Yours is the charge, ye fair, ye wise, ye brave! 'Tis yours to crown desert-beyond the grave.

$37. Occasional Prologue, spoken by Mr. Garrick at the opening of Drury-Lane Theatre, September 5, 1750.

As heroes, states, and kingdoms, rise and fall; 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 surprise must

cease,

When we reflect how int'rest, or caprice, Makes real kings break articles of peace. Strengthen'd with 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: Yet, fearless still, we take the field with spirit, Arm'd cap-a-pie 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 cobbler's wife. Some few there are, whom paltry passions guide, Desert each day, and fly from side to side: Others, like Swiss, love fighting as their trade; For, beat or beating, they must all be paid. Sacred to Shakspeare was this spot design'd, To pierce the heart, and humanize the mind: But if an empty house, the actor's curse, Shows 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, Show 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'll fight for you: And, should we fail to gain the wish'd applause, At least we 're vanquish'd in a noble cause.

§38. Occasional Prologue, spoken at CoventGarden Theatre by Mr. Barry, 1750. WHEN vice or folly over-runs a state, Weak politicians lay the blame on fate:

When rulers useful subjects cease to prize, And damn for arts that caus'd themselves to rise ;

When jealousies and fears possess the throne,
And kings allow no merit-but their own;
Can it be strange, that men for flight prepare,
And strive to raise a colony elsewhere?
This custom has prevail'd in ev'ry age,
For-entre nous-these managers of merit,
And has been sometimes practis'd on the stage:
Have curb'd us monarchs with their haughty
Who fearless arm, and take the field with spirit,

mien,

And Herod § have out Herod-ed-within.

O, they can torture twenty thousand ways!
[Pointing to the Green Room.
Make bouncing Bajazet || retreat from Bayes¶ !
The ladies too, with every pow'r to charm,
Have felt the fury of a tyrant's arm.
Whose face and fire an anchorite might warm,

By selfish arts expell'd our ancient seat,
In search of candor, and in search of meat,
We from your favor hope for this retreat.

Can fire the fancy, or can warm the heart,
If Shakspeare's passion, or if Jonson's art,
And heroes must give way to Harlequins,
That task be ours; but if you damn their scenes,
We too can have recourse to mime and dance;
Nay, there, I think, we have the better chance:
And, should the town grow weary of the mute,
Why, we'll produce a child upon the flute+t.
Long they have feasted-permit us now to eat.
But, be the food as 'twill, 'tis that treat!
you

$39. Epilogue spoken by Mrs. Clive, on the two occasional Prologues at Covent-Garden and Drury-Lane, 1750.

[Enters hastily, as if speaking to one who would oppose her.

I'LL do't: by Heaven, 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 inust 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 to attack 'em all,
And aim alike at little and at tall.

But first, ere with the buskin'd chiefs I brave it,
A story is at hand, and you shall have it.

Mrs. Clive.

¶ Mr. Garrick.

Each to his master with his tale retreated,
Who gravely heard their diff'rent parts repeated,
How Tom was rude, and Jack, poor lad! ill-
treated.

The master paus'd-to be unjust was loath,
Call'd for a rod, and fairly whipp'd 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-O, '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. [ried!
How have I seen him rave when things miscar-
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 frantic fit,
He blusters so, it makes e'en me submit.
So much for him-the other youth comes next,
Who shows, by what he says, poor soul! he's
vex'd.

He tells you tales how cruelly this treats us,
To make you think the little monster beats us.
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 inquire 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.

ARE you all ready? here's your music, here! Author, sneak off; we'll tickle you, my dear; The fellow stopp'd me in a hellish frightPray, Sir, said he, must I be damn'd to-night? Damn'd! Surely, friend-don't hope for our compliance; [fiance. Zounds, Sir-a second play's downright deThough once, poor rogue! we pitied your condition,

Here's the true recipe-for repetition.
Well, Sir, says he, ev'n as you please; so then
I'll never trouble you with plays again.
But, hark ye, poet!-won't you though, says I,
'Pon honor?-then we'll damn you, let me die.
Shan't we, my bucks? Let's take him at his word:
Damn him, or, by my soul, he'll write a third.

Blowing his cat-call.

ye,

Tell him-you've left your charity behind ye.
A pretty plea, his wants, to our regard!
As if we bloods had bowels for a bard!
Besides, what men of spirit, now-a-days,
Come to give sober judgements of new plays?
It argues some good-nature to be quiet——
Good-nature !-Aye-but then we lose a riot.
The scribbling fool may beg and make a fuss,
"Tis death to him-What then?-"Tis sport to
jokes,

us.

Don't mind me though-for all my fun and The bard may find us bloods good-natur'd folks. No crabbed critics-foes to rising meritWrite but with fire, and we'll applaud with Our author aims at no dishonest ends, [spirit. He knows no enemies and boasts some friends; He takes no methods down your throats to cram So, if you like it, save it; if not, damn it. [it:

§ 41. Prologue to Taste. 1752. Spoken in
the Character of an Auctioneer. GARRICK,
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 desperate 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
Before you buy, be sure to understand;' [land,
O, think on us, what various ills will flow,
When great ones purchase only what they
know!

Why laugh at taste? It is a harmless fashion, And quite subdues each detrimental passion: The fair ones' 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; [hold, The smallest hair their looser thoughts might 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 said virtu to such a height is grown,
'Tis the complaint, indeed, of all our wives!

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;
No matter what our countrymen deserve,
They'll thrive as ancients, but as modernsstarve;

If we should fall, to you it will be owing; Farewell to arts-they are going, going, going! The fatal hammer's in your hand, O town! Then set us up, and knock the poet down.

§ 42. Prologue to Cato. Acted in 1753 by the Scholars of the free Grammar School at Derby, for the Benefit of the Orphan of the late Usher. Written by one of the Scholars, aged 16.

No Garrick here majestic treads the stage, No Quin your whole attention to engage; No practis'd actor here the scene employs ; But a raw parcel of unskilful boys. Shall we disfigur'd in a school-boy see Cato's great soul in base epitome? Can critics bear such slavery as this? Would not e'en Cato join the critic's hiss? What shall we say then? what excuses make? Our credit and success lie both at stake.

As when some peasant, who, to treat his lord,
Brings out his little stock, and decks his board
With what his ill-stor'd cupboard will afford,
With awkward bows, and ill-plac'd rustic airs,
To make excuses for his feast prepares;
So we, with tremor mix'd with vast delight,
View the bright audience which appears to-
night,

And, conscious of its meanness, hardly dare
To bid you welcome to our homely fare.

But would the ladies in our cause appear,
One look would silence every critic here.

If you but smile, 'twill cheer our tim'rous hearts,
And give us courage to perform our parts.
To you, ye fair ones, then, we make address,
And beg protection for this night's success.
Look gently on our faults, and, where we fail,
Let pity to our tender youth prevail.
Our cause is in your hands; and Cato, who
Disdain'd great Cæsar's yoke, submits to you.

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. “O, damn their Ally Croakers, and their Early-horn!

"Signior, si-bat sons-vors recitativo:
"Il tutto é bestiale e cativo."

This said, I made my exit full of terrors;
And now ask pardon for the following errors:
Excuse us, first, for foolishly supposing,
Your countrymen could please you in composing;
An opera 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 Shakspearelli:
This awkward drama (I confess th' offence)
Is guilty too of poetry and sense:

And then the price we take, you'll all abuse it;
We'll 'mend that fault, whenever you shall
So low, so unlike op'ras-but excuse it;

choose it.

Our last mischance, and worse than all the rest, Which turns the whole performance to a jest, But why would this rash fool, this Englishman, Our singers all are well, and all will do their best. Attempt an opera?-'tis the strangest plan!

Struck with the wonders of his master's art, Whose sacred dramas shake and melt the heart, Whose heaven-born strains the coldest breast inspire,

Whose chorus-thunder sets the soul on fire!
Inflam'd, astonish'd, at those magic airs,
When Samson 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 thro' the clouds appear some glimmering rays,
They're sparks he caught from his great mas-
ter's blaze!

and spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

PROLOGUES, like compliments, are loss of time, 'Tis penning bows, and making legs, in rhyme: 'Tis cringing at the door, with simp'ring grin, When we should show the company withinSo thinks our bard, who, stiff in classic knowledge, [lege.. Preserves too much the buckram of the colLord, Sir," said I, "an audience must be "woo'd,

Rome;

The other born abroad, but here his home:

"And, lady-like, with flattery pursued ; "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."

