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$93. Epilogue to the Runaway. 1776. GARRICK.

POST-haste from Italy arrives my lover!
Shall I to you, good friends, my fears discover?
Should foreign modes his virtues mar and
mangle,

And caro sposo prove-Sir Dingle Dangle;
No sooner join'd than separate we go;
Abroad-we never shall each other know,
At home I mope above-he'll pick his teeth

below.

There lives the poet's praise!-no critic art
Can match the comment of a feeling heart!

When gen'ral plaudits speak the fable o'er,
Which mute attention had approv'd before,
Tho' ruder spirits love th' accustom'd jest
Which chases sorrow from the vulgar breast,
Still hearts refin'd their sadden'd tints retain-
The sigh is pleasure! and the jest is pain!
Scarce have they smiles to honor grace or wit,
Tho' Roscius spoke the verse himself had writ!
Thus through the time when vernal fruits receive
The grateful show'rs that hang on April's eve;
Tho' every coarser stem of forest birth [earth,
Throws with the morning-beam its dews to
But bath'd in nature's tears, it droops till noon.
Ne'er does the gentle rose revive so soon-

O could the muse one simple moral teach, From scenes like these, which all who heard might reach!

Thou child of sympathy-whoe'er thou art,
Who with Assyria's queen has wept thy part-
Go search where keener woes demand relief,
Go-while thy heart yet beats with fancied
grief:

In sweet domestic chat we ne'er shall mingle,
And wedded tho' I am, shall still live single.
However modish, I detest this plan;
For me no mawkish creature, weak and wan;
He must be English-and an English man.
To nature and his country false and blind,
Should Belville dare to twist his form and mind,
I will discard him-and, to Britain true,
A Briton choose-and may be one of you-
Nay, don't be frighten'd; I am but in jest ;
Freemen, in love or war, should ne'er be press'd.
f you would know my utmost expectation,
'Tis one unspoil'd by travell'd education;
With knowledge, taste, much kindness, and
some whim,
[him.
Good sense to govern me-and let me govern
Great love of me must keep his heart from roving;
Then I'll forgive him, if he proves too loving.
If in these times I should be bless'd by fate
With such a phoenix, such a matchless mate,
I will by kindness, and some small discerning, And Pity greet her with a sister's love!
Take care that Hymen's torch continues burning.
At weddings, now-a-days, the torch thrown

If

down,

[town!
Just makes a smoke, then stinks throughout the
No married Puritan, I'll follow pleasure,
And even the fashion-but in moderate mea-
I will of opera ecstasies partake,
[sure;
Though I take snuff to keep myself awake:
No rampant plumes shall o'er my temples play,
Foretelling that my brains will fly away;
Nor from my head shall strange vagaries spring,
To show the soil can teem with ev'ry thing;
No fruits, roots, greens, shall fill the ample
A kitchen-garden to adorn my face! [space,
No rocks shall there be seen, no windmill,
fountain;
[mountain!
Nor curls, like guns set round to guard the
O learn, ye fair, if this same madness spreads,
Not to hold up, but to keep down your heads!
Be not misled by strange fantastic Art,
But in your dress let Nature take some part:
Her skill alone a lasting pow'r insures,
And best can ornament such charms as yours.

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Thy lip still conscious of the recent sigh,
The graceful tear still lingering in thy eye-
The blest effusion of fictitious woe!
Go-and on real misery bestow

So shall our Muse, supreme of all the Nine,
Deserve indeed the title of-divine!
Virtue shall own her favor'd from above,

$95. Prologue spoken by Mr. PALMER, ON
the opening of the Theatre Royal in the
Hay-Market, May 15, 1777. COLMAN.
PRIDE, by a thousand arts, vain honors claims,
And gives to empty nothings pompous names.
Theatric dealers thus would fain seem great,

And ev'ry playhouse grows a mighty state.
A manager's a trader-nothing more
To fancied heights howe'er mock monarchs soar,
You (whom they court) their customers-and
then,

We play'rs-poor devils-are their journeymen.
While two great warehouses, for winter use,
Eight months huge bales of merchandise pro-

duce,

Out with the swallow comes our summer Bayes,
To show his taffeta and lutestring plays;
A choice assortment of slight goods prepares,
The smallest haberdasher of small wares.

A mighty schemer-like our new director
In Laputa, we're told, a grave projector,
Once form'd a plan-and 'twas a deep one,
Sirs!-

To draw the sun-beams out of cucumbers.
So whilst less vent'rous managers retire,
Our Salamander thinks to live in fire.
A playhouse quidnunc-and no quidnunc's

wiser

66

Reading our play-Dills in the Advertiser, Cries, Hey! what's here! In th' Hay-market a play,

To sweat the public in the midst of May?

