frenchman's butt?
When'er he ſhuffles, we ſhould always cut.
I'll to 'em, faith—Avaſt! before I go,
Have I not promis'd Sall to ſee a ſhow?
Pulls out a Play-bill.
From this ſame paper we ſhall underſtand
What work's to-night—I read your printed hand!
Firſt let's refreſh a bit—for faith I need it;
I'll take one ſugar-plumb
Takes ſome tobacco.
and then I'll read it.
He reads the play-bill of Zara, which was acted that evening.

At the Theatre-Royal, Drury-Lane—
will be preſen╌ta╌ted a tragedy called—
SARAH.

I'm glad 'tis Sarah, and a tragedy;
For Sall will ſee her nameſake, and for me,
I'll ſleep as ſound, as if I were at ſea.
[135]
I'll ſkip the names—I would not give a pin—
Damn all their actors, except Harlequin.
To which will be added, a new Maſque.
Zounds! why a maſque? we ſailors hate grimaces:
Above board all, we ſcorn to hide our faces.
But what is here, ſo very large and plain?
BRI-TA-NIA—oh Britania!—good again.
Huzza, boys! by the Royal George I ſwear,
Tom coxen, and the crew, ſhall ſtrait be there.
All free-born ſouls muſt take Bri╌ta╌nia's part,
And give her three round cheers, with hand and heart!
(Going off, he ſtops.
I wiſh you landmen, ho, would leave your tricks,
Your factions, parties, and damn'd politics:
And like us, honeſt tars drink, fight, and ſing!
True to yourſelves, your country, and your king!

XXIV. PROLOGUE to The APPRENTICE*,
Spoken by Mr. MURPHY, dreſſed in black.

[136]
BEHOLD a wonder for theatric ſtory!
The culprit of this night, appears before ye.
Before his judges dares theſe boards to tread,
" With all his imperfections on his head!"
Prologues precede the piece—in mournful verſe;
As undertakers—walk before the hearſe.
Whoſe doleful march may ſtrike the harden'd mind,
And wake its feelings—for the dead—behind.
Trick'd out in black, thus actors try their art,
To melt that rock of rocks, the critic's heart.
No acted fears my vanity betray;
I am indeed—what others only play.
Thus far myſelf—The farce comes next in view;
Tho' many are its faults, at leaſt 'tis new.
No mangled, pilfer'd ſcenes from France we ſhew,
'Tis Engliſh—Engliſh, ſirs, from top to toe.
Tho' coarſe my colours, and my hand unſkill'd,
From real life my little cloth is fill'd.
[137] My hero is a youth, by fate deſign'd
For culling ſimples, but whoſe ſtage-ſtruck mind,
Nor fate could rule, nor his indentures bind.
A place there is where ſuch young Quixotes meet;
'Tis call'd the Spouting-Club;—a glorious treat!
Where 'prentic'd Kings—alarm the gaping ſtreet!
There Brutus ſtarts and ſtares by midnight taper;
Who all the day enacts—a woollen-draper.
There Hamlet's ghoſt ſtalks forth with double fiſt:
Cries out with hollow voice,—"Liſt, liſt, O liſt!"
And frightens Denmark's Prince—a young tobacconiſt.
The ſpirit too, clear'd from his deadly white,
Riſes—a haberdaſher to the ſight!
Not young attorneys—have this rage withſtood,
But change their pens for truncheons, ink for blood;
And (ſtrange reverſe!) die for their country's good.
Thro' all the town this folly you may trace;
Myſelf am witneſs—'tis a common caſe.
[138] I've further proofs, could ye but think I wrong ye;
Look round—you'll find ſome ſpouting youths among ye.
To check theſe heroes, and their laurels crop,
To bring 'em back to reaſon—and their ſhop,
To raiſe an harmleſs laugh was all my aim,
And, if I ſhun contempt, I ſeek not fame.
Indulge this firſtling, let me but begin,
Nor nip me—in the buddings of my ſin;
Some hopes I cheriſh; in your ſmiles I read 'em;
What'er my faults, your candour can exceed 'em.

XXV. PROLOGUE to FLORIZEL and PERDITA,*
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

[139]
TO various things the ſtage has been compar'd,
As apt ideas ſtrike each humorous bard:
This night, for want of better ſimile,
Let this our theatre a tavern be:
The poets vintners, and the waiters we.
So (as the cant and cuſtom of the trade is)
You're welcome, Gem'men, kindly welcome, Ladies.
To draw in cuſtomers, our bills are ſpread.
(Shewing a play-bill.
You cannot miſs the ſign, 'tis Shakeſpeare's Head.
From this ſame head, this fountain-head divine,
For different palates ſprings a different wine!
[140] In which no tricks, to ſtrengthen, or to thin 'em—
Neat as imported—no French brandy in 'em—
Hence for the choiceſt ſpirits flows Champaign;
Whoſe ſparkling atoms ſhoot thro' ev'ry vein,
Then mount, in magic vapours, to th' enraptur'd brain!
Hence flow for martial minds potations ſtrong,
And ſweet love potions for the fair and young.
For you, my hearts of oak, for your regale,
(To the Upper Gallery.
There's good old Engliſh ſtingo, mild and ſtale.
For high, luxurious ſouls, with luſcious ſmack,
There's Sir John Falſtaff, is a butt of ſack:
And if the ſtronger liquors more invite ye,
Bardolph is gin, and Piſtol aqua-vitae.
But ſhould you call for Falſtaff, where to find him.
* He's gone—nor left one cup of ſack behind him.
Sunk in his elbow-chair, no more he'll roam;
No more with merry wags to Eaſtcheap come;
He's gone—to jeſt, and laugh, and give his ſack at home.
As for the learned Critics, brave and deep,
Who catch at words, and catching fall aſleep;
[141] Who in the ſtorms of paſſion—hum and haw!
For ſuch, our maſter will no liquor draw—
So blindly thoughtful, and ſo darkly read,
They take Tom Durfey's for the Shakeſpeare's Head.
A vintner once acquir'd both praiſe and gain,
And ſold much Perry for the beſt Champaign.
Some rakes this precious ſtuff did ſo allure,
They drank whole nights. What's that, when wine is pure?
' Come, fill a bumper, Jack,—I will, my Lord—
' Here's cream—damn'd fine—immenſe—upon my word.
' Sir William, what ſay you—The beſt, believe me—
' In this—Eh Jack—the Devil can't deceive me.'
Thus the wiſe Critic too miſtakes his wine,
Cries out, with lifted eyes—'Tis great! divine!
Then jogs his neighbour, as the wonders ſtrike him;
This Shakeſpeare! Shakeſpeare! Oh, there's nothing like him!
In this night's various and enchanted cup,
Some little Perry's mixt for filling up.
[142] The five long acts, from which our three are taken,
Stretch'd out to *ſixteen years, lay by, forſaken.
Leſt then this precious liquor run to waſte,
'Tis now confin'd and bottled for your taſte.
'Tis my chief wiſh, my joy, my only plan,
To loſe no drop of that immortal man.

XXVI. A DIALOGUE Between an Actor and a Critick, By way of PROLOGUE to the TEMPEST*.

[143]
Heartly, the Actor,
Mr. HAVARD.
Wormwood, the Critic,
Mr. YATES.
Wormwood and Heartly.
Worm.

I ſay it is a ſhame, Mr. Heartly; and I am amazed that you let your good-nature talk thus, againſt the conviction of your underſtanding.

Heart.

You won't let me talk, ſir; if you would but have patience, and hear reaſon a little.

Worm.

I wiſh I could, ſir; but you put me out of all patience, by having no reaſon to give me. I ſay that this frittering and ſol fa-ing our beſt poets, is a damn'd thing. I have yet heard no reaſon to juſtify it, and I have no patience when I think of it.

Heart.
[144]

I ſee you have not—

Worm.

What! are we to be quivered and quavered out of our ſenſes? Give me Shakeſpeare, in all his force, vigour, and ſpirit! What! would you make an eunuch of him? No, Shakeſporelli's for my money.

Heart.

Nay but, dear ſir, hear me in my turn; or the truth, for which we are, or ought to be, ſo warmly fighting, will ſlip thro' our fingers.

Worm.

Will you hold it when you have it? I ſay, Mr. Heartly, while you let your good-nature—

Heart.

And I ſay, Mr. Wormwood, while you are to be influenced and blown up by paragraphs in news-papers, and inſinuations in coffeehouſes, we can never come to a fair debate. They who write upon all ſubjects, without underſtanding any, or will talk about muſick, without ears or taſte for it, are but very indifferent judges in our diſpute.

Worm.

Well, come on, Mr. Sol-fa, then—Let you and I fight it out; or, to ſpeak in the muſical phraſe, let us have a Duette together; I'll clear up my pipes, and have at you.—Hem, hem—

Heart.

With all my heart, tho' I'm afraid you'll make it a Solo, for you have not yet ſuffered the ſecond part to come in.

Worm.
[145]

Ho! play away, ſir—I'll be dumb—

Heart.

Let us calmly conſider this complaint of your's: If it is well founded, I will ſubmit with pleaſure; if not, you will.

Worm.

Not ſubmit with pleaſure, I aſſure you; I never do.

Heart.

You will at leaſt have this ſatisfaction, that the ſentence which will be given, whether for or againſt you, will be as indiſputable, as it will be juſt.

Worm.

I don't know what you mean: Nothing's indiſputable, that I pleaſe to contradict, and nothing's juſt, that I pleaſe to call in queſtion.

Heart.

Look round upon the court, and if you can reaſonably except againſt any one of the jury, I will give up the cauſe before trial.

Worm.

O, ho! what, you are bribing the court before-hand with your flattery, are you?

Heart.

There you are out again: our countrymen in a body, are no more to be flatter'd than bully'd, which I hope their enemies (who can do both) will be convinced of before they have done with them. But I wander from the queſtion. To the point, ſir: what are your objections to this night's entertainment?

Worm.

I hate an Opera.

Heart.

I diſlike tye-wigs; but ſhould I throw your's into the fire, becauſe I chuſe to wear a bag?

Worm.
[146]

Woe be to your bag if you did.

Heart.

You hate muſick, perhaps?

Worm.

Damnably, and dancing too.

Heart.

But why, pray?

Worm.

They pervert nature. Legs are made for walking, tongues for ſpeaking; and therefore capering and quavering are unnatural and abominable.

Heart.

You like Shakeſpeare?

Worm.

Like him! adore him! worſhip him! There's no capering and quavering in his works.

Heart.

Have a care.

" The man that has no muſick in himſelf,
" Nor is not mov'd with concord of ſweet ſounds,
" Is fit for treaſon, ſtratagems and ſpoils;
" The motions of his ſpirit are dull as night,
" And his affections dark as Erebus:
" Let no ſuch man be truſted."
Worm.

Fit for treaſon! dull as night! not to be truſted!—ſo you have proved me both a fool and a rebel.—Don't provoke me, Mr. Heartly, Shakeſpeare never wrote ſuch ſtuff as that; 'tis foiſted in by ſome fiddler or other.

Heart.

You pay the fiddlers (as you call them) a very great compliment.

Worm.

Did I? I am ſorry for it; I did not mean it: were I to pay 'em—crabſtick's the word.

Heart.

For ſhame, Mr. Wormwood! Let me aſk you a queſtion: would you chuſe that [147] your country ſhould be excelled in any thing by your neighbours?

Worm.

In manufactures—no—from the caſting of cannon, to the making of pins; from the weaving of velvets, to the making of hop-ſacks; but your capering and quavering only ſpoil us, and make us the jeſts, who ſhould be the terrors of Europe.

Heart.

But Engliſh muſick, Mr. Wormwood—

Worm.

Engliſh muſick, or any muſick, enervates the body, weakens the mind, and leſſens the courage.

Heart.

Quite the contrary.

Worm.

Prove that, and I'll learn the gamut immediately; nay, beſpeak me a pair of pumps, and I'll make one at the dancing academy for grown gentlemen.

Heart.

Let us ſuppoſe an invaſion!

Worm.

Ha, ha, ha! an invaſion!—muſick and an invaſion! they are well coupled, truly!

Heart.

Patience, ſir—I ſay, let us ſuppoſe ten thouſand French landed.

Worm.

I had rather ſuppoſe 'em at the bottom of the ſea.

Heart.

So had I—but that ten thouſand are upon the coaſt.

Worm.

The devil they are! What then?

Heart.

Why then, I ſay, let but Britons ſtrike home, or God ſave the king, be ſounded in the ears of five thouſand brave Engliſhmen, [148] with a proteſtant prince at the head of 'em, and they'll drive every monſieur into the ſea, and make 'em food for ſprats and mackarel.

Worm.

Huzza! and ſo they will!—'Egad you're right; I'll ſay no more: Britons ſtrike home! You have warm'd me and pleas'd me; nay, you have converted me. I'll get a place in the houſe, and be as hearty as the beſt of 'em for the muſick of Old England! Sprats and mackarel! ha, ha, ha! that's good! excellent! I thank you for it; muſick for ever! Britons ſtrike home! God ſave the King!

Heart.

The laſt thing I have to ſay will touch you as nearly, Mr. Wormwood—

Worm.

You have touch'd me enough already; ſay no more; I am ſatisfy'd: I ſhall never forget ſprats and mackarel.

Heart.

We may boaſt, ſincerely boaſt, of many excellent Engliſh compoſers; and would not you permit your countrymen to have the ſame encouragement as foreigners?

Worm.

Encouragement! why I'll encourage them myſelf, man.

Heart.

Where can they ſhew their talents, unleſs upon the Engliſh ſtages? and, if the managers of them will not give up a few nights to encourage Engliſh muſick, our muſical countrymen, Mr. Wormwood, would be of the number of thoſe perſons of merit, who are undeſervedly neglected in this kingdom.

Worm.
[149]

But they ſhan't; I'll ſupport 'em. I'll never more hearken to your club-ſpeeches, and your diſſertations, and news-paper eſſays. I ſee my error, but I'll make amends. Let us meet after it is over, and take a bottle to ſprats and mackarel, eh, maſter Heartly, at the Shakeſpeare. I'll be with you. Britons ſtrike home.