"I read no Greek, Sir-when I was at school,
"Terence had prologues-Terencewas no fool."
"He had; but why?" replied the bard, in rage:
"Exotics, monsters, had possess'd the stage;
"But we have none, in this enlighten'd age!
"Your Britons 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 produc-
tion."

Off went the poet-It is now expedient
I speak as manager, and your obedient.
I, as your cat'rer, would provide your dishes,
Dress'd to your palates, season'd to your wishes.
Say but you're tir'd with boil'd and roast at home,
We too can send for niceties 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,
Shakspeare and beef must have their turn again.

Ifnovelties can please, to-night we've twoTho' English both, yet spare 'em as they're new. To one, at least, your usual favors show; A female asks it-can a man say No? Should you indulge our novice* yet unseen, And crown her, with your hands, a tragicqueen; 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 endsShe hopes some merit, to deserve such friends.

From top to bottom I shall make you stare,
By hitting all your judgements to a hair!
And, first, with you above I shall begin
[To the upper gallery.
Good-natur'd souls, they're ready all to grin.
Though twelve pence seat you there, so near
the ceiling,

The folks below can't boast a better feeling.
No high-bred prud'ry in your region lurks,
You boldly laugh and cry as nature works.

Says John to Tom (aye-theretheysit together, As honest Britons as e'er trod on leather): ""Tween you and I, my friend, 'tis very vild, "That old Vergeenus should have struck his child;

"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, [To the 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 judgement 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.

He must be there ainong you—look about— A weezen pale-fac'd mon-do find him out. Pray, measter, come, or all will fall to sheame; Call Mister-hold-I must not tell his neame. La! 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 gaze; I ne'er saw church so full in all my days!Your servant, Sirs-what do you laugh for, eh? You donna take me sure for one o' the play? You should not flout an honest country ladYou 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-would I were whoame again!

First, in the city I took up my station, And got a place with one o' th' corporation; A round big mon-he ate 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 ate a great sea-toad? It came from Indies-'twas as big as me; He call'd it belly-patch and cap-a-pie: La! how I star'd!-I thought-who knows but I,

While 'mong the great this geaming work the trade is,

They mind no more poor 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 one 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 geare so short, so low her stays-
Fine folks show all for nothing now-a-days!
Now I'm the poet's mon-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 is thinner.
My wages all depend on this night's piece;
But should find that all our swans are geese,
you
'Efeck, I'll trust no more to measter's brain,
But pack up all, and whistle whoame again.

$47. Epilogue to the same. 1755. Spoken by Mr. WOODWARD, in the Character of a fine Gentleman. GARRICK. [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, Though he had writ 'em all in linguum Grecum. I'll do't, by all the gods! (you must excuse me) Though 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-log speaking savage, that great looby, 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 control!--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 is ceas'd,
I'd ride a hundred miles to make myself a beast.
I have no ears; yet operas I adore!
Always prepar'd to die—to sleep—no more!
The ladies too were carp'd at, and their dress,
He wants them all ruff'd up like good queen
Bess!

§ 48. Occasional Prologue to the Mask of Britannia. 1755. Written and spoken by Mr. GARRICK, in the Character of a Sailor, fuddled, and talking to himself.

Enters, singing, "How pleasant a sailor's life passes!"

WELL! if thou art, my boy, a little mellow,
A sailor, half-seas o'er, 's a pretty fellow.
What cheer, ho? Do I carry too much sail?
[To the pit.
No-tight and trim-I scud before the gale-
[He staggers forward, and then stops.
But softly tho-the vessel seems to heel-
Steady! my boy-she must not show her keel.
And now, thus ballasted-what course to steer?
Shall I again to sea-and bang Mounseer?
Or stay on shore, and toy 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, faith-save flip and
fighting.

I must away-I must

What! shall we sons of beef and freedom stoop,
Or lower our flag to slavery and soup?
What! shall these Parly-voos make such a
racket,

And I not lend a hand to lace their jacket? Still shall Old England be your Frenchman's butt?

Whene'er he shuffles we should always cut.
I'll to 'em, faith-Avast-before I go-
Have I not promis'd Sall to see the 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 itI'll take one sugar-plum-[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