"Give me fresh air!"-then goes and pouts alone |'T had a great run abroad, which always yields Work for our Grub-street, and our Spital-fields. France charms our ladies, naked bards, and beaux,

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In country lodgingsby the two-mile stone: There sits, and chews the cud of his disgust, Broil'd in the sun, and blinded by the dust. "Dearee," says Mrs. Inkle, let us go "Toth Hay-market to-night and see the show." "Psha, woman!” cries old Inkle, "you're a fool:

"We'll walk to Hornsey, and enjoy the cool." So said, to finish the domestic strife,

Forth waddle the fat spouse, and fatter wife:
And as they tug up Highgate-hill together,
He cries Delightful walking-charming

weather!"

Now with the napkin underneath the chin, Unbutton'd cits their turtle-feasts begin, And plunge full knuckle-deep, through thick and thin: [jelly, Throw down fish, flesh, fowl, pastry, custard, And make a salmagundy of their belly. "More China-pepper! punch, another rummer! "So cool and pleasant-eating in the summer!" To ancient geographers it was not known Mortals could live beneath the torrid zone: But we, though toiling underneath the line, Must make our hay now while the weather's fine. Your good old hay-maker, long here employ'd, The sun-shine of your smiles who still enjoy'd; The fields which long he mow'd will not forsake, Nor quite forego the sithe, the fork, and rake; But take the field, even in the hottest day, And kindly help us to get in our hay.

§ 96. Prologue to the Spanish Barber. 1777. COLMAN.

ONCE more froin Ludgate-hill behold Paul Prig! [wig! The same spruce air, you see, same coat, same A mercer smart and dapper all allow, As ever at shop-door shot off a bow. This summer-for I love a little pranceThis summer, gentlefolks, I've been to France, To mark the fashions-and to learn to dance. I, and dear Mrs Prig, the first of Graces! At Calais, in the diligence took places; Travell'd through Boulogne, Amiens, Chantilly,

and

All in a line as straight as Piccadilly!
To Paris come, their dresses made me stare-
Their fav'rite color is the French queen's hair:
They're all so fine, so shabby, and so gay,
They look like chimney-sweepers on May-day;
Silks of all colors in the rainbow there;
A Joseph's coat appears the common wear.
Of some I brought home patterns; one, to-night,
We mean to show-'tis true, it is but slight:
But then, for summer wear, you know that's
right.

Who smuggle thence their learning and their clothes;

Buckles like gridirons, and wigs on springs; Têtes built like towers, and rumps like ostrich wings.

If this piece please, each summer I'll go over, And fetch new patterns by the straits of Dover.

$97. Prologue to the School for Scandal. 1777. GARRICK.

A SCHOOL for scandal !-Tell me, I beseech

you,

Needs there a school this modish art to teach you? No need of lessons now-the knowing thinkWe might as well be taught to eat and drink. Caus'd by a dearth of scandal, should the vapors Distress our fair-ones, let them read the papers; Their pow'rful mixtures such disorders hit, Crave what they will, there's quantum sufficit. "Lord!" cries my Lady Wormwood (who loves tattle,

And puts much salt and pepper in her prattle) Just risen at noon, all night at cards when threshing,

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"Fine satire, poz! in public all abuse it! But, by ourselves, [sips.] our praise we can't refuse it. [star." "Now, Lisp, read you there, at that dash and "Yes, ma'ain-A certain lord had best beware, "Who lives not twenty miles from Grovesnorsquare;

"For should he Lady W. find willing "Wormwood is bitter."-O! that's ine-the villain!

"Throw it behind the fire, and never more "Let that vile paper come within my door."

Thusat our friends we laugh, who feel the dart; To reach our feelings, we ourselves must smart. Is our young bard so young, to think that he Can stop the full spring-tide of calumny? Knows he the world so little, and its trade?Alas! the devil's sooner rais'd than laid. So strong, so swift, the monster there's no gagging;

A little weaver, whom I long have known,
Has work'd it up, and begs to have it shown-Cut
But pray observe, my friends, 'tis not his own.
I brought it over-nay, if it miscarries, [Paris."
He'll cry," "Tis none of mine-it came from
But should you like it, he'll soon let you know,
'Twas spun and manufactur'd in Soho.

Scandal's head off-still the tongue is wag-
ging.

Proud of your smiles, once lavishly bestow'd,
Again our young Don Quixote takes the road;
To show his gratitude, he draws his pen,
And seeks this hydra, Scandal, in its den ;

From his fell gripe the frighted fair to save-
Though he should fail, the attempt must please
the brave.

For your applause, all perils he would through,
He'll fight-that's write-a cavaliero true,
Till ev'ry drop of blood-that's ink-is spilt for

you.

$98. Epilogue to the same. 1777. Spoken
by Mrs. Abington, in the Character of Lady
Teazel.
COLMAN.