[Exit ſinging.
Heart.

Ha, ha, ha! Mr. Wormwood is now as much too violent in his zeal, as he was before in his prejudice. We expect not, ladies and gentlemen, that this night's performance ſhould meet with ſucceſs, merely becauſe it is Engliſh. You would be as incapable of conceiving, as we of urging, ſuch falſe and contracted notions; yet, on the other hand, let not our muſical brethren be caſt off, becauſe faſhion, caprice, or manners, too refin'd, may have given you prejudices againſt them.

Muſick is the younger ſiſter of poetry, and can boaſt her charms and accompliſhments. Suffer not the younger then to be turned out of doors, while the elder is ſo warmly and deſervedly cheriſhed.

If worthy, you'll protect her, tho' diſtreſt,
'Tis the known maxim of a Britiſh breaſt,
Thoſe to befriend the moſt, who're moſt oppreſt.

XXVII. EPILOGUE to ATHELSTAN*.
Spoken by Mrs. CIBBER.

[150]
TO ſpeak ten words, again I've fetch'd my breath;
The tongue of woman ſtruggles hard with death.
Ten words? will that ſuffice? ten words—no more;
We always give a thouſand to the ſcore.
What can provoke theſe wits their time to waſte,
To pleaſe that fickle, fleeting thing, call'd taſte?
It mocks all ſearch, for ſubſtance has it none;
Like Hamlet's ghoſt—'Tis here—'Tis there—'Tis gone.
How very few about the ſtage agree!
As men with different eyes a beauty ſee,
So judge they of that ſtately dame—Queen Tragedy.
The Greek-read critic, as his miſtreſs holds her,
And having little love, for trifles ſcolds her:
Excuſes want of ſpirit, beauty, grace,
But ne'er forgives her failing, time and place.
[151] How do our ſex of taſte and judgment vary?
Miſs 'Bell adores, what's loath'd by lady Mary:
The firſt in tenderneſs a very dove,
Melts, like the feather'd ſnow, at Juliet's love:
Then, ſighing, turns to Romeo by her ſide,
" Can you believe that men for love have dy'd?"
Her ladyſhip, who vaults the courſer's back,
Leaps the barr'd gate, and calls you Tom and Jack;
Deteſts theſe whinings, like a true virago;
She's all for daggers! blood! blood! blood! Iago!
A third, whoſe heart defies all perturbations,
Yet dies for triumphs, funerals, coronations!
Ne'er aſks which tragedies ſucceed, or fail,
But whoſe proceſſion has the longeſt tail.
The youths, to whom France gives a new belief,
Who look with horror on a rump of beef:
On Shakeſpeare's plays, with ſhrugg'd-up ſhoulders ſtare,
Theſe plays? They're bloody murders, O barbare!
And yet the man has merit—Entre nous,
He'd been damn'd clever, had he read Boſsû.
Shakeſpeare read French! roars out a ſurly cit;
When Shakeſpeare wrote, our valour match'd our wit:
Had Britons then been fops, queen Beſs had hang'd 'em;
Thoſe days, they never read the French—they bang'd 'em.
[152]
If taſte evaporates by too high breeding.
And eke is overlaid, by too deep reading;
Left, then, in ſearch of this, you loſe your feeling,
And barter native ſenſe in foreign dealing;
Be this neglected truth to Britons known,
No taſtes, no modes become you, but your own.

XXVIII. PROLOGUE to LILLIPUT*.
Spoken by Mr. WOODWARD.

BEHOLD a conjuror—that's ſomething new—
For as times go, my brethren are but few.
I'm come with magic ring, and taper wand,
To waft you far from this your native land.
Ladies don't fear, my coach is large and eaſy,
I know your humours, and will drive to pleaſe ye;
Gently you'll ride as in a fairy dream,
Your hoops unſqueez'd, and not a bean ſhall ſcream.
What, ſtill diſorder'd!—well, I know your fright;
You ſhall be back in time for cards to-night;
[153] Swift as queen Mab within her hazle nut,
I'll ſet you ſafely down at Lilliput.
Away we go—ge'up—ladies keep your places,
And gentlemen—for ſhame—don't ſcrew your faces.
Softly my imps and fiends—you critics there,
Pray you ſit ſtill, or I can never ſteer,
My devils are not the devils you need to fear.
Hold faſt my friends above, for faith we ſpin it;
My uſual rate's a thouſand miles a minute.
A ſtateſman now, could tell how high we ſoar,
Stateſmen have been theſe airy jaunts before.
I ſee the land—the folks—what limbs! what features!
There's lords and ladies too—the pretty creatures!
Now to your ſight theſe puppets I'll produce,
Which may, if rightly heeded, turn to uſe;
Puppets not made of wood, and play'd with wires,
But fleſh and blood, and full of ſtrange deſires.
So ſtrange, you'll ſcarce believe me ſhould I tell,
For giant vices may in pigmies dwell.
Beware you lay not to the conj'ror's charge,
That theſe in miniature are you in large:
To you theſe little folks have no relation,
As diff'rent in their manners as their nation,
To ſhew your pranks requires no conjuration.
Open your ears and eyes—your mouths be ſhut,
England is vaniſh'd—
(waves his wand)
—Enter Lilliput.
[Strikes the curtain and ſinks.

XXIX. PROLOGUE to the MALE-COQUETTE*; Or, 1757.
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

[154]
WHY to this farce this title giv'n,
Of Seventeen hundred fifty-ſeven?
Is it a regiſter of faſhions,
Of follies, frailties, fav'rite paſſions?
Or is't deſign'd to make appear
How happy, good, and wiſe you were
In this ſame memorable year?
Sure, with our author wit was ſcarce,
To crowd ſo many virtues in a farce.
Perhaps 'tis made to make you ſtare,
Like cloths hung out at country fair,
On which ſtrange monſters glare and grin,
To draw the gaping bumpkins in.
Tho' 'tis the genius of the age
To catch the eye with title-page;
Yet here we dare not ſo abuſe ye—
We have ſome monſters to amuſe ye.
Ye ſlaves to faſhion, dupes of chance,
Whom fortune leads her fickle dance;
[155] Who, as the dice ſhall ſmile or frown,
Are rich and poor, and up and down;
Whoſe minds eternal vigils keep;
Who, like Macbeth, have murder'd ſleep;
Each modiſh vice this night ſhall riſe,
Like Banquo's ghoſt before your eyes;
While conſcious you ſhall ſtart and roar,
Hence horrid farce! we'll ſee no more.
Ye ladies too, maids, widows, wives,
Now tremble for your naughty lives.
How will your hearts go pit-a-pat?
" Bleſs me—Lord!—what's the fellow at?
" Was poet e'er ſo rude before?
" Why, ſure, the brute will ſay no more—
" Again!—O Gad! I cannot bear—
" Here—you box-keeper—call my chair."
Peace, ladies, 'tis a falſe alarm:
To you our author means no harm;
His female failings all are fictions,
To which your lives are contradictions.
Th' unnat'ral fool has drawn a plan,
Where women like a worthleſs man,
A fault ne'er heard of ſince the world began.
This year he lets you ſteal away;
But if the next you trip or ſtray,
His muſe, he vows, on you ſhall wait
In Seventeen hundred fifty-eight.

XXX. PROLOGUE to the GAMESTERS*.
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

[156]
WHENE'ER the wits of France take pen in hand,
To give a ſketch of you and this our land,
One ſettled maxim thro' the whole you ſee,
To wit, their great ſuperiority!
Urge what you will, they ſtill have this to ſay,
That you who ape them, are leſs wiſe than they.
'Tis thus theſe well-bred letter-writers uſe us;
They trip o'er here, with half an eye peruſe us;
Embrace us, eat our meat, and then—abuſe us.
When this ſame play was writ that's now before ye,
The Engliſh ſtage had reach'd its point of glory!
No paltry thefts diſgrac'd this author's pen,
He painted Engliſh manners, Engliſhmen;
And form'd his taſte on Shakeſpeare and Old Ben.
Then were French faſhions, farces, quite unknown;
Our wits wrote well, and all they writ their own.
[157] Theſe were the times when no infatuation,
No vicious modes, no zeal for imitation,
Had chang'd, deform'd, and ſunk the Britiſh Nation.
Should you be ever from yourſelves eſtrang'd,
The cock will crow to ſee the lion chang'd!
To boaſt our liberty is weak and vain,
While tyrant vices in our boſoms reign;
Not liberty alone a nation ſaves,
Corrupted freemen are the worſt of ſlaves.
Let Pruſſia's ſons each Engliſh breaſt inflame,
O be our ſpirit, as our cauſe, the ſame!
And as our hearts with one Religion glow,
Let us with all their ardour drive the foe,
As heav'n had rais'd our arm, as heav'n had giv'n the blow!
Would you rekindle all your antient fires,
Extinguiſh firſt your modern vain deſires.
Still it is yours, your glories to retrieve;
Lop but the branches, and the tree ſhall live:
With theſe erect a pile for ſacrifice!
And in the midſt—throw all your cards and dice;
Then fire the heap; and as it ſinks to earth,
The Britiſh Genius ſhall have ſecond birth!
Shall Phoenix-like riſe perfect from the flame;
Spring from the duſt, and mount again to fame!

XXXI. Part of a PROLOGUE to HARLEQUIN's INVASION*.
Spoken by Mr. KING.

[158]
BUT why a ſpeaking Harlequin?—'tis wrong,
The wits will ſay, to give the fool a tongue:
When Lun appear'd, with matchleſs art and whim,
He gave the pow'r of ſpeech to ev'ry limb;
Tho' maſk'd and mute, convey'd his quick intent,
And told in frolic geſtures all he meant.
But now the motley coat, and ſword of wood,
Requires a tongue to make them underſtood.

XXXII. PROLOGUE to the DESART ISLAND*,
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK in the Character of a Drunken Poet.

[159]
ALL, all ſhall out—all that I know and feel;
I will by heav'n—to higher powers appeal!
No, no—they can't ſay that, with all their ſpite:
Ay, you may frown—
(looking behind the ſcenes)
I'm at you, great and ſmall;
Your poet, players, manager and all!—
Theſe fools within here ſwear that I'm in liquor:
My paſſion warms me—makes my utt'rance thicker:
I totter too—but that's the gout and pain—
French wines and living high have been my bane.
From all temptations now I wiſely ſteer me;
Nor will I ſuffer one fine woman near me.
And this I ſacrifice to give you pleaſure—
For you I've coin'd my brains—and here's the treaſure.
[Pulls out a manuſcript.
A treaſure this of profit and delight!
And all thrown by for this damn'd ſtuff to-night:
[160] This is a play would water ev'ry eye!
If I but look upon't, it makes me cry:
This play would tears from blood-ſtain'd ſoldiers draw,
And melt the bowels of hard-hearted law!
Would fore and aft the ſtorm-proof ſailor rake;
Keep turtle-eating aldermen awake!
Would the cold blood of ancient maidens thrill,
And make ev'n pretty younger tongues lie ſtill.
This play not ev'n managers would refuſe,
Had heaven but giv'n 'em any brains to chuſe!
[Puts up his manuſcript.
Your hard to-night, bred in the ancient ſchool,
Deſigns and meaſures all by critic rule,
'Mongſt friends—it goes no further—he's a fool.
So very claſſic, and ſo very dull,
His Deſart Iſland is his own dear ſkull:
No ſoul to make the play-houſe ring and rattle,
No trumpets, thunder, ranting, ſtorms, and battle!
But all your fine poetic prittle prattle.
The plot is this—A lady's caſt away—
Long before the beginning of the play,
And they are taken by a fiſherman,
The lady and the child—'tis Bayes's plan—
So on he blunders—he's an Iriſhman.
[161] 'Tis all alike—his comic ſtuff* I mean;
I hate all humour—it gives me the ſpleen;
So damn 'em both with all my heart, unſight unſeen.
But ſhou'd you ruin him, ſtill I'm undone—
I've try'd all ways to bring my Phoenix on—
(Shewing his play again.
Flatter I can with any of our tribe—
Can cut and ſlaſh—indeed I cannot bribe;
What muſt I do then?—beg you to ſubſcribe.
Be kind ye boxes, galleries, and pit—
'Tis but a crown a piece, for all this wit:
All ſterling wit—to puff myſelf I hate—
You'll ne'er ſupply your wants at ſuch a rate!
'Tis worth your money, I would ſcorn to wrong ye—
You ſmile conſent—I'll ſend my hat among ye.
(Going, he returns.
So much beyond all praiſe your bounties ſwell!
Not my own tongue your gra-ti-tude can tell—
" A little flattery ſometimes does well."

XXXIII. Concluſion to the PROLOGUE to POLLY HONEYCOMBE*.
Spoken by Mr. KING.

[162]
THUS of our Polly having lightly ſpoke,
Now for our Author! but without a joke.
Tho' wits and journals, who ne'er fibb'd before,
Have laid this bantling at a certain door,
Where laying ſtore of faults, they'd fain heap more;
I now declare it as a ſerious truth,
'Tis the firſt folly of a ſimple youth,
Caught and deluded by our harlot plays:—
Then cruſh not in the ſhell this infant Bayes!
Exert your favour to a young beginner,
Nor uſe the ſtrippling like a batter'd ſinner!

