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 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, Surmullet-turbot-and a grand John Dory. § 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, Hence flow for martial minds potations strong, For high, luxurious souls, with luscious smack, He's gone-nor left one cup of sack behind him. As for the learned critics, grave and deep, A vintner once acquir'd both praise and gain, And sold much perry for the best Champagne. 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 Stretch'd out to sixteen years*, lay by, forsaken: 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. I am, indeed—what others only play. 'Tis English-English, Sirs, from top to toe. 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 § 52. Epilogue to the same. 1756. Spoken SMART. by Mrs. CLIVE. [Enters, reading the play-bill. -as I'm alive! A VERY pretty bill- O pit, have pity-see how I'm dismay'd! I could have shown him, had he been inclin'd, 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, A cousin too she has, with squinting eyes, Who, for the stage too short by half a story, 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, 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. 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, Up gets the boy, the father leads the ass, 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, 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; [queer; Then, as to their dinners, their soups, and One ounce of meat serves for ten gallons of 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, Mother. O child! I've got no bread. So I did, I saw things that were wonderful much queerer; Each one was a talker, but no one a hearer. 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 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 But Novel for our buck and lively romp! '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 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 Our plot concluded, and strict justice done, And every office of intelligence, 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. |