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againHuzza, boys! By the Royal George, I swear, Tom Coxen, and the crew, shall straight be there.

All free-born souls must take Bri-tan-nia's part, And give her three round cheers, with hand and heart! [Going off, he stops. I wish you landmen, though, 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!

$49. Prologue to Comus. Performed for the Benefit of the General Hospital at Buth, 1756; and spoken by Miss MORRISON, in the Cha racter of a Lady of Fashion. HOADLEY.

[She enters with a number of tickets in her hand.] WELL, I've been beating up for volunteers, But find that charity has got no ears. 1 first attack'd a colonel of the guards— Sir, charity-consider its rewards; With healing hand the saddest sores it skins, And covers-O! a multitude of sins.

He swore the world was welcome to his thoughts:

'Twas damn'd hypocrisy to hide one's faults; And with that sin his conscience ne'er was twitted,

The only one he never had committed.

Next to my knight I plead. He shook his head,

Complain'd the stocks were low, and trade was dead.

In these Bath charities a tax he'd found
More heavy than four shillings in the pound.
What with the play-house, hospital, and abbey,
A man was stripp'd-unless he'd look quite
shabby.

Then such a train, and such expense; to wit, My lady, all the brats, and cousin Kit"He'd steal himself, perhaps, into the pit.

Old Lady Slipslop, at her morning cards, Vows that all works of genus she regards, Raffles for Chinese gods, card houses, shells, Nor grudges to the music, or the bells, But has a strange antiquity to nasty ospitals. I hope your lordship then my lord repliesNo doubt, the governors are very wise; But, for the play, he wonder'd at their choice. In Milton's days such stuff might be the taste, But, faith! he thought it was damn'd dull and

chaste :

Then swears he to the charity is hearty,

But can't in honor break his evening party.

When to the gouty alderman I sued, The nasty fellow (gad) was downright rude. Is begging grown the fashion, with a pox? The mayor should set such housewifes in the stocks.

Give you a guinea! Z-ds! replied the beast,
"Twould buy a ticket for a turtle feast.
Think what a guinea a-head might set before
ye-

Surmullet-turbot-and a grand John Dory.
I'll never give a groat, as I'm a sinner,
Unless they gather 't in a dish—at dinner.
I trust, by art and more polite address,
Your fairer advocates met more success;
And not a man compassion's cause withstood,
When beauty pleaded for such gen'ral good.

§ 50. Prologue to the Winter's Tale, and Catherine and Petruchio. 1756. Written and spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

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, gemmen; kindly welcome, ladies.

To draw in customers, our bills are spread; You cannot miss the sign, 'tis Shakspeare's Head.

From this same head, this fountain-head divine, For different palates springs a different wine; In which no tricks, to strengthen or to thin’em— Neat as imported-no French brandy in 'em. Hence for the choicest spirits flows Champagne, Whose sparkling atonis shoot through every

vein,

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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 in a butt of sack;
And, if the stronger liquors more invite ye,
Bardolph is gin, and Pistol aqua-vitæ.
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, grave and deep,
Who catch at words, and, catching, fall asleep;
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 Shakspeare's
Head.

A vintner once acquir'd both praise and gain, And sold much perry for the best Champagne.

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Thus the wise critic, too, mistakes his wine; Cries out, with lifted hands-Tis great! divine! Then jogs his neighbour, as the wonders strike him;

This Shakspeare! Shakspeare!-O, there's nothing like him!

In this night's various and enchanted cup
Some little perry's mix'd, for filling up.
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!

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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;
Though many are its faults, at least 'tis new.
No smuggled, pilfer'd scenes from France we
show;

'Tis English-English, Sirs, from top to toe.
Though coarse my colors, and my hand un-
From real life my little cloth is fill'd. [skill'd,
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 prenticed kings alarm the gaping street. There Brutus starts and stares by midnight taper, Who all the day enacts a woollen-draper. [fist: Here Hamlet's ghost stalks forth with doubled Cries out, with hollow voice, "List, list, O list!" [bacconist. And frightens Denmark's prince-a young to

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§ 52. Epilogue to the same. 1756. Spoken SMART. by Mrs. CLIVE. [Enters, reading the play-bill. -as I'm alive!

A VERY pretty bill-
The part of-Nobody-by Mrs. Clive!
A paltry, scribbling fool-to leave me out!
He'll say, perhaps he thought I could not
Malice and envy to the last degree! [spout.
And why?-I wrote a farce as well as he,
And fairly ventur'd it, without the aid
Of prologue dress'd in black, and face in mas-
querade;

O pit, have pity-see how I'm dismay'd!
Poor soul! this canting stuff will never do,
Unless, like Bayes, he brings his hangman too.
But granting that, from these same obsequies,
Some pickings to our bard in black arise;
Should your applause to joy convert his fear,
As Pallas turns to feast Lardella's bier;
Yet 'twould have been a better scheme, by half,
T" have thrown his weeds aside, and learnt
with me to laugh.

I could have shown him, had he been inclin'd,
A spouting junto of the female kind.
There dwells a milliner in yonder row,
Well-dress'd, full-voic'd, and nobly built for
show,

Who, when in rage she scolds at Sue and Sarah, Damn'd, damn'd dissembler! thinks she's more than Zara.

She has a daughter too that deals in lace,
And sings-O ponder well-and Chevy-chase,
And fain would fill the fair Ophelia's place;
And in her cock'd-up hat, and gown of camlet,
Presumes on something--touching the lord
Hamlet.

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A cousin too she has, with squinting eyes,
With waddling gait, and voice like London
cries,

Who, for the stage too short by half a story,
Acts Lady Townly-thus-in all her glory;

The action of the Winter's Tale, as written by Shakspeare, comprehends sixteen years.

And, while she's traversing her scanty room, Cries" Lord, my lord, what can I do at home?"

In short, there's girls enough for all the fellows,
The ranting, whining, starting, and the jealous,
The Hotspurs, Romeos, Hamlets, and Othellos. |
O! little do these silly people know
What dreadful trials actors undergo.
Myself, who most in harmony delight,
Am scolding here from morning until night.
Then take advice by me, ye giddy things,
Ye royal milliners, ye apron'd kings!
Young men, beware, and shun our slippery
Study arithmetic, and burn your plays; [ways,
And you, ye girls, let not our tinsel train
Enchant your eyes, and turn your madd'ning

brain :

Be timely wise; for, O! be sure of this:A shop, with virtue, is the height of bliss.

§ 54. Prologue to the Author. 1757. FOOTE.
SEVERE their task, who, in this critic age,
With fresh materials furnish out the stage!
Not that our fathers drain'd the comic store;
Fresh characters spring up as heretofore.
Nature with novelty does still abound;
On ev'ry side fresh follies may be found.
But then the taste of every guest to hit,
To please at once the gallery, box, and pit,
Requires, at least, no comnion share of wit.

Those who adorn the orb of higher life, Demand the lively rake or modish wife; Whilst they who in a lower circle move, Yawn at their wit, and slumber at their love. If light low mirth employs the comic scene, Such mirth as drives from vulgar minds the spleen,

The polish'd critic damns the wretched stuff, And cries-"Twill please the gall'ries well enough."

Such jarring judgements who can reconcile?

$53. Epilogue to the Reprisal. 1757. Spo- Since fops will frown, where humble traders

ken by Miss MACKLIN.

AYE-now I can with pleasure look around, Safe as I am, thank Heaven, on English ground. In a dark dungeon to be stow'd away, ’Midst roaring, thund'ring, danger, and dismay; Expos'd to fire and water, sword and bulletMight damp the heart of any virgin pullet. I dread to think what might have come to pass, Had not the British lion quell'd the Gallic ass. By Champignon a wretched victim led To cloister'd cell, or more detested bed, My days in pray'r and fasting I had spent ; As nun, or wife, alike a penitent. His gallantry, so confident and eager, Had prov'd a mess of delicate soup-meagre. To bootless longings I had fell a martyr; But Heaven be prais'd, the Frenchman caught a Tartar.

Yet soft-our author's fate you must decree; Shall he come safe to port, or sink at sea? Your sentence, sweet or bitter, soft or sore, Floats his frail bark, or runs it bump ashoreYe wits above, restrain your awful thunder; In his first cruize 'twere pity he should founder. [To the gallery. Safe from your shot, he fears no other foe, No gulf but that which horrid yawns below. [To the Pit. The bravest chiefs, e'en Hannibal and Cato, Have here been tam'd with-pippin and potatoe. Our bard embarks in a more Christian cause, He claims not mercy, but he claims applause, His pen against the hostile French is drawn, Who damns him is no Antigallican. Indulg'd with fav'ring gales and smiling skies, Hereafter he may board a richer prize. But if this welkin angry clouds deform,

storm;

[Looking round the house. And hollow groans portend th' approaching [To the gallery. Should the descending show' rs of hail redouble, And these rough billows hiss, and boil, and [To the pit.

|

smile.

To dash the poet's ineffectual claim,
And quench his thirst for universal fame,
The Grecian fabulist in moral lay
Has thus address'd the writers of his day:
Once on a time, a son and sire, we're told,
The stripling tender, and the father old,
Purchas'd a jack-ass at a country fair,
To ease their limbs, and hawk about their ware;
But as the sluggish animal was weak,
They fear'd, if both should mount, his back
would break:

Up gets the boy, the father leads the ass,
And through the gazing crowd attempts to pass;
Forth from the throng the greybeards hobble out,
And hail the cavalcade with feeble shout.
"This the respect to rev'rend age you show,
And this the duty you to parents owe?
He beats the hoof, and you are set astride:
Sirrah! get down, and let your father ride.”
As Grecian lads are seldom void of grace,
The decent duteous youth resign'd his place.
Then a fresh murmur through the rabble ran,
Boys, girls, wives, widows all attack the man.
"Sure never was brute beast so void of nature!
Have you no pity for the pretty creature?
To your own baby can you be unkind?
Here-Suke, Bill, Betty-put the child be-
hind."
[claim'd:
Old Dapple next the clown's compassion
""Tis wonderinent them boobies ben't asham'd!
Two at a time upon the poor dumb beast!
They might as well have carried him, at least."
The pair, still pliant to the partial voice,
Dismount, and bear the ass-Then what a noise!
Huzzas, loud laughs, low gibe, and bitter joke,
From the yet silent sire, these words provoke:

Proceed, my boy, nor heed their farther call; Vain his attempts, who strives to please them all." $55. Prologue to the Trip to Paris. Spoken by Mr.SHUTER, at one of his Benefits. FOOTE. IN former times there liv'd one Aristotle, He'll launch no more on such fell seas of trouble. | Who, as the song says, lov'd, like me, his bottle.

bubble,

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shambles:

To be crowded amongst them at first I was loth, For fear they should seize me, and souse me for broth.

At last though, they call'd me my Lor Angleterre, (Lord, had you then seen but my strut and my stare!)

Wee, wee, I cried, wee then-and put on a sword;
So at once Neddy Shuter turn'd into a lord.
I expected at France all the world and his wife,
But I never was balk'd so before in my life:
I should see wonders there, I was told by
Monseer;

[queer;

Then, as to their dinners, their soups, and
their stewings,

One ounce of meat serves for ten gallons of
brewings;
[agog!
For a slice of roast beef how my mind was
But for beef they produced me a fricaseed frog:
Out of window I toss'd it, it wa'n't fit to eat,
Then down stairs I jump'd, and ran into the
[mine

street.

'Twas not their palaver could make me deterTo stay where I found it was taste to eat vermin : Frogs in France may be fine, and their Grand Monarque clever; [for ever! I'm for beef, and King George, and old England

§ 56. Epilogue to the Minor. 1760. NEAR the mad mansions of Moorfields I'll bawl;

call.

Friends, fathers, mothers, sisters, sons, and all,
Shut up your shops, and listen to my
With labor; toil, all second means, dispense,
And live a rent-charge upon Providence.
Prick up your ears; a story now I'll tell,
Which once a widow and her child befell;
I knew the mother and her daughter well:
Poor, it is true, they were, but never wanted,
For whatsoe'er they ask'd was always granted.
One fatal day the matron's truth was tried,
She wanted meat and drink, and faintly cried.
Child. Mother, you cry!-

Mother. O child! I've got no bread.
Child. What matters that? Why, Provi-
dence an't dead!
[say;
With reason good the child this truth might
For there came in at noon, that very day,
Bread, greens, potatoes, and a leg of mutton,
A better sure a table ne'er was put on.
Ay, that might be, ye cry, with those poor souls:
But we ne'er had a rasher for the coals.
And d'ye deserve it? How d'ye spend your
[days?
Let's go see Foote; O, Foote's a precious limb!
In pastimes, prodigality, and plays!
Old Nick will soon a foot-ball make of him!
For foremost rows in side-boxes you shove:
Think you to meet with side-boxes above,
Where giggling girls and powder'd fops may sit ?
No, you will all be cramm'd into the pit,
And crowd the house for Satan's benefit.-
O! what, you snivel?-Well, do so no more-
Drop, to atone, your money at the door,
And if I please-I'll give it to the poor.