XXXIV. EPILOGUE to POLLY HONEYCOMBE.
Spoken by Miſs POPE.

[163]
Enter, as POLLY, laughing—Ha! ha! ha!—
MY poor Papa's in woeful agitation—
While I, the cauſe, feel here,
[ſtriking her boſom.]
no palpitation—
We girls of reading, and ſuperior notions,
Who from the fountain-head drink love's ſweet potions,
Pity our parents, when ſuch paſſion blinds 'em,
One hears the good folks rave—One never minds 'em.
Till theſe dear books infus'd their ſoft ingredients,
Aſham'd and fearful, I was all obedience.
Then my good father did not ſtorm in vain,
I bluſh'd and cry'd—I'll ne'er do ſo again:
But now no bugbears can my ſpirit tame,
I've conquer'd fear—and almoſt conquer'd ſhame;
So much theſe dear inſtructors change and win us,
Without their light we ne'er ſhould know what's in us:
Here we at once ſupply our childiſh wants—
Novels are hotbeds for your forward plants.
[164] Not only ſentiments refine the ſoul,
But hence we learn to be the Smart and Drole;
Each awkward circumſtance for laughter ſerves,
From nurſe's nonſenſe to my mother's nerves:
Tho' parents tell us, that our genius lies
In mending linnen and in making pies,
I ſet ſuch formal precepts at defiance
That preach up prudence, neatneſs, and compliance:
Leap theſe old bounds, and boldly ſet the pattern,
To be a Wit, Philoſopher, and Slattern.
O! did all maids and wives my ſpirit feel,
We'd make this topſy-turvy world to reel:
Let us to arms! our fathers, huſbands, dare!
Novels will teach us all the art of war:
Our tongues will ſerve for trumpet and for drum;
I'll be your leader—General Honeycombe!
Too long has human nature gone aſtray,
Daughters ſhould govern, Parents ſhould obey;
Man ſhould ſubmit the moment that he weds,
And hearts of oak ſhould yield to wiſer heads:
I ſee you ſmile, bold Britons! but 'tis true:
Beat you the French—but let your wives beat you.

XXXV. PROLOGUE to the EARL of ESSEX*.
Spoken by Mrs. PRITCHARD, in the Character of Queen Elizabeth.

[165]
If any here are Britons, but in name,
Dead to their country's happineſs and fame,
Let 'em depart this moment—let 'em fly
My awful preſence, and my ſearching eye!
No more your Queen, but upright judge I come,
To try your deeds abroad, your lives at home;
Try you in ev'ry point, from ſmall to great,
Your wit, laws, faſhions, valour, church and ſtate!
Search you, as Britons ne'er were ſearch'd before:
O tremble! for you hear the lion roar!
Since that moſt glorious time that here I reign'd,
An age and half!—what have you loſt or gain'd?
Your wit, whate'er your poets ſing or ſwear,
Since Shakeſpeare's time, is ſomewhat worſe for wear:
Your laws are good, your lawyers good of courſe;
The ſtreams are ſurely clear, when clear the ſource:
[166] In greater ſtore theſe bleſſings now are ſent ye;
Where I had one attorney, you have twenty.
Fa hions, ye fair, deſerve nor praiſe, nor b'ame,
Unleſs they riſe as foes to ſenſe or ſhame;
Wear ruffs or gauze, but let your ſkill be ſuch,
Rather to ſhew too little than too much.
As for your valour—here my lips I cloſe—
Let thoſe who beſt have prov'd it—ſpeak—your foes.
Your morals, church, and ſtate are ſtill behind,
But ſoft—prophetic fury fills my mind.
I ſee thro' time—behold a youthful hand*,
Holding the ſceptre of this happy land;
Whoſe heart with juſtice, love, and virtue fraught,
Born amongſt Britons, and by Britons taught;
Shall make the barking tongues of faction ceaſe,
And weave the garland of domeſtic peace.
Long ſhall he reign—no ſtorms to beat his breaſt,
Unruly paſſions, that diſturb'd my reſt!
Shall live, the bleſſings he beſtows to ſhare,
Reap all my glory, but without my care.

XXXVI. EPILOGUE to EDGAR and EMMELINE*.
Spoken by Mrs. YATES.

[167]
OLD times, old faſhions, and the fairies gone;
Let us return, good folks, to ſixty-one;
To this bleſt time, ye fair, of female glory,
When pleaſures unforbidden lie before ye!
No ſp'rits to fright you now, no guardian elves,
Your wiſe directors are—your own dear ſelves.
And every fair one feels from old to young,
While theſe your guides—you never can do wrong.
Weak were the ſex of yore, their pleaſures few;
How much more wiſe, more ſpirited are you!
Would any Lady Jane, or Lady Mary,
Ere they did this or that, conſult a fairy?
Would they permit this ſaucy pigmy crew,
For each ſmall ſlip to pinch 'em black and blue?
Well may you ſhudder, for with all your charms,
Were this the caſe, good heav'n, what necks and arms!
Thus did they ſerve our grandames heretofore:
The very thought muſt make us moderns ſore!
[168] Did their poor hearts for cards and dancing beat,
Theſe elves rais'd bliſters on their hands and feet.
Though Loo the game, and fiddles play'd moſt ſweetly,
They could not ſqueeze dear Pam, nor foot Moll Peatly.
Were wives with huſbands but a little wilful,
Were they at that ſame Loo a little ſkilful;
Did they with pretty fellows laugh or ſport,
Wear ruffs too ſmall, or petticoats too ſhort;
Did they, no matter how, diſturb their cloaths,
Or, over-lillied, add a little roſe!
Theſe ſpiteful fairies rattled round their beds,
And put ſtrange frightful nonſenſe in their heads!
Nay, while the huſband ſnor'd, and prudiſh aunt,
Had the fond wife but met the dear gallant;
Tho' lock'd the door, and all as ſtill as night,
Pop thro' the key-hole whips the fairy ſprite,
Trips round the room—"my huſband!" madam cries—
" The devil!—where!" the frighted beau replies,
Jumps thro' the window—ſhe calls out in vain;
He, cur'd of love, and cool'd with drenching rain,
Swears—'d—n him if he'll e'er intrigue again!'
Theſe were the tricks of old. But all allow,
No childiſh fears diſturb our fair ones now.
Ladies, for all this trifling, 'twould be beſt
To keep a little fairy in your breaſt;
Not one that ſhould with modern paſſions war,
But juſt to tweak you—when you go too far.

XXXVII. EPILOGUE to the ANDRIA.
Acted at Hackney School*.

[169]
DAVUS ſpeaks.
'BUT why act plays?'—ſome formal Greybeard cries;
I'll anſwer that, who am not over-wiſe:
To learn their leſſons, and to play the fool,
Are the two great concerns of boys at ſchool;
And our good maſters, prudently diſcerning,
How much we lean to folly, more than learning,
Contriv'd theſe plays, by which the verieſt dunce
May learn his book, and play the fool, at once.
For Greek and Latin we have ſmall devotion,
Terence himſelf goes down a ſickly potion;
But ſet us once to act him, never fear us;
Our qualms are gone, 'tis you are ſick who hear us.
Ne'er may our actors, when they quit the ſchool,
Tread the great ſtage of life to play the fool.
No partial friends can there our faults conceal,
Should we play characters we cannot feel.
If we act law—are judges!—then are We
Like Juſtice, blind—as council, we may ſee
Enough to know the colour of a fee.
[170] In Phyſic—Practice is our beſt adviſer,
The more we're puzzled, we muſt ſeem the wiſer.
If war's our trade, and we vain, bluſt'ring, young,
Should, Thraſo-like, fight battles with our tongue,
Soon 'twould appear how ill theſe airs became us;
The foe comes on—quid nunc? quin redeamus.
In ſhort, be what we may, experience teaches
This truth—One deed is worth a thouſand ſpeeches.
John Moody of Sir Wronghead well has told it,
He can ſpeak ſtawtly, but he canna' hawld it.
This for myſelf and ſchool!—Now let me ſay,
Why with theſe Engliſh rhimes we cloſe our play:
Ladies, for you they're meant—I feel, to you,
Small as I am, that great reſpect is due:
Quit of my Grecian ſervitude, I crave
Still to be Engliſh Davus—and your ſlave.
To ſuccour helpleſs damſels is my plan,
If you ſhould want me, ladies, I'm your man.
Should ſtubborn age your tender hearts provoke,
" I ſoften rocks, and bend the knotted oak:"
Or ſhould falſe ſwains for other nymphs forſake ye,
Stay a few years, and I'll be proud to take ye.
If in your ſmiles we approbation read,
'Tis done already—I'm a man indeed.

XXXVIII. PROLOGUE
Spoken at Drury-Lane, June 4th, 1761, on cloſing the Seaſon.

[171]
WHILE all is Feaſting, Mirth, Illumination,
And but one wiſh goes thro' this happy nation;
While ſongs of triumph mark the golden time,
Accept, for once, our grateful thanks in rhime,
In plain, but honeſt language, void of art;
Simplicity's the rhet'ric of the heart.
We ſhun poetic ornaments; we ſcorn 'em;
Your bounties want no fiction to adorn 'em:
Tho' in continu'd ſtreams your favours flow'd,
We ſtill have aſk'd, and you have ſtill beſtow'd;
Have granted each petition o'er and o'er,
Yet we, like other beggars—aſk for more.
What can we aſk, bleſt with ſuch favours paſt?
This only—that thoſe favours ſtill may laſt.
May this day's joy return with many a year,
And, when it comes, with added joys appear!
May Art and Science reach the topmoſt heights,
May ev'ry muſe prepare for nobler flights!
May every bleſſing every hour encreaſe,
And all be crown'd with that chief bleſſing, PEACE!
[172] May he, that BRITON BORN*, who glads all hearts,
Who to this land unbounded love imparts,
Unites each party, every art befriends,
And ev'n to this poor ſpot a ſmile extends;
May he in Fame our warmeſt hopes outrun,
As you in happineſs—for both are one!
O may the Summer anſwer to the Spring,
And that it may, good heav'n—LONG LIVE THE KING!

XXXIX. EPILOGUE to ALL IN THE WRONG*.
Spoken by Mrs. YATES.

BLESS me, this ſummer work is ſo fatiguing!
And then our play's ſo buſtling, ſo intriguing!
Such miſſing, ſighing, ſcolding, all together,
Theſe love affairs ſuit beſt in colder weather.
[173] At this warm time theſe writers ſhould not treat you
With too much love and paſſion—for they heat you;
Poets like weavers ſhould with taſte and reaſon
Adapt their various goods to every ſeaſon—
For the hot months the fanciful and ſlight,—
For mind and body ſomething cool and light:
Authors themſelves, indeed, neglect this rule,
Dreſs warm in ſummer, and at Chriſtmas cool.
I told our author, that theſe five act plays
Were rich brocades unfit for ſultry days.
Were you a cook, ſaid I, would you prepare
Large hams and roaſted ſurloins for your fare?
Their very ſmoke would pall a city glutton—
A tragedy! would make you all unbutton!
Both appetites now aſk for daintier picking,
Farce,—Pantomime,—cold lamb,—or whitelegg'd chicken.
At Ranelagh,—fine rolls and butter ſee!
Signior Tenducci, and the beſt green tea—
Italian ſinging is as light as feather,
Beard is too loud, too powerful for this weather.
Vauxhall more ſolidly regales your palates,
Good wine, cantatas, cold boil'd beef and ballads.
What ſhall we do your different taſtes to hit?
You reliſh ſatire
[to the pit]
you ragouts of wit—
[To the Boxes.
[174] Your taſte is humour and high-ſeaſon'd joke,
[Firſt gallery.
You call for hornpipes, and for hearts of oak,
[Second gallery.
O could I wiſh and have—A conjuring man
Once told my fortune—and he charm'd this fan—
Said with a flirt—I might enjoy my wiſh!
If ſo, I'll give you, Sirs, an Engliſh diſh.
If I like Harlequin have power o'er men,
I'll flirt and wiſh, and wiſh and flirt again—
Come then a ſong
(flirts and muſick is heard)
indeed! I ſee 'twill do;
Take heed gallants, I'll play the deuce with—you—
Whene'er I pleaſe, will charm you to my fight,
And tear a fan with flirting every night.
Singers then entered and ſung the following ſong.
YE critics above, and ye critics below,
Ye finer-ſpun critics who keep the mid row,
Oh, tarry one moment, I'll ſing you a ſong,
Shall prove that like us—You are all in the wrong.
Sing tantara rara, wrong all, wrong all,
Sing tantara rara, all wrong.
Ye poets who mount on the fam'd winged ſteed,
Of prancing, and wincing, and kicking take heed;
[175] For when by thoſe hornets, the critics, he's ſtung,
You are thrown in the dirt—And are all in the wrong.
Sing Tantara rara, &c.
Ye actors who act what theſe writers have writ,
Pray ſtick to your poet, and ſpare your own wit;
For when, with your own, you unbridle your tongue,
I'll hold ten to one—You are all in the wrong.
Sing Tantara rara, &c.
Ye knaves who make news for the fooliſh to read,
Who print daily ſlanders, the hungry to feed;
For a while you miſlead 'em, the news-hunting throng,
But the pillory proves—You are all in the wrong.
Sing Tantara rara, &c.
Ye grave politicians, ſo deep and ſo wiſe,
With your hums, and your ſhrugs, and your uplifted eyes,
The road that you travel is tedious and long,
But I pray you jog on—You are all in the wrong.
Sing Tantara rara, &c.
Ye happy fond huſbands, and fond happy wives,
Let never ſuſpicions embitter your lives;
Let your prudence be ſtout, and your faith be as ſtrong;
Who watch, or who catch—They are all in the wrong.
Sing Tantara rara, &c.
[176]
Ye unmarried folks, be not bought or be ſold;
Let age avoid youth, and the young ones the old;
For they'll ſoon get together, the young with the young,
And then my wiſe old ones—You're all in the wrong.
Sing Tantara rara, &c.
Ye ſoldiers and ſailors who bravely have fought,
Who honour, and glory, and laurels have brought;
Let your foes but appear, you'll be at them dingdong,
And if they come near you—They're all in the wrong.
Sing Tantara rara, &c.
Ye judges of taſte to our labours be kind,
Our errors are many, pray wink or be blind;
Still find your way hither, to glad us each night,
And our note we will change to—You're all in the right.
Sing tantara rara, right all, right all,
Sing Tantarara, right all.

XL. EPILOGUE to HECUBA*.
Spoken by Miſs BRIDE.

[177]
STRIPP'D of my tragic weeds, and rais'd from death,
In freedom's land, again, I draw my breath:
Tho' late a Trojan ghoſt, in Charon's ferry,
I'm now an Engliſh girl, alive, and merry!
Hey! Preſto! I'm in Greece a maiden ſlain.
Now! ſtranger ſtill! a maid in Drury-lane!
No more by barb'rous men, and laws confin'd,
I claim my native right—to ſpeak my mind.
Tho' poring pedants ſhould applaud this piece,
Behold a champion—foe profeſt of Greece!
I throw my gauntlet to the critic race:
(Throws down her glove.
Come forth, bold Grecians!—Meet me face to face!
Come forth, ye men of learning, at my call!
Learning! a little feeling's worth it all!
And you of Taſte, and Faſhion, I defy!
(Throws down another glove.
But hold—you hate the Greek as much as I;
[178] Then, let us join our force, and boldly ſpeak—
That Engliſh, ev'ry thing ſurpaſſes Greek.
Kill a young virgin, to reſiſt unable!
Kill her, like houſe-lamb, for a dead man's table!
Well may you tremble, ladies, and look pale!
Do you not ſhudder, parents, at this tale?
You ſacrifice a daughter now and then,
To rich, old, wither'd, half-departed men;
With us, there's no compulſive law, that can
Make a live girl to wed a quite dead man!
Had I been wedded to ſome ancient King!
I mean a Grecian—Ancient's not the thing;
Then had our bard made ample reparation!
Then had you ſeen a Grecian Coronation!
Sneer not, ye critics, at this rage for ſhow,
That honeſt hearts at Coronations glow*!
Nor ſnarl that our faint copies glad their eyes,
When from the thing itſelf ſuch bleſſings riſe.

XLI. PROLOGUE upon PROLOGUES to The MUSICAL LADY*.
Spoken by Mr. KING.

[179]
AN old trite proverb let me quote!
As is your cloth, ſo cut your coat.—
To ſuit our Author and his Farce,
Short let me be! for wit is ſcarce.
Nor would I ſhew it, had I any,
The reaſons why are ſtrong and many.
Should I have wit, the piece have none.
A flaſh in pan with empty gun.
The piece is ſure to be undone.
A tavern with a gaudy ſign
Whoſe buſh is better than the wine,
May cheat you once—Will that device,
Neat as imported, cheat you twice?
'Tis wrong to raiſe your expectations:
Poets be dull in dedications!
Dulneſs in theſe to wit prefer—
But there indeed you ſeldom err.
In prologues, prefaces, be flat!
A ſilver button ſpoils your hat.
A thread-bare coat might jokes eſcape,
Did not the blockheads lace the cape.
A caſe in point to this before ye,
Allow me, pray, to tell a ſtory!
[180] To turn the penny, once, a wit,
Upon a curious fancy hit;
Hung out a board, on which he boaſted,
Dinner for Three-pence! Boil'd and roaſted!
The hungry read, and in they trip
With eager eye and ſmacking lip:
" Here, bring this boil'd and roaſted, pray!"
—Enter Potatoes—dreſs'd each way.
All ſtar'd and roſe, the houſe forſook,
And damn'd the dinner—kick'd the cook,
My landlord ſound (poor Patrick Kelly)
There was no joking with the belly.
Theſe facts laid down, then thus I reaſon:
—Wit in a prologue's out of ſeaſon—
Yet ſtill will you for jokes ſit watching,
Like Cock-lane folks for Fanny's ſcratching*,
And here my ſimile's ſo fit!
For Prologues are but Ghoſts of wit;
Which mean to ſhew their art and ſkill,
And ſcratch you to their Author's will.
In ſhort, for reaſons great and ſmall,
'Tis better to have none at all:
Prologues and Ghoſts—a paltry trade!
So let them both at once be laid!
Say but the word -give your commands—
We'll tie OUR prologue-monger's hands:
Confine theſe culprits
(holding up his hands)
bind 'em tight,
Nor Girls can ſcratch, nor Fools can write.

THE FARMER'S RETURN FROM LONDON. AN INTERLUDE*.

[]

PERSONS of the INTERLUDE.

[]
  • Farmer,
    Mr. GARRICK.
    Wife,
    Mrs. BRADSHAW.
  • Children,
    Sally,
    Miſs HEATH.
    Dick,
    Maſter POPE.
    Ralph,
    Maſter CAPE.
SCENE, The Farmer's Kitchen.

XLII. THE Farmer's Return from London.

[183]
Enter WIFE (haſtily.)
WHERE are you, my children?—why Sally, Dick, Raaph!
Enter Children running.
Your father is come! heaven bleſs him! and ſafe.
Enter FARMER.
O Jahn! my heart dances with joy thou art come.
FARMER.
And troth ſo does mine, for I love thee and whoam.
(Kiſſes)
WIFE.
Now kiſs all your children—and now me agen.
(Kiſſes)
O bleſs thy ſweet face! for one kiſs, gi' me ten.
FARMER.
Keep ſome for anon, Dame! you quoite ſtop my breath!
You kill me wi' koindneſs; you buſs me to death:
[184] Enough, love!—enough is as good as a feeaſt:
Let's ha' ſome refreſhment for me and my beeaſt.
Dick, get me a poipe.
[Exit Dick]
Raaph, go to the mare;
Gi' poor wench ſome oaats.
[Exit Ralph]
Dame, reach me a chair.
Sal, draw me ſome aal, to waſh the dirt down,
(Exit Sal.
And then I will tell you—of London fine town.
(Sits down.
WIFE.
O Jahn! you've been from me, the lord knows how long!
Yo've been with the falſe ones, and done me ſome wrong:
FARMER.
By the zooks but I han't; ſo hold thy fool's tongue.
Some tittups I ſaw, and they maade me to ſtare!
Trick'd noice out for ſaale, like our cattle at fair:
So tempting, ſo fine! and i'cod very cheap;
But, Bridget, I know, as we ſow we muſt reeap,
And a cunning old ram will avoid rotten ſheep.
Enter Dick, with a pipe and a candle, and Sal, with ſome ale.
WIFE.
But London, dear Jahn!
FARMER.
Is a fine hugeous city!
Where the geeſe are all ſwans, and the fools are all witty.
WIFE.
[185]
Did you ſee ony Wits?
FARMER.
I look'd up and down,
But 'twas labour in vain; they were all out of town.
I aſk'd for the maakers o' news, and ſuch things!
Who know all the ſecrets of kingdoms, and kings!
So buſy were they, and ſuch matters about,
That ſix days in the ſeven they never ſtir out.
Koind ſouls! with our freedom they make ſuch a fuſs,
That they loſe it themſelves to beſtow upon us.
WIFE.
But was't thou at Court, Jahn? What there haſt thou ſeen?
FARMER.
I ſaw 'em—heav'n bleſs 'em—you know who I mean.
I heard their healths pray'd for, agen and agen,
With proviſo that One may be ſick now and then.
Some looks ſpeak their hearts, as it were with a tongue—
O Dame! I'll be damn'd if they e'er do us wrong:
Here's to 'em—bleſs 'em boath!—do you take the jug;
Woud't do their hearts good—I'd ſwallow the mug.
(Drinks.)
[186] Come, pledge me, my boy.
(To Dick)
Hold, lad, haſt nothing to ſay?
DICK.
Here, Daddy, here's to 'em!
(Drinks)
FARMER.
Well ſaid, Dick, boy!
DICK.
Huzza!
WIFE.
What more didſt thou ſee, to beget admiraation?
FARMER.
The city's fine ſhow: but firſt the Crownation!
'Twas thof all the world had been there with their ſpouſes;
There was ſtreet within ſtreet, and houſes on houſes!
I thought from above, (when the folk fill'd the pleaces)
The ſtreets pav'd with heads, and the walls made of feaces!
Such juſtling and buſtling! 'twas worth all the pother.
I hope from my ſoul, I ſhall ne'er ſee another.
SAL.
Dad, what did you ſee at the pleays, and the ſhows?
FARMER.
What did I ſee at the pleays and the ſhows?
Why bouncing and grinning, and a pow'r of fine cloaths:
[187] From top to the bottom 'twas all 'chanted ground,
Gold, painting, and muſick, and blaazing all round!
Above 'twas like Bedlam, all roaring and rattling!
Below, the fine folk were all curts'ying and prattling:
Strange jumble together—Turks, Chriſtians, and Jews!
At the Temple of Folly, all crowd to the pews.
Here too doizen'd out, where thoſe ſame freakiſh ladies,
Who keep open market,—tho' ſmuggling their treade is.
I ſaw a new pleay too—They call'd it The School
I thought it pure ſtuff—but I thought like a fool—
'Twas The School of *—pize on it!—my mem'ry is naught—
The greaat ones diſlik'd it; they heate to be taught:
The cratticks too grumbled; I'll tell you for whoy,
They wanted to laugh—and were ready to croy.
WIFE.
Pray what are your cratticks?
FARMER.
Like watchmen in town,
Lame, feeble, half-blind, yet they knock poets down.
[188] Like old Juſtice Wormwood—a crattick's a man,
That can't ſin himſelf, and he heates thoſe that can.
I ne'er went to opras! I thought it too grand,
For poor folk to like what they don't underſtand.
The top joke of all, and what pleas'd me the moaſt,
Some wiſe ones and I ſat up with a ghoaſt.
WIFE and CHILDREN.
A ghoaſt!—
(ſtarting.)
FARMER.
Yes, a ghoaſt!
WIFE.
I ſhall ſwoond away, love!
FARMER.
Odzooks! thou'rt as bad as thy betters above!
With her nails, and her knuckles, ſhe anſwer'd ſo noice!
For Yes ſhe knock'd Once, and for No ſhe knock'd Twoice.
I aſk'd her one thing—
WIFE.
What thing?
FARMER.
If yo', Dame, was true?
WIFE.
And the poor ſoul knock'd one.
FARMER.
By the zounds it was two.
WIFE.
[189]
I'll not be abus'd, Jahn.
(Cries)
FARMER.
Come, prithee no croying,
The ghoaſt, among friends, was much giv'n to loying.
WIFE.
I'll tear out her eyes—
FARMER.
I thought, Dame, of matching
Your neails againſt hers—for you're both good at ſcratching.
They may talk of the country, but, I ſay, in town,
Their throats are much woider, to ſwallow things down.
I'll uphold, in a week—by my troth I don't joke—
That our little Sall ſhall fright all the town folk.
Come, get me ſome ſupper—But firſt let me peep
At the reſt of my children—my calves and my ſheep.
(Going)
WIFE.
Ah! Jahn!
FARMER.
Nay, chear up; let not ghoaſts trouble thee—
Bridget! look in thy glaſs—and there thou may'ſt ſee,
I defie mortal man to make cuckold o' me.
[Exeunt.

XLIII. EPILOGUE to ELVIRA*.
Spoken by Mrs. CIBBER.

[190]
LADIES and Gentlemen—'tis ſo ill bred—
We have no Epilogue, becauſe I'm dead;
For he, our bard, with frenzy-rolling eye,
Swears you ſhan't laugh, when he has made you cry.
At which I gave his ſleeve a gentle pull,
Suppoſe they ſhould not cry, and ſhould be dull;
In ſuch a caſe, 'twould ſurely do no harm,
A little lively nonſenſe taken warm;
On critic ſtomachs delicate and queaſy,
'Twill ev'n make a heavy meal ſit eaſy.
The town hates Epilogues—it is not true,
I anſwer'd that for you—and you—and you—
[To Pit, Boxes, and 1ſt Gal.
They call for Epilogues and hornpipes too.
[To the Upper Gal.
Madam, the critics ſay,—to you they're civil,
Here, if they have 'em not, they'll play the devil.
Out of this houſe, ſir, and to you alone,
They'll ſmile, cry bravo! charming!—Here they groan:
[191] A ſingle critic will not frown, look big,
Harmleſs and pliant as a ſingle twig,
But crouded here they change, and 'tis not odd,
For twigs, when bundled up, become a rod.
Critics to bards, like beauties to each other,
When tete-a-tete their enmity they ſmother;
" Kiſs me, my dear—how do you? -charming creature!
" What ſhape! what bloom! what ſpirit in each feature!
" You flatter me—'pon honor, no.—You do—
" My friend—my—Dear ſincerely yours—adieu!"
But when at routs, the dear friends change their tone;
I ſpeak of foreign ladies, not our own.
Will you permit, good firs, theſe gloomy folk
To give all tragedy without one joke?
They gravely tell us, Tragedy's deſign'd
To purge the paſſions, purify the mind;
To which I ſay, to ſtrike thoſe blockheads dumb,
With phyſic always give a ſugar plumb;
I love theſe ſugar-plumbs in proſe or rhimes;
No one is merrier than myſelf ſometimes;
Yet I, poor I, with tears and conſtant moan,
Am melted down almoſt to ſkin and bone:
This night, in ſighs and ſobs I drew my breath;
Love, marriage, treaſon, priſon, poiſon, death,
Were ſcarce ſufficient to complete my fate;
Two children were thrown in to make up weight.
[192] With all theſe ſufferings, is it not provoking,
To be deny'd at laſt a little joking?
If they will make new laws, for mirth's ſake break 'em,
Roar out for Epilogues, and let me ſpeak 'em.

XLIV. ADDRESS to the TOWN,
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK* in the Character of the Buſy Body.

SINCE my good friends, tho' late, are pleas'd at laſt,
I bear with patience all my ſuff'rings paſt;
To you who ſaw my ſuff'rings, it is clear,
I bought my ſecrets moſt confounded dear.
To any gentleman not over nice,
I'll ſell 'em all again, and at half price.
Would I had been among you! for no doubt,
You all have ſecrets, could I find them out.
Each has a ſecret fitted to his fancy;
My friends above there—honeſt John and Nancy!
[193] How well their ſecrets with their paſſions ſuit,
Hearts full of love, and pockets full of fruit,
Each jolly ſailor thus his miſtreſs grapples,
They look, and laugh, and love, and—eat their apples.
So good or wiſe this precious town is growing,
There's ſcarce a ſecret here, that's worth the knowing;
Nay, where a hungry mind expects a feaſt,
'Mongſt politicians—it will get the leaſt.
They promiſe much—ſeem full—ſtare, nod and pout,
But tap 'em, and the devil a drop comes out.
In ſhort, I'll give this buſy buſineſs over,
Where much is felt, and little to diſcover;
But ſhould the ladies wiſh, or want t' employ me,
I ſhould be proud and pleas'd if they would try me.
To manage meetings, or to ſlip a letter,
There's no French millener can do it better.
As for the gentleman—the rake, or beau—
I would not give 'em that—for all they know;
Indeed for ſecrets there are none excel 'em,
But then they make 'em, and when made, they tell 'em.
There is one ſecret ſtill remains behind,
Which ever did, and will diſtract my mind—
I'd give up all for that—nay, fix for ever,
To find the ſecret—to deſerve your favour.

XLV. PROLOGUE,
Spoken by Mr. LOVE, on opening the new Theatre on Richmond-Green*.

[194]
THE ſhip now launch'd with neceſſaries ſtor'd,
Rigg'd, mann'd, well built, and a rich freight on board,
All ready, tight and trim, from head to poop,
And by commiſſion make a royal ſloop;
May heav'n from tempeſts, rocks, and privateers,
Preſerve The Richmond!—give her, boys, three cheers!
(three huzzas behind.
Queen Mab, our Shakeſpeare ſays, and I believe him,
In ſleep haunts each vain mortal to deceive him;
As in her hazle nut ſhe lightly trips,
By turns o'er eyes, ears, fingers, noſe, and lips,
Each quicken'd ſenſe ſuch ſweet enchantment ſeizes,
We hear, ſee, ſmell, taſte, touch—whate'er ſhe pleaſes.
Look round this houſe, and various proof you'll ſee,
Strong glaring proofs, that Mab has been with me.
[195] She caught me napping, knew where I was vain,
And tickled every fibre of my brain:
Deep in my muſing (deep as I was able)
Methought I ſaw her driving tow'rds my table,
She whiſk'd her chariot o'er my books and ſhelves,
And at my ſtandiſh ſtopp'd her tiny elves:
What are you ſcribbling there?—quick, let me ſee!
Poh!—leave this nonſenſe, and along with me.
I grinning bow'd—Bright ſtar of Lilliput,
Shall I not crowd you in your bazle nut?
She ſmil'd, and ſhewing me a large-ſiz'd hamper,
Get into this, my friend, and then we'll ſcamper;
I for this frolick wanting quick digeſtion,
Sent to my tongue, poſt-haſte, another queſtion;
But crack ſhe went, before that I could aſk it,
She, in her ſtage—I, Faltſaff, in the baſket:
She wav'd her wand, then burſt in fits of laughter,
To ſee me rowling, bowling, tumbling after;
And I laugh'd too. Could you of laughing fail
To ſee a Minnow towing of a whale?
At laſt we reſted on a hill hard by,
With a ſweet vale to feaſt the glutton eye:
I'll ſhew you more, ſhe ſaid, to charm and move us,
And to the gardens, quick as thought, ſhe drove us;
Then pointing to the ſhade—there, there they are,
Of this moſt happy iſle the happieſt pair!
Oh! may thoſe virtuous raptures never ceaſe,
Nor public cares diſturb their private peace!
[196] She ſigh'd—and like the lightning was ſhe ſeen
To drive her chariot o'er this fav'rite green;
Strait to this ſpot—where ſhe infus'd ſuch things
Might turn the heads of twenty play-houſe kings.
But fear, diſperſing all my golden dream,
And I juſt entering on this fairy-ſcheme;
With wild ſurprize I caſt my eyes about,
Deluſion ends, and now I wake to doubt:
O may the dream be realiz'd by you!
Your frowns or ſmiles can make this falſe or true.

XLVI. The OCCASIONAL PROLOGUE,
Spoken by Mr. KING at the Opening of Drury-Lane Theatre, September 1765.

[Enter, reading a Subſcription.]
I'M right—your ſervant, ſirs—th' Addreſs is plain—
To the high court of critics, Drury-lane.
Two ladies, ſiſters, women of condition,
Have ſent by me, their courier, a petition.
Who are theſe ladies ſhould the curious aſk?
See their broad ſeal, a dagger and a maſk!
Here, Braſs, take this. I anſwer to the name,
Am at their call, and for your ſervice came.
[197] 'Tis ſign'd, as you may plainly ſee,
Thalia and Melpomene,
Alias, Tragedy and Comedy.
Poor ſouls! they're angry; and to hint is treaſon
That angry ladies have not always reaſon;
In claſſic language they complain of wrong,
Which thus I change to mine, the vulgar tongue.
They ſet forth at large, that their caſe is ſo ſad,
That poor Comedy weeps, and that Tragedy's mad;
That Op'ra, their rival, heretofore maid of honour,
Has got to your hearts, and has ta'en much upon her;
That this foreign minx has engroſs'd all your favours,
And fritter'd their paſſions and humour to quavers;
That ſhe walks cheek by jole, and won't hold up her tail;
So humbly they beg, that you'll ſend her to jail;
There ſtrip her, and whip her, then ſend her away,
And, bound as in duty, for ever they'll pray.
My miſtreſſes mettled, ſo high in their blood,
Would ſcratch poor Op'ra's eyes out, if they could.
Suppoſe, your honours, to avoid a fuſs,
And ſave the pulling caps, adjuſt it thus.
[198] When Tragedy has barrow'd up the ſoul,
Flung'd deep her dagger, or toſs'd off her bowl;
When grief, rage, murder, ſtrew the palace round,
Muſick ſhould pour her balm into the wound;
Or, when the Comic Laſs has ſhook your ſides,
That laughter ſwell'd ſo high, burſt out in tides,
Then Muſick, with its ſweet enchanting ſtrain,
Should to its banks lure back the tide again.
But how ſhall we your various fancies bind,
When ev'ry Briton has a diff'rent mind?
Muſick's a harlot, (thus Tom Surly ſpoke)
Whoſe charms will bend our honeſt Hearts of Oak!
What are the Romans now, once brave and free?
Nothing but tweedle-dum and tweedle-dee.
Read Shakſpur (cries his wife) he'll blunt your ſatire,
Who has not muſick in his ſoul's a traitor.
Ev'n ſavage beaſts are mov'd by muſick's touch;
And you, my dear, to be unmov'd—is much.
Mammy is right (liſps Miſs)—you're wrong, my Daddy;
I'd hear for ever, ſir, Through the Wood Laddie *.
How's this! roars out a bard, in tragic pride,
This catgut p ſt comes on with mighty ſtride;
In Muſick's lulling magick we are bound;
Like yawning, ſpreads the epidemick ſound,
" For when one yawns, by turns we yawn all round."

XLVII. PROLOGUE to DAPHNE and AMINTOR*.
Spoken by Mr. POWELL.

[199]
A SKILFUL cook this uſeful art will boaſt,
To haſh and mince, as well as boil and roaſt;
Our cook to-night has for your fare made bold
To haſh a piece of ven'ſon that was cold;
With freſh ingredients ſeaſons high the ſtew,
And hopes the gueſts will heartily fall to.
Leaving the piece to anſwer for itſelf,
We beg your favour for a little elf;
A young one, and a good one; yet no ſinner;
And though a female, has no miſchief in her:
Tho' oft with ſyren ſong ſhe charm'd your ears,
She now has other hopes, and other fears:
She hopes, not yet content with what is done,
To find more ways into your hearts than one.
A paſſion long ſhe hid, 'till out it broke,
And thus, with bluſhing diffidence, ſhe ſpoke:
[200] " What joys, what raptures in my breaſt would ſpring,
" Had I but leave to act, as well as ſing!
" Though young I am, and difficult the trade is,
" In time, I'll do as much as other ladies."
Ye giant wits, who run a tilt at all,
Who ſpare nor ſex, nor age, nor great nor ſmall,
Should you, fell criticks! like the French wild beaſt*,
With gluttony refin'd on damſels feaſt—
[201] Spare ours awhile!—let her ſome ſubſtance get;
Plumpt high with fame—ſhe's ſcarce a mouthful yet.
Or would ye, ladies, ſtrike theſe giants dumb,
You can protect her from their fee-faw-fum!
Though humble now, how ſoon would ſhe be vain,
Should you but cry—Bravo!—we'll come again!
To raiſe your ſmiles were it her happy lot,
For ſmiles are honeſt when the hands are not;
Should you our little ſongſtreſs kindly treat,
With gratitude her little heart would beat;
What raptures for a female, and ſo young,
To have a double right to uſe her tongue!

XLVIII. PROLOGUE,
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK before Much ado about Nothing, acted by Command of his Majeſty*.

WITH doubt—joy—apprehenſion almoſt dumb,
Once more to face this awful court I come;
Leſt Benedict ſhould ſuffer by my fear,
Before he enters, I myſelf am here.
[202] I'm told (what flatt'ry to my heart!) that you*
Have wiſh'd to ſee me, nay have preſs'd it too,
Alas! 'twill prove another much ado.
I, like a boy who long has truant play'd,
No leſſons got, no exerciſes made,
On bloody Monday take my fearful ſtand,
And often eye the birchen-ſcepter'd hand.
'Tis twice twelve years ſince firſt the ſtage I trod,
Enjoy'd your ſmiles, and felt the critics rod;
A very nine-pin I, my ſtage-life through,
Knock'd down by wits, ſet up again by you.
In four and twenty years the ſpirits cool;
Is it not long enough to play the fool?
To prove it is, permit me to repeat
What late I heard in paſſing thro' the ſtreet:
A youth of parts, with ladies by his ſide,
Thus cock'd his glaſs, and through it ſhot my pride:
' 'Tis he, by Jove! grown quite a clumſy fellow;
' He's fit for nothing—but a Punchinello.'
' O yes, for comic ſcenes, Sir John—no further;
' He's much too fat—for battles, rape, and murther!'
Worn in the ſervice, you my faults will ſpare,
And make allowance for the wear and tear.
The Chelſea penſioner, who, rich in ſcars,
Fights o'er in prattle all his former wars;
Tho' paſt the ſervice, may the young ones teach,
To march—preſent—to fire—and mount the breach.
[203] Should the drum beat to arms, at firſt he'll grieve
For wooden leg, loſt eye—and armleſs ſleeve;
Then cocks his hat, looks fierce, and ſwells his cheſt;
'Tis for my King, and, zounds, I'll do my beſt!

XLIX. PROLOGUE to the CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE*.
Spoken by Mr. HOLLAND.

POETS and painters, who from nature draw
Their beſt and richeſt ſtores, have made this law:
That each ſhould neighbourly aſſiſt his brother,
And ſteal with decency from one another.
To-night, your matchleſs Hogarth gives the thought,
Which from his canvas to the ſtage is brought.
And who ſo fit to warm the poet's mind,
As he who pictur'd morals and mankind?
But not the ſame their characters and ſcenes;
Both labour for one end, by different means:
[204] Each, as it ſuits him, takes a ſeparate road,
Their one great object, Marriage A-la-mode!
Where Titles deign with Cits to have and hold,
And change rich blood for more ſubſtantial gold!
And honour'd trade from intereſt turns aſide,
To hazard happineſs for titled pride.
The painter dead, yet ſtill he charms the eye;
While England lives, his fame can never die:
But he, who ſtruts his hour upon the ſtage,
Can ſcarce extend his fame for half an age;
Nor pen nor pencil can the Actor ſave,
The art, and artiſt, ſhare one common grave.
O let me drop one tributary tear
On poor Jack Falſtaff's grave, and Juliet's bier*!
You to their worth muſt teſtimony give;
'Tis in your hearts alone their fame can live.
Still as the ſcenes of life will ſhift away,
The ſtrong impreſſions of their art decay.
Your children cannot feel what you have known;
They'll boaſt of Quins and Cibbers of their own:
The greateſt glory of our happy ſew,
Is to be felt, and be approv'd by YOU.

L. EPILOGUE to the CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE.

[205]
CHARACTERS of the EPILOGUE.
Lord Minum
Mr. Dodd.
Colonel Trill
Mr. Vernon.
Sir Patrick Mahony
Mr. Moody.
Miſs Crotchet
Mrs. Abington.
Mrs. Quaver
Mrs. Lee.
Firſt Lady
Mrs. Bradſhaw.
Second Lady
Miſs Mills.
Third Lady
Mrs. Dorman.
SCENE, An Aſſembly.
Several Perſons at Cards, at different Tables; among the reſt Col. Trill, Lord Minum, Mrs. Quaver, Sir Patrick Mahony.
At the Quadrille Table.
Col. T.
LADIES, with leave—
2d Lady.
Paſs!
3d Lady.
Paſs!
Mrs. Qu.
You muſt do more.
Col. T.
Indeed I can't.
Mrs. Qu.
I play in Hearts.
Col. T.
Encore!
2d Lady.
[206]
What luck?
Col. T.
To-night at Drury-lane is play'd
A comedy, and toute nouvelle—a Spade!
Is not Miſs Crotchet at the play?
Mrs. Qu.
My niece
Has made a party, ſir, to damn the piece.
At the Whiſt Table.
Ld. Min.
I hate a play-houſe—trump!—it makes me ſick.
1ſt Lady.
We're two by honours, ma'am.
Ld. Min.
And we the odd trick.
Pray do you know the author, Colonel Trill?
Col. T.
I know no poets, heav'n be prais'd—Spadille!
1ſt Lady.
I'll tell you who, my lord!
(whiſpers my lord)
Ld. Min.
What he again?
" And dwell ſuch daring ſouls in little men?"
Be whoſe it will, they down our throats will cram it.
Col. T.
O no.—I have a Club—the beſt—we'll damn it.
Mrs. Qu.
O bravo, Colonel! muſick is my flame.
Ld. Min.
And mine, by Jupiter! We've won the game.
Col. T.
What, do you love all muſick?
Mrs. Qu.
No, not Handel's.
And naſty Plays—
Ld. Min.
Are fit for Goths and Vandals.
(Riſe from the table and pay.)
[207] At the Piquette Table.
Sir Pat.
Well, faith and troth! that Shakſpeare was no fool!
Col. T.
I'm glad you like him, ſir!—So ends the Pool!
(Pay and riſe from table.)
SONG by the Colonel.
I hate all their nonſenſe,
Their Shakeſpeares and Johnſons,
Their plays, and their play-houſe, and bards:
'Tis ſinging, not ſaying;
A fig for all playing,
But playing, as we do, at cards!
I love to ſee Jonas,
Am pleas'd too with Comus;
Each well the ſpectator rewards.
So clever, ſo neat in
Their tricks and their cheating!
Like them we would fain deal our cards.
Sir Pat.
King Lare is touching!—And how fine to ſee
Ould Hamlet's ghoſt!—"To be, or not to be."
What are your op'ras to Othello's roar?
Oh he's an angel of a blackamoor!
Ld. Min.
What, when he choaks his wife?
Col. T.
And calls her whore?
Sir Pat.
[208]
King Richard calls his horſe—and then Macbeth,
Whene'er he murders—takes away the breath.
My blood runs cold at ev'ry ſyllable,
To ſee the dagger—that's inviſible.
(All laugh.)
Sir Pat.
Laugh if you pleaſe, a pretty play—
Ld. Min.
Is pretty.
Sir Pat.
And when there's wit in't—
Col T.
To be ſure 'tis witty.
Sir Pat.
I love the play-houſe now—ſo light and gay,
With all thoſe candles,* they have ta [...]en away!
(All laugh)
For all your game, what makes it ſo much brighter?
Col. T.
Put out the light, and then—
Ld. Min.
'Tis ſo much lighter.
Sir Pat.
Pray do you mane, ſirs, more than you expreſs?
Col. T.
Juſt as it happens—
Ld. Min.
Either more or leſs.
Mrs. Qu.
An't you aſham'd, ſir?
[to Sir Pat.]
Sir Pat.
Me! I ſeldom bluſh.
For little Shakeſpeare, faith! I'd take a puſh!
Ld. Min.
News, news! here comes Miſs Crotchet from the play.
[209] Enter Miſs Crotchet.
Mrs. Qu.
Well, Crotchet, what's the news?
Miſs Cro.
We've loſt the day.
Col. T.
Tell us, dear miſs, all you have heard and ſeen.
Miſs Cro.
I'm tir'd—a chair—here, take my capuchin!
Ld. Min.
And isn't damn'd, miſs?
Miſs Cro.
No, my lord, not quite:
But we ſhall damn it.
Col. T.
When?
Miſs Cro.
To-morrow night.
There is a party of us, all of faſhion,
Reſolv'd to exterminate this vulgar paſſion:
A play-houſe, what a place! I muſt forſwear it.
A little miſchief only makes one bear it.
Such crowds of city folks!—ſo rude and preſſing!
And their horſe-laughs, ſo hideouſly diſtreſſing!
Whene'er we hiſs'd, they frown'd and fell a ſwearing,
Like their own Guildhall Giants, fierce and ſtaring!
Col. T.
What ſaid the folks of faſhion? were they croſs?
Ld. Min.
The reſt have no more judgment than my horſe.
Miſs Cro.
[210]
Lord Grimly ſwore 'twas execrable ſtuff.
Says one, Why ſo, my lord?—my lord took ſnuff.
In the firſt Act Lord George began to doze,
And criticis'd the Author—through his noſe;
So loud indeed, that as his lordſhip ſnor'd,
The Pit turn'd round, and all the brutes encor'd.
Some lords, indeed, approv'd the Author's jokes.
Ld. Min.
We have among us, miſs, ſome fooliſh folks.
Miſs Cro.
Says poor Lord Simper—Well now, to my mind,
The piece is good; but he's both deaf and blind.
Sir Pat.
Upon my ſoul a very pretty ſtory!
And quality appears in all its glory!
There was ſome merit in the piece, no doubt;
Miſs Cro.
O, to be ſure! if one could find it out.
Col. T.
But tell us, miſs, the ſubject of the play.
Miſs Cro.
Why, 'twas a marriage—yes, a marriage—Stay!
A Lord, an Aunt, two Siſters, and a Merchant—
A Baronet, ten Lawyers, a fat Serjeant,
[211] Are all produc'd—to talk with one another;
And about ſomething make a mighty pother;
They all go in, and out, and to, and fro;
And talk, and quarrel—as they come and go.
Then go to bed, and then get up—and then
Scream, ſaint, ſcold, kiſs—and go to bed again.
(All laugh)
Such is the play—your judgment! never ſham it.
Col. T.
O damn it!
Mrs. Qu.
Damn it!
1ſt Lady.
Damn it!
Miſs Cro.
Damn it!
Ld. Min.
Damn it!
Sir Pat.
Well, faith, you ſpeak your minds, and I'll be free—
Good night! this company's too good for me.
(Going.)
Col. T.
Your judgment, dear Sir Patrick, make us proud.
(All laugh.)
Sir. Pat.
Laugh if you pleaſe, but pray don't laugh too loud.
[Exit.
RECITATIVE.
Col. T.
Now the barbarian's gone, miſs, tune your tongue,
And let us raiſe our ſpirits high with ſong!
[212]RECITATIVE.
Miſs Cro.
Colonel, de tout mon coeur—I've one in petto,
Which you ſhall join, and make it a Duetto.
RECITATIVE.
Ld. Min.
Bella Signora, et Amico mio!
I too will join, and then we'll make a Trio.
Col. T.
Come all and join the full-mouth'd Chorns,
And drive all Tragedy and Comedy before us.
All the Company riſe, and advance to the Front of the Stage.
AIR.
Col. T.
Would you ever go to ſee a Tragedy?
Miſs Cro.
Never, never.
Col. T.
A Comedy?
Ld. M.
Never, never,
Live for ever!
Tweedle-dum, and Tweedle-dee.
Col. T.
Ld. M. and Miſs Cro.
Live for ever!
Tweedle-dum and Tweedle-dee!
CHORUS.
Would you ever go to ſee, &c.

LI. PROLOGUE For the opening of the Briſtol Theatre,
Spoken by Mr. POWELL*.

[213]
BEFORE you ſee, one of your ſtage directors,
Or, if you pleaſe, one of thoſe ſtrange projectors,
Whoſe heated brain in fatal magic bound,
Seeks for that ſtone which never can be found:
But in projection comes the dreadful ſtroke,
The glaſſes burſt, and all is bounce and ſmoke!
Tho' doubtful ſtill our fate—I bite my thumbs,
And my heart fails me—for projection comes:
Your ſmiles would chaſe our fears—ſtill I could dream,
Rich as a Nabob, with my golden ſcheme!
That all the world's a ſtage, you can't deny;
And what's our ſtage?—a ſhop—I'll tell you why.
You are the cuſtomers, the tradeſmen we;
And well for us, you pay, before you ſee:
We give no truſt, a ready money trade;
Should you ſtop payment, we are bankrupts made.
[214] To feaſt your minds, and ſooth each worldly care,
We largely traffic in Dramatic Ware;
Then ſwells our ſhop, a warehouſe to your eyes;
And we from ſmall retailers, merchants riſe!
From Shakeſpeare's golden mines we'll fetch the ore,
And land his riches on this happy ſhore!
For we theatric merchants never quit
His boundleſs ſtores of univerſal wit!
But we in vain ſhall richly laden come,
Unleſs deep water brings us ſafely home;
Unleſs your favour in full tides will flow,
Ship, crew, and cargo, to the bottom go!
Indulge us then, and from our hearts receive
Our warmeſt wiſhes—all we have to give.
May honour'd commerce, with her ſails unfurl'd,
Still bring you treaſures from each diſtant world;
From eaſt to weſt extend this city's name,
Still to her ſons encreaſing wealth with fame.
And may this merit be our honeſt boaſt,
To give you pleaſure, and no virtue loſt.

LII. ADDRESS to the TOWN, by way of EPILOGUE to the COUNTRY GIRL*.
Spoken by Miſs REYNOLDS.

[215]
BUT you good gentry, what ſay you to this?
You are to judge me—have I done amiſs?
I've reaſons will convince ye all, and ſtrong ones,
Except old folks, who hanker after young ones:
Bud was ſo paſſionate, and grown ſo thrifty,
'Twas a ſad life!—and then, he was near fifty.
I'm but nineteen—my huſband too is young,
So ſoft, ſo gentle, ſuch a winning tongue!
Have I, pray ladies ſpeak, done very wrong?
As for poor Bud, 'twas honeſt to deceive him!
More virtuous ſure to cheat him, than to grieve him.
Great folk, I know, will call me ſimple ſlut,
Marry for love, they cry; the country put!
Marriage with them's a faſhion—ſoon grows cool;
But I'm for loving always, like a fool.
With half my fortune I would rather part,
Than be all finery with an aching heart.
For theſe ſtrange aukward notions don't abuſe me,
And as I know no better—pray excuſe me!

LIII. EPILOGUE to the EARL of WARWICK*.
Spoken by Mrs. YATES.

[216]
EXHAUSTED quite with priſons, racks, and death,
Permit me here to take a little breath!
You who have ſeen my actions, know their ſprings,
Say, are we women ſuch inſipid things?
Say, lords of the creation, mighty men!
In what have you ſurpaſs'd us? where? and when?
I come to know to whom the palm is due:
To us weak veſſels, or to ſtronger you?
Againſt your conqu'ring ſwords I draw—my fan.
Come on—now parry Marg'ret, if you can.
(Sets herſelf in a poſture of defence.
Stand up, ye boaſters!
(to the pit)
don't there ſneaking ſit;
Are you for pleaſure, politicks, or wit?
The Boxes ſmile to ſee me ſcold the Pit.
[217] Their turn is next—and, tho' I will not wrong 'em,
A woeful havock there will be among 'em.
You, our beſt friends, love, cheriſh, and reſpect us;
Not take our fortunes, marry, and neglect us.
You think, indeed, that, as you pleaſe, you rule us,
And with a ſtrange importance often ſchool us!
Yet let each citizen deſcribe a brother,
I'll tell you what you ſay of one another.
My neighbour leads, poor ſoul, a woeful life,
A worthy man—but govern'd by his wife!
How ſay you? what, all ſilent! then 'tis true:
We rule the city—now, great ſirs, to you.
(To the Boxes.
What is your boaſt? Would you like me have done,
To free a captive wife, or ſave a ſon?
Rather than run ſuch dangers of your lives,
You'd leave your children, and lock up your wives.
When with your nobleſt deeds a nation rings,
You are but puppets, and we play the ſtrings.
We plan no battles—true—but out of fight,
Crack goes the fan—and armies halt or fight!
You have the advantage, ladies! wiſely reap it,
And let me hint the only way to keep it:
Let men of mean ideas have their fill,
Frown, bounce, ſtride, ſtrut, while you with happy ſkill,
[218] Like anglers, uſe the fineſt ſilken thread;
Give line enough—nor check a tugging head:
The fiſh will flounder; you, with gentle hand,
And ſoft degrees, muſt bring the trout to land:
A more ſpecific noſtrum cannot be—
Probatum eſt—and never fails with me.

LIV. PROLOGUE to CYMON*.
For New-Year's Day.
Spoken by Mr. KING.

I COME, obedient to my brethren's call,
From top to bottom to ſalute you all;
Warmly to wiſh, before our piece you view,
A happy year—to you—you—you—and you!
Boxes, pit, 1ſt gall. 2d gall.
From you the play'rs enjoy, and feel it here,
The merry Chriſtmas and the happy year.
There is a good old ſaying, pray attend it;
As you begin the year, you'll ſurely end it.
Should any one this night incline to evil,
He'll play for twelve long months the very devil!
[219] Should any married dame exert her tongue,
She'll ſing, the zodiac round, the ſame ſweet ſong:
And ſhould the huſband join his muſick too,
Why then 'tis cat and dog the whole year through.
Ye ſons of law and phyſic, for your eaſe,
Be ſure, this day, you never take your fees:
Can't you refuſe?—then the diſeaſe grows ſtrong,
You'll have two itching palms, Lord knows how long!
Writers of news by this ſtrange fate are bound,
They fib to-day, and fib the whole year round.
You wits aſſembled here, both great and ſmall,
Set not this night afloat—your critick gall;
If you ſhould ſnarl, and not incline to laughter,
What ſweet companions for a twelvemonth after!
You muſt be muzzled for this night at leaſt;
Our author has a right this day to feaſt:
He has not touch'd one bit as yet—Remember,
'Tis a long faſt from now, to next December.
'Tis holiday! you are our patrons now;
(To the upper gallery.
If you but grin, the criticks won't bow-wow.
As for the plot, wit, humour, language—I
Beg you ſuch trifles kindly to paſs by;
The moſt eſſential part, which ſomething means,
As dreſſes, dances, ſinkings, flyings, ſcenes!
They'll make you ſtare!—nay, there is ſuch a thing!
Will make you ſtare ſtill more—for I muſt ſing!
[220] And ſhould your taſte and ears be over-nice,
Alas! you'll ſpoil my ſinging in a trice.
If you ſhould growl, my notes will alter ſoon,
I can't be in—if you are out of tune.
Permit my fears your favour to beſpeak,
My part's a ſtrong one, and poor I but weak *.
If you but ſmile, I'm firm; if frown, I ſtumble;
Scarce well of one, ſpare me a ſecond tumble!

LV. EPILOGUE To the ENGLISH MERCHANT*.

Enter Lady Alton (Mrs. ABINGTON) in a paſſion; Spatter (Mr. KING) following.
L. Alt.
I'LL hear no more, thou wretch! attend to reaſon!
A woman of my rank! 'tis petty treaſon!
Hear reaſon, blockhead! Reaſon! what is that?
Bid me wear pattens, and a high-crown'd hat!
[221] Won't you begone? What won't you? What's your view?
Spatter.
Humbly to ſerve the tuneful Nine in you.
I muſt invoke you—
L. Alt.
I renounce ſuch things;
Not Phoebus now, but Vengeance ſweeps the ſtrings:
My mind is diſcord all! I ſcorn, deteſt
All human kind!—you more than all the reſt.
Spatter.
I humbly thank you, ma'am; but weigh the matter.
L. Alt.
I won't hear reaſon! and I hate you, Spatter!
Myſelf, and ev'ry thing.
Spatter.
That I deny;
You love a little miſchief, ſo do I;
And miſchief I have for you.
L. Alt.
How? where? when?
Will you ſtab Falbridge?
Spatter.
Yes, ma'am—with my pen.
L. Alt.
Let looſe, my Spatter, 'till to death you've ſtung 'em,
That green-ey'd monſter, Jealouſy, among 'em.
Spatter.
To daſh at all, the ſpirit of my trade is,
Men, Women, Children, Parſons, Lords and Ladies.
There will be danger.
L. Alt.
And there ſhall be pay.
Take my purſe, Spatter!
(Gives it him.
Spatter.
In an honeſt way.
(Smiles and takes it.
L. Alt.
[222]
Should my Lord beat you—
Spatter.
Let them laugh that win!
For all my bruiſes, here's gold-beater's ſkin.
(Chinking the purſe.
L. Alt.
Nay, ſhould he kill you—
Spatter.
Ma'am!
L. Alt.
My kindneſs meant
To pay your merit with a monument.
Spatter.
Your kindneſs, Lady, takes away my breath;
We'll ſtop, with your good leave, on this ſide death.
L. Alt.
Attack Amelia, both in verſe and proſe:
Your wit can make a nettle of a roſe.
Spatter.
A ſtinging nettle for his Lordſhip's breaſt;
And to my ſtars and daſhes leave the reſt.
I'll make 'em miſerable, never fear;
Pout in a month, and part in half a year.
I know my genius, and can truſt my plan;
I'll break a woman's heart with any man.
L. Alt.
Thanks, thanks, dear Spatter! be ſevere and bold!
Spatter.
No qualms of conſcience with a purſe of gold;
Tho' pill'ries threaten, and tho' crabſticks fall,
Your's are my heart, ſoul, pen, ears, bones, and all.
[Exit Spatter.
[223] Lady Alton alone.
Thus to the winds at once my cares I ſcatter—
O 'tis a charming raſcal, this ſame Spatter!
His precious miſchief makes the ſtorm ſubſide!
My anger, thank my ſtars! all roſe from pride.
Pride ſhould belong to us alone of faſhion;
And let the mob take love, that vulgar paſſion!
Love, pity, tenderneſs, are only made
For poets, Abigails, and folks in trade;
Some cits about their feelings make a fuſs,
And ſome are better bred—who live with us;
How low Lord Falbridge is! he takes a wife,
To love, and cheriſh, and be fix'd for life!
Thinks marriage is a comfortable ſtate,
No pleaſure like a vartuous tete-à-tete!
Do our Lords Juſtice, for I would not wrong 'em,
There are not many ſuch poor ſouis among 'em.
Our turtles from the town will fly with ſpeed,
And I'll foretell the vulgar life they'll lead.
With love and eaſe grown fat, they face all weather,
And, farmers both, trudge arm in arm together:
Now view their ſtock, now in their nurs'ry prattle,
For ever with their children, or their cattle.
Like the dull mill-horſe, in one round they keep,
They walk, talk, fondle, dine, and fall aſleep:
Their cuſtom always in the afternoon,
He bright as Sol, and ſhe the chaſte full Moon!
[224] Wak'd with their coffee, madam firſt begins,
She rubs her eyes, his Lordſhip rubs his ſhins;
She ſips, and ſmirks—"Next week's our wedding-day,
" Married ſeven years!—and ev'ry hour
(yawns)
more gay!"
" True, Emmy,
(cries my Lord)
the bleſſing lies,
" Our hearts in ev'ry thing
(yawns)
ſo ſympathize!"
The day thus ſpent, my Lord for muſick calls;
He thrums the baſs, to which my Lady ſqualls;
The children join, which ſo delights theſe ninnies,
The brats ſeem all Guarduccis—Lovatinies.
—What means this qualm? Why, ſure, while I'm deſpiſing,
That vulgar paſſion, Envy, is not riſing!
O no!—Contempt is ſtruggling to burſt out:
I'll give it vent at Lady Scalpem's route.
[Exit haſtily.
END OF VOLUME THE FIRST.
Notes
*
Dr. Johnſon's Life of Edmund Smith.
*

The following is an extract from the regiſter book of the pariſh of All Saints in the City of Hereford: ‘"David Garrick, the ſon of Peter and Arabella Garrick, was baptized the 28th of February, 1716."’

It is remarkable, that the late Mr. Powell was alſo born in the city of Hereford.

*

A character of Mr. Walmſley (who died Auguſt 3, 1751, aged 69) is given by Doctor Johnſon, n his elegant life of Edmund Smith, which accompanies "The works of the Engliſh Poets." The following epitaph was written on him by Mr. Seward.

READER, if ſcience, honour, reaſon, charm;
If ſocial charities thy boſom warm;
If ſmiling bounty ope thy heart and door;
If juſtice ſtile thee—guardian of the poor;
Firm to Britannia's prince, and church, and laws,
If freedom fire thee in thy country's cauſe;
With ſympathetic love theſe relicks ſee,
But think not Walmſley dead—he lives in thee.
But if, regardleſs of ſtrong reaſon's voice,
In wine, and noiſe, and faction, thou rejoice;
If thou thy faith, and liberties betray,
And barter laws for arbitrary ſway;
If Briton born, thy ſoul's a Gallick ſlave;
Start from his tomb he would—and call thee—"Fool and knave."

Mr. Walmſley tranſlated into Latin—Doctor Byrom's celebrated ſong, beginning ‘"My time, Oye muſes,"’ &c. It is in the Gentleman's Magazine, February 1745.

