No more my titles shall my children tell, 2 See Macrobii Saturn. lib. ii. c. vii. p. 369, ed. Zeunii Goldsmith has translated, or rather imitated, only the first fifteen lines of the Prologus, ending, 'Uno plus vixi mihi quam vivendum fuit.' I venture to add the remainder: Too lavish still in good or evil hour, 11 PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE. A TRAGEDY. SPOKEN BY MR. QUICK, IN THE CHARACTER OF A SAILOR. In these bold times, when learning's sons explore With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden, Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost! (Upper gallery.) There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em (Pit.) Here trees of stately size-and turtles in 'em; (Balconies.) Here ill-conditioned oranges abound (Stage.) (Tasting them.) And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground: The place is uninhabited I fear ; I heard a hissing-there are serpents here! (Making signs.) 'Tis best, however, keeping at a distance. "Good savages, our Captain craves assistance. Our ship's well stor❜d-in yonder creek we've laid her, His honour is no mercenary trader. This is his first adventure, lend him aid, Or you may chance to spoil a thriving trade. His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far, Equally fit for gallantry and war.” What, no reply to promises so ample? I'd best step back, and order up a sample.1 1 Zobeide, a Tragedy, by Joseph Cradock, Esq., was first represented at Covent Garden, on the 10th of December, 1771, and was well received. The text here given is that of the third edition of Zobeide, 1772.”—P. C. EPILOGUE SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT. HOLD! prompter, hold! a word before your non sense: I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience. [Takes off his mask. Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth? The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps. Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme: 'Give me another horse! bind up my wounds! — soft 'twas but a dream.' Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating: If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating. 'Twas thus that Æsop's stag, a creature blameless, Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless, Once on the margin of a fountain stood, And cavill'd at his image in the flood. 'The deuce confound,' he cries, 'these drumstick shanks! They never have my gratitude nor thanks; They 're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead! But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head: How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow! My horns- I'm told horns are the fashion now.' Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to his view, Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew. 'Hoicks! hark forward!' came thundering from behind: He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind; like me. [Taking a jump through the stage-door. |