So I did, I saw things that were wonderful
Queer streets and queer houses, with people $ 57. Prologue to Polly Honeycombe. 1760.

much queerer;

Each one was a talker, but no one a hearer.
I soon had enough of their pallovousee;
Its a fine phrase to some folks, but nonsense

to me.

[show, All folks there are dress'd in a toyshop-like A hodge-podging habit 'twixt fiddler and beau; Such hats, and such heads too, such coats and such skirts[shirts. They sold me some ruffles-but I found the

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GARRICK.

HITHER,in days of yore, from Spain or France, Came a dread sorceress, her name Romance. O'er Britain's isle her wayward spells she cast, And Common Sense in magic chain bound fast. In mad sublime did each fond lover woo, And in heroics ran each billet-doux : High deeds of chivalry their sole delight, Each fair a maid distress'd, each swain a knight.

Then might Statira Oroondates see
At tilts and tournaments, arm'd cap-a-pie.
She too, on milk-white palfrey, lance in hand,
A dwarf to guard her, pranc'd about the land.
This fiend to quell, his sword Cervantes drew,
A trusty Spanish blade, Toledo true:
Her talismans and magic wand he hroke;
Knights, genii, castles, vanish'd into smoke.
But now, the dear delight of later years,
The younger sister of Romance appears :
Less solemn is her air, her drift the same,
And Novel her enchanting, charming name.
Romance might strike our grave forefathers'
pomp,

But Novel for our buck and lively romp!
Cassandra's folios now no longer read,
See two neat pocket-volumes in their stead!
And then, so sentimental is the style,
So chaste, yet so bewitching all the while!
Plot and elopement, passion, rape, and rapture,
The total sum of ev'ry dear-dear-chapter.

'Tis not alone the small-talk and the smart, 'Tis Novel most beguiles the female heart. Miss reads she melts-she sighs-love steals upon her

And then-alas, poor girl!-good night, poor Honor!

Thus of our Polly having lightly spoke, Now for our author-but without a joke. Though wits and journals, who ne'er fibb'd before,

Have laid this bantling at a certain door, Where, lying store of faults, they'd fain heap

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Resolv'd that in buskins no hero should stalk, He has shut us quite out of the tragedy-walk. No blood, no blank verse-in short we're undone,

Unless you're contented with frolic and fun. If, tir'd of her round in the Ranelagh mill, There should be one female inclin'd to sit still; If, blind to the beauties, or sick of the squall, A party shouldn't choose to catch cold at Vauxhall; [thick, If at Sadler's sweet Wells the wine should be The cheesecakes be sour, or Miss Wilkinson sick, [in June, If the fume of the pipe should prove pow'rful Or the tumblers be lame, or the bells out of tune; We hope you will call at our warehouse in

Drury:

[ve, We've a curious assortment of goods, I assure Domestic and foreign, indeed all kind of wares, English cloth, Irish linens, and French pet-en

l'airs.

If, for want of good custom, or losses in trade, The poetical partners should bankrupts be made; [in debt, If, from dealings too large, we plunge deeply And a Whereas comes out in the Muses' Gazette, We'll on you, our assigns, for certificates call; Though insolvents, we're honest, and give up our all.

§ 59. Epilogue to the Liar, 1761; between
Miss Grantham and Old Wilding.
M. Gr. HOLD, Sir!

Our plot concluded, and strict justice done,
Let me be heard, as counsel for your son.
Acquit I can't, I mean to mitigate;
Proscribe all lying, what would be the fate
Of this and every other earthly state?
Consider, Sir, if once you cry it down,
You'll shut up every coffee-house in town;
The tribe of politicians will want food,
All Grub-street murderers of men and sense,
Even now half-famish'd-for the public good;

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

O. Wild. Too mild a sentence! Must the

good and great

Patriots be wrong'd, that booksellers may eat? M. Gr. Your patience, Sir; yet hear another word: [sword; Turn to that hall where Justice wields her Think in what narrow limits you would draw, By this proscription, all the sons of law: For 'tis the fix'd determin'd rule of courts, (Viner will tell you-nay, even Coke's Reports) All pleaders may, when difficulties rise, To gain one truth expend a hundred lies.

O. Wild. To curb this practice I am some

what loth;

A lawyer has no credit but on oath. [show; M. Gr. Then to the softer sex some favor Leave us possession of our modest No!

• These lines were added by Mr.Garrick, on its being reported that he was the author of the piece; and, however humorous and poetical, contain as strict matter of fact as the dullest prose.

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