*
Play-houſe Dictionary.
*
From the information of a contemporary comedian.
*
Victor's Hiſtory of the Theatres, vol. I. p. 89.
*
Charles Fleetwood, Eſq. The hiſtory of this gentleman is very remarkable. It affords ſo ſtriking a moral, and, at the ſame time, ſo important a leſſon, that, though not ſtrictly connected with the life of Mr. Garrick, we hope to be pardoned for inſerting the following particulars concerning him. At the age of twenty-one he came to a landed eſtate of ſix thouſand pounds a year. ‘"He was,"’ ſays Mr. Victor, Hiſtory of the Theatres, Vol. I. p. 33, ‘"agreeable in his perſon; and the qualities of his mind and amiableneſs of his diſpoſition carried with them irreſiſtible attractions; all the nobility of the kingdom ſeemed fond of cultivating an acquaintance with a young man of his extenſive fortune, right diſpoſition, and ſweetneſs of temper. He was affable and engaging in his addreſs, which was the laſt and only remaining quality that he kept with him to his death; and, no doubt, that would have vaniſhed with the reſt, if he had not found it of conſtant uſe to him in his buſineſs with the world, as that addreſs enabled him to deceive even perſons that thought themſelves armed againſt him."’ He purchaſed the patent of Drury-lane Theatre in the year 1734, and continued in the management of it until 1745, when he left the kingdom; and ſome time after died a bankrupt both in fortune and reputation. Mr. Victor ſays, he was a ruined man before he engaged in theatrical concerns, and that for ſome years he profited by his purchaſe. It was his misfortune early in life to be thwarted in a deſign which he entertained, of uniting himſelf to a young lady of inferior fortune; the diſappointment of which threw him into that habit of diſſipation, which rendered him an eaſy prey to a ſet of ſharpers, who firſt deprived him of his fortune, and afterwards of his integrity. The preſent Duke of Norfolk, in his Thoughts, Eſſays, and Maxims, publiſhed in 12mo. 1768, p. 87, relates the following fact, which ‘"happened in the preſence of his wife, at either Bruges or Ghent, before he was married, or at all acquainted with her; viz. Mrs. Fleetwood, daughter to Lord Gerrard, and mother to Mr. Fleetwood, who was maſter manager of Drury-lane Playhouſe (a gentleman of a very ancient good family, unhappily known) came upon a viſit, and flung herſelf upon her knees to aſk pardon of a Baronet's daughter, who was then companion to Mrs. Howard, as the only atonement left in her power for having prevented her only ſon from marrying her, to whom there could be no objection, but that her fortune was not as great as another lady's ſhe had in view for him; by which means ſhe was the occaſion, indirectly, of the unhappineſs of the young lady, by unhinging her mind, and ſouring her temper; and of her only ſon's rum, both in fortune and reputation, by flinging him into a round of diſſipation and pleaſure in order to eradicate his ſtrongeſt affections. This kind of life had ſuch an effect on him, that he contracted that baneful habit of gaming; ſo that in the courſe of a few years he ruined his fortune, (a very noble one) as moſt gameſters do, firſt by ſetting out a dupe, and afterwards turning ſharper: at length he died unpitied, and, it is ſaid, of a broken heart, being a little before reduced to a wretched annuity in ſome part of France."’ He left ſeveral children. Two of them appeared on the ſtage as actors, and one is but lately dead. This gentleman was two ſeaſons, 1758 and 1759, at Drury-lane Theatre, and received a conſiderable ſhare of applauſe. He however afterwards declined the purſuit, and went to the Eaſt Indies, where he acquired a genteel fortune. The other ſon died at Edinburgh a few years ſince.
*
Victor's Hiſtory of the Theatres, Vol. I. p. 84.
*
See Doctor Johnſon's Poems, publiſhed by Kearſley.
Mr. Lacey's memory, as an honeſt and worthy man, to whoſe aſſiduity and attention we are partly indebted for the preſent regularity of the Theatre, deſerves a few words. He was originally a manufacturer at Norwich, but unſucceſsful in his connexions with trade. He afterwards came on the ſtage, and performed at the Hay-market in Paſquin and other pieces which were brought out at that theatre when under the direction of the late Henry Fielding, eſq. He then read lectures in York Buildings, and engaged in the ſcheme of building Ranelagh, which the knavery of the perſon with whom he aſſociated rendered unſucceſsful. The confidence which was repoſed in his integrity enabled him without money to become the purchaſer of Drury Lane Theatre at the juncture above-mentioned; and his prudence was the means of his amaſſing a conſiderable fortune, which however would have been much larger, had not an unhappy propenſity to ſcheming taken poſſeſſion of him, and induced him to launch into undertakings by which he was a great loſer. We are informed his property was much leſſened by ſearching for coal-mines in Oxfordſhire. He was however ſtill rich; and, at his death, January 1774, left a very handſome eſtate to an only ſon, whom he had by Mrs. Willoughby, an actreſs of Drury Lane Theatre. This Gentleman has ſince ſold his ſhare in the theatre.
*
See p. 102.
See p. 104.
*
See p. 504
Maſon's Life of Gray, p. 250.
*
See an account of this riot, Gentleman's Magazine vol. XXIII. p. 31.
*
See page 201
*
Mr. Quin died the 21ſt day of January, 1766; and Mrs. Cibber on the 30th of the ſame month.
*
" Yes! jealous wits for empire ſtill may ſtrive,
" Still keep the flames of critic rage alive:
" Our Shakeſpeare yet ſhall all his rights maintain,
" And crown the triumphs of Eliza's reign.
" Above controul, above each claſſic rule,
" His tut'reſs Nature, and the world his ſchool.
" On pinions fancy-plum'd to him was given
" The power to ſcale INVENTION'S BRIGHTEST HEAVEN
" Bid the charm'd ſoul to raptur'd heights aſpire,
" And wake in every breath congenial fire.—
" Revere his genius—to the dead be juſt,
" Nor blaſt the laurels that o'erſhade the duſt.—
" Low ſleeps the bard IN COLD OBSTRUCTION LAID,
" Nor aſks the chaplet from a rival's head.
" Oe'r the drear vault, ambition's utmoſt bound,
" Unheard ſhall Fame her airy trumpet ſound:
" Yet while his AVON winds its ſilver way,
" His wreaths ſhall bloom unconſcious of decay.—
" As Raphael's own creation grac'd his hearſe,
" And ſham'd the pomp of oſtentatious verſe;
" So, ſelf-adorn'd, ſhall Shakeſpeare ſtand array'd,
" And Nature periſh ere his pictures fade."
FERNEY, 4to. 1769.
*
See Victor's Hiſtory of the Theatres, Vol. III.
This ode was parodied in an admirable burleſque, called "An Ode on dedicating a Building and erecting a Statue to Le Stue, Cook to the Duke of Newcaſtle at Clermont." Reprinted, with Mr. Garrick's Ode, in Dilly's REPOSITORY, vol. I.
*
Henry Pelham, Eſq brother to the Duke of Newcaſtle, at the time of his death Firſt Commiſſioner, Chancellor, and Under Treaſurer of the Exchequer.
*
The 6th of March, 1754, was remarkable for the publication of the Works of a late Lord, and the death of Mr. Pelbam.
*
The title of which was "An enquiry into the real merit of a certain popular Performer; in a Series of Letters, firſt publiſhed in the Craftſman, or Gray's Inn Journal, with an Introduction to David Garrick, Eſq." 8vo.
*
This was ſoon after executed in the following ſevere character, drawn by Mr. Churchill, of the hero of this poem, firſt inſerted in the eighth edition of THE ROSCIAD.
"With that low cunning, which in fools ſupplies,
And amply too, the place of being wife,
Which nature, kind indulgent parent, gave
To qualify the blockhead for a knave;
With that ſmooth falſehood, whoſe appearance charms,
And reaſon of each wholeſome doubt diſarms,
Which to the loweſt depths of guile deſcends,
By vileſt means purſues the vileſt ends,
Wears friendſhip's maſk for purpoſes of ſpite,
Fawns in the day, and butchers in the night;
With that malignant envy, which turns pale,
And ſickens, even if a friend prevail,
Which merit and ſucceſs purſues with hate,
And damns the worth it cannot imitate;
With the cold caution of a coward's ſpleen,
Which fears not guilt, but always ſeeks a ſcreen,
Which keeps this maxim ever in her view—
What's baſely done, ſhould be done ſafely too;
With that dull, rooted, callous impudence,
Which, dead to ſhame, and every nicer ſenſe,
Ne'er bluſh'd, unleſs, in ſpreading vice's ſnares,
She blunder'd on ſome virtue unawares;
With all theſe bleſſings, which we ſeldom find
Laviſh'd by nature on one happy mind,
A motley figure, of the fribble tribe,
Which heart can ſearce conceive, or pen deſcribe,
Came ſimpering on; to aſcertain whoſe ſex,
Twelve ſage impanell'd matrons would perplex.
Nor male, nor female; neither, and yet both;
Of neuter gender, though of Iriſh growth;
A ſix-foot ſackling, mincing in his gait;
Affected, peeviſh, prim, and delicate;
Fearful it ſeem'd, though of athletic make,
Leſt brutal breezes ſhould too roughly ſhake
Its tender form, and ſavage motion ſpread
O'er its pale cheeks the horrid manly red.
Much did it talk, in its own pretty phraſe,
Of genius and of time, of players and plays;
Much too of writings which itſelf had wrote,
Of ſpecial merit, though of little note,
For fate, in a ſtrange humour, had decreed
That what it wrote, none but itſelf ſhould read;
Much too it chatter'd of dramatic laws,
Misjudging critics, and miſplac'd applauſe;
Then, with a ſelf-complacent jutting air,
It ſmil'd, it ſmirk'd, it wriggled to the chair;
And, with an aukward briſkneſs not his own,
Looking around, and perking on the throne,
Triumphant ſeem'd, when that ſtrange ſavage dame,
Known but to few, or only known by name,
Plain Common Senſe, appear'd; by Nature there
Appointed, with plain Truth, to guard the chair.
The Pageant ſaw, and blaſted with her frown,
To its firſt ſtate of nothing melted down.
Nor ſhall the Muſe (for even there the pride
Of this vain nothing ſhall be mortified)
Nor ſhall the Muſe (ſhould fate ordain her rhimes,
Fond pleaſing thought! to live in after-times)
With ſuch a trifler's name her pages blot:
Known be the character, the thing forgot;
Let it, to diſappoint each future aim,
Live without ſex, and die without a name!"
*
Some ſay FITZGIG—The Reader may take his choice.
*
Some MSS. read repent it.
*
‘"After Mr. Garrick had been abroad about a year and half; ſatiated with the amuſements and pleaſures of the Continent, he turned his thoughts towards his native country. But before he would ſet out for Calais, he was reſolved to put in practice his uſual method of preventing cenſure, and blunting the edge of ridicule by anticipation. For this purpoſe, before he left Paris, he ſat down very ſeriouſly to write a kind of ſatirical poem on himſelf; it was called The Sick Monkey, and the plan of it was, the talk or cenſure of other animals and reptiles on him and his travels; and this poem he ſent from Paris to a friend (Mr. Colman) with a requeſt that he would get it printed to prepare his reception in London."’ Davies's life of Garrick, Vol. 2. P. 95.
*
This Ode was ſpoken by Mr. GARRICK, 7th September, 1769, at Stratford upon Avon; and the enſuing Winter at Drury-Lane Theatre.
*
Theſe are extracted from the Works of Ben Jonſon, Milton, Dryden, Pope, Thomſon, Johnſon, Warton, Seward, Akenſide, Gray, Maſon, Churchill, Jago, Whitehead, Addiſon, Rowe, Voltaire, Theobald, Hanmer, Lyttelton, Warburton, Dodd, Steevens, Capel, Hurd, Murphy, Colman, Walpole and Mrs. Montague. In the preſent collection they are omitted.
*
The D— of D—, with the concurrence of Mr. B—y, moſt generouſly ordered a great number of trees to be cut down, to open the river Avon for the Jubilee.
*
This alludes to a deſign of incloſing a large common field at Stratford.
*
By Mr. Garrick firſt acted April 1740 (before the Author's appearance on the ſtage) at Drury-lane, for the benefit of Mr. Giffard. This performance was a ſketch of the very popular Drama afterwards ſo frequently repreſented at Drury-lane Theatre. In its firſt ſtate it contained only the outlines of ſome of the characters.
See The Virgin Unmaſk'd by Fielding.
*
Printed in the Gentleman's Magazine, Sept. 1740, with the ſignature G. The ſame Letter is added to ſeveral other Pieces afterwards acknowledged by Mr. Garrick.
*
A Comedy by Mr. Love, firſt acted at Goodman's Fields, Nov. 1741. In this Play, which is founded on Richardſon's very popular Novel, Mr. Garrick performed, and, as is genenerally imagined, wrote the character of Jack Spatter.
*
Farce, by Mr. Garrick; firſt acted in Goodman's Fields, Nov. 1741.
*
A Tragedy, by Mr. Havard, acted firſt Time February 1744, at Drury-lane Theatre.
*
A Comedy, by Mr. Ralph, acted at Drury-lane, April 1744. In an Advertiſement prefixed to this Play, the Author complains that ten years had elapſed before it could obtain the favour of a repreſentation; that he was not unknown to the great, nor deſtitute of private friends; and having devoted the moſt ſerious of his ſtudies to the ſervice of the publick, he had ſome reaſon to expect the public favour. Yet that the receipts of the houſe upon the firſt night were but twenty-one pounds; and when the Manager riſqued a ſecond to give the Author a chance for a Benefit, he was obliged to ſhut up his doors for want of an audience. Biog. Dramatica, Vol. ii. p. 22.
*
A Comedy, by Dr. Benjamin Hoadley, acted firſt Time at Covent Garden Theatre, Feb. 1747.
*
This Epilogue in a late collection has been erroneouſly aſcribed to Dr. Johnſon, who wrote only the Prologue on this occaſion.
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A famous toyman in Pall-mall.
*
A Comedy by Mr. Moore, acted at Drury-lane, February 1748.
*
Mr. Moore was the Author of The Fables for the Female Sex.
*
In which papers was this paragraph:—‘"We hear that Mr. Quin, Mrs. Cibber, Mr. Barry, Mr. Macklin, and Mrs. Woffington, are engaged at Covent-Garden Theatre for the enſuing ſeaſon."’—On the part of Drury-lane Theatre it was notified, That two celebrated Actors from Dublin were engaged to perform there; alſo Miſs Bellamy and a new Actreſs, Signor Fauſan, the comic dancer, and his wife, and a Gentleman to ſing, who has not been on any ſtage.
*
Mrs. Pritchard.
Mrs. Clive.
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Mr. Garrick.
Mr. Barry.
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A line in the Prologue ſpoken at Covent-Garden by Mr. Barry.
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A Comedy by Mr. Moore, acted at Drury-Lane, February 1751.
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A Comedy in Two Acts, by Mr. Foote, acted at Drury-Lane, January 1752.
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A Tragedy by Dr. Francis, acted at Drury-lane, February 1752.
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Eugenia was little more than a free tranſlation of a French Comedy called Cenia.
*
A Tragedy, by Mr. Moore, acted at Drury-lane, January 1753.
*
Elizabeth Canning, who at this time engaged the attention of the publick, by a ſtory of a pretended robbery by Mary Squires, a Gipſey.
The perſon here meant is Monſ. Cervetti, who has been a standing joke, with the upper gallery, for a long time pail, on account of the length of his noſe; but, as I am informed, no feature of his mind is out of proportion, unleſs it be that his good qualities are extraordinary, I take this opportunity to mention, that it is cruel to render him uneaſy in the buſineſs, in which he is eminert, and in which he muſt get a livelihood.
*
A Tragedy, by Mr. Criſp, acted at Drury-lane, February 1754.
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This was Mrs. Graham, ſince the celebrated Mrs. Yates. The part ſhe performed was [...]ilia.
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A Tragedy, by Dr. Browne, acted at Drury-lane, December 1754.
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An Engliſh Opera, by Mr. Garrick, taken from Midſummer N ght's Dream, acted at Drury-lane, February 1755.
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It was compoſed by Mr. Smith.
*
Mr. Smith was a pupil of Handell, and afterwards his ſucceſſor in the management of the Oratorios.
*
This prologue was written by Mr. Garrick and Mr. Mallet; and the copy inſerted here, which was taken in ſhort-hand, as it was ſpoke on the third night, and corrected the fourth, differs from the copy that has been printed and prefix'd to the Maſque.
A Maſque, by Mr. Mallet, acted at Drury-lane, May 1755.
*
A Farce, by Mr. Murphy, acted at Drury-lane, January 1756.
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A Dramatick Paſtoral, altered by Mr. Garrick, and acted at Drury-Lane, January 1756.
*
Mr. Quin had then left the ſtage.
*
The action of the Winter's Tale, as written by Shakeſpeare, comprehends ſixteen years.
*
An Opera, by Mr. Garrick, acted at Drury-lane, Feb. 1756.
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A Tragedy, by Dr. Brown, acted at Drury-lane, Feb. 1756.
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A Farce, by Mr. Garrick, acted at Drury-lane, December 1756.
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A Farce, by Mr. Garrick, acted at Mr. Woodward's Benefit, Drury-lane, March 24, 1757.
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A Comedy altered from Shirley, by Mr. Garrick, and acted at Drury-lane, December 1757.
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A Pantomime by Mr. Garrick, acted at Drury-lane, December 1759.
The name aſſumed by Mr. Rich when he performed Harlequin.
*
A Dramatic Poem, by Mr. Murphy, acted at Drury-lane, January 1760.
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On the ſame Evening The way to keep Him in three Acts was firſt produced.
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A Dramatick Novel by Mr. Colman, acted at Drury-Lane, December 1760.
Theſe lines were written by Mr. Garrick, and added on its being reported that he was the Author of the Piece; a report, which he modeſtly ſuppoſed might be prejudicial to its ſucceſs.
*
A Tragedy, by Henry Brooke, Eſq acted at Drury-lane, January 1761.
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It ſhould be remembered that this Epilogue was ſpoken juſt after the acceſſion of his preſent Majeſty.
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A Fairy Tale, by Dr. Hawkeſworth, acted at Drury-lane, January 1761.
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About the year 1761.
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Alluding to a ſentence in his Majeſty's firſt Speech to his Parliament—‘"Born and educated in this country, I glory in the name of Briton."’
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A Comedy, by Mr. Murphy, acted at Drury-lane, June 1761, while that Theatre was under the management of himſelf and Mr. Foote.
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A Tragedy, by Mr. Delap, acted at Drury-lane, December 1761.
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At this time the town was entertained with repreſentations of the Coronation at both the Theatres.
*
A Farce, by Mr. Colman, acted at Drury-lane, March 1762.
*
At this time the Publick was amuſed with the ridiculous impoſition of the Cock-lane Ghoſt.
*
Acted at Drury-lane, March 1762, at Mrs. Pritchard's Benefit.
*
The School for Lovers, a Comedy by Mr. Whitehead, acted at Drury-lane, 1762.
*
A Tragedy, by Mr. Mallet, acted at Drury-lane, January 1763.
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About March 1763.
This Addreſs was ſpoken juſt after the diſpute relating to the admiſſion of perſons into the Theatres at half prices had been finally ſettled.
*
15th June, 1765.
*
A favourite ſong ſung the preceding ſummer at Vauxhall, by Miſs Wright.
*
A Muſical Farce, by Iſaac Bickerſtaffe, acted at Drury-lane 8th October, 1765.
Daphne and Amintor is little more than Mrs. Cibber's Oracle, with the addition of ſongs.
Miſs Wright, afterwards Mrs. Arne, who performed Daphne. She had before played one of the Fairies in Edgar and Emmeline.
*
At this time the news-papers were daily publiſhing extravagant accounts of the depredations of a wild beaſt in the neighbourhood of Langagne and the foreſt of Mercoire. One of them deſcribes the monſter in the following manner. ‘"It has already devoured twenty perſons, chiefly children, and particularly young girls; and ſcarcely a day paſſes without ſome accident. The terror he occaſions prevents the woodcutters from working in the foreſt, ſo that wood is become dear. Thoſe who have ſeen him ſay, he is much higher than a wolf, low before, and his feet are armed with talons. His hair is reddiſh, his head large, long made, and the muzzle of it ſhaped like that of a greyhound; his ears ſmall and ſtrait, his breaſt is wide, and of a grey colour; his back ſtreaked with black, and his mouth, which is large, is provided with a ſet of teeth ſo very ſharp, that they have taken off ſeveral heads as clean as a razor could have done. He is of amazing ſwiftneſs, but when he aims at his prey he crouches ſo cloſe to the ground, that he hardly appears to be bigger than a large fox, and at the diſtance of one or two fathoms he riſes upon his hind legs, and ſprings upon his prey, which he always ſeizes by the neck or throat. He is afraid of oxen, which he runs away from. The conſternation is univerſal throughout the diſtrict where he commits his ravages, and publick prayers are offered up upon this occaſion."’
*
November 14, 1765.
*
Looking at, and reſpectfully bowing to his Majeſty.
*
A Comedy, by Mr. Colman and Mr. Garrick, acted at Drury-lane, February 1766.
*
Mr. Quin died 21ſt January, 1766, and Mrs. Cibber 31ſt of the ſame month.
*
The Chandeliers which uſed to hang from the cieling, were this Seaſon taken away.
*
30th May, 1766.
*
A Comedy, altered from Wycherly by Mr. Garrick, and acted at Drury-lane, October 1766.
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A Tragedy, by Dr. Franklin, acted at Drury-lane, December, 1766.
Marg'ret of Anjou; the character in the play performed by Mrs. Yates.
*
A Dramatick Romance, by Mr. Garrick acted at Drury-lane, January 1767.
*
Mr. King the preceding ſummer fell from his horſe and broke his thigh. The part of Linco in this piece was his ſecond appearance after the accident.
*
A Comedy, by Mr. Colman, acted at Drury-lane, February 1767.
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