I, WHO was late so volatile and gay,
Like a trade-wind must now blow all one way;
Bend all my cares, my studies and my vows,
To one old rusty weather-cock-my spouse:
So wills our virtuous bard! the pie-bald Bayes
Of crying epilogues and laughing plays.

Old bachelors, who marry smart young wives,
Learn from our play to regulate your lives;
Each bring his dear to town-all faults upon

her

London will prove the very source of honor;
Plung'd fairly in, like a cold bath, it serves,
When principles relax, to brace the nerves.
Such is my case and yet I must deplore
That the gay dream of dissipation's o'er;
And say, ye fair, was ever lively wife,
Born with a genius for the highest life,
Like me untimely blasted in her bloom,
Like me condemn'd to such a dismal doom?
Save money when I just knew how to waste it!
Leave London-just as I began to taste it!
Must I then watch the early-crowing cock?
The melancholy ticking of a clock?
In the lone rustic hall for ever bounded,
With dogs, cats, rats, and squalling brats sur-
rounded?

With humble curates can I now retire,
(While good Sir Peter boozes with the squire)
And at backgammon mortify my soul,
That pants for loo, or flutters at a vole? [pire,
Seven's the main-dear sound!-that must ex-
Lost at hot-cockles round a Christmas fire!
The transient hour of fashion too soon spent,
"Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content!
Farewell the plumed head-the cushion'd tête,
That takes the cushion from his proper seat!
Thespirit-stirring drum!-card-drums I mean-
Spadille, odd trick, pam, basto, king, and queen!
And you, ye knockers, that with brazen throat
The welcome visitor's approach denote—
Farewell! all quality of high renown,
Pride, pomp,and circumstance, of glorious town,
Farewell!-your revels I partake no more,
And Lady Teazel's occupation's o'er."
All this I told our bard-he smil'd, and said
'twas clear

I ought to play deep tragedy next year:
Meanwhile he drew wise morals from his play,
And in these solemn periods stalk'd away:
Blest were the fair, like you her faults who
stopp'd,

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And clos'd her follies when the curtain dropp'd!
No more in vice or error to engage,

Or play the fool at large on life's great stage!"

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THIS night presents a play which public rage,
Or right or wrong, once hooted from the stage.
From zeal or malice now no more we dread,
For English vengeance wars not with the dead.
A generous foe regards with pitying eye
The man whom fate has laid where all must lie.
To wit reviving from its author's dust
Be kind, ye judges, or at least be just:
For no renew'd hostilities invade
Th' oblivious grave's inviolable shade.
Let one great payment every claim appease,
And him who cannot hurt allow to please;
To please by scenes unconscious of offence,
By harmless merriment, or useful sense.
Where aught of bright or fair the piece displays,
Approve it only 'tis too late to praise;
If want of skill or want of care appear,
Forbear to hiss-the poet cannot hear:
Byall, like him, must praise and blame be found
At best a fleeting gleam, or empty sound.
Yet then shall calm reflections bless the night,
When liberal pity dignified delight;
When pleasure fir'd her torch at virtue's flame,
And mirth was bounty with an humbler name.

§ 100. Prologue to Sir Thomas Overbury. 1777. SHERIDAN.

Too long the muse, attach'd to regal show, Denies the scene to tales of humbler woe; Such as were wont, while yet they charm'd the

ear,

To steal the plaudit of a silent tear;
When Otway gave domestic grief its part,
And Rowe's familiar sorrows touch'd the heart.

A sceptred traitor, lash'd by vengeful fate,
A bleeding hero, or a falling state,
Are themes (though nobly worth the classic song)
Which feebly claim your sighs, nor claim them
long;

Too great for pity, they inspire respect,
Their deeds astonish, rather than affect;
Proving how rare the heart that woe can move,
Which reason tells us we can never prove.

Other the scene, where sadly stand confest
The private pang that rends the sufferer's breast.
When sorrow sits upon a parent's brow,
When fortune mocks the youthful lover's row,
All feel the tale-for who so mean but knows
What fathers' sorrows are, what lovers' woes?

On kindred ground our bard his fabric built,
And placed a mirror there for private guilt;
Where, fatal union! will appear combin'd
An angel's form and an abandon'd mind ;
Honor attempting passion to reprove,
And friendship struggling with unhallow'd love!
Yet view not, critics, with severe regard,
The orphan offspring of an orphan bard,
Doom'd, whilst he wrote, unpitied to sustain
More real mis'ries than his pen could feign!
Ill-fated Savage! at whose birth was giv'n
No parent but the Muse, no friend but Heaven!

* Upon the first representation of this play 1770, it was damned from the violence of party.

Whose youth no brother knew, with social care | § 102. Prologue to the Princess of Parma.

To soothe his suff'rings, or demand to share;
No wedded partner of his mortal woe,
To win his smile at all that fate could do;
While, at his death, nor friend's nor mother's

tear

Fell on the track of his deserted bier!

So pