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No more my titles shall my children tell,
The old buffoon will fit my name as well;
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honour ends.2

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,
To show to man the empire of thy power,
If, Fortune, at thy wild impetuous sway,
The blossoms of my fame must drop away,
Then was the time the obedient plant to strain
When life was warm in every vigorous vein,
To mould young nature to thy plastic skill,
And bend my pliant boyhood to thy will.
So might I hope applauding crowds to hear,
Catch the quick smile, and HIS attentive ear.
But, ah! for what hast thou reserv'd my age?
Say, how can I expect the approving stage?
Fled is the bloom of youth - the manly air
The vigorous mind that spurn'd at toil and care;
Gone is the voice, whose clear and silver tone
The enraptur'd theatre would love to own.
As clasping ivy chokes the encumber'd tree,
So
age with foul embrace has ruin'd me.
Thou, and the tomb, Laberius, art the same,
Empty within, what hast thou but a name?

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
The distant climates, and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling;
When every bosom swells with wondrous scenes,
Priests, cannibals, and hoity-toity queens,
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.

With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading;
Yet, ere he lands, he has order'd me before
To make an observation on the shore.

Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost!
This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast.
Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!
Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder.

(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!
Oh there the natives are, a dreadful race;
The men have tails, the women paint the face.
No doubt they're all barbarians.-Yes, 'tis so;
I'll try to make palaver with them though.

(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.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,
My heels eclips'd the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a pyebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.

[Takes off his mask.

Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns, thy mirth;
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,

The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu❜d!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses;
Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilst from below the trapdoor demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities:
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?
May rosin'd lightning blast me if I do!
No - I will act, I'll vindicate the stage:
Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
Off! off, vile trappings! a new passion reigns;
The maddening monarch revels in my veins.

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;
He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze.
At length his silly head, so priz'd before,
Is taught his former folly to deplore;
Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,
And at one bound he saves himself

like me.

[Taking a jump through the stage-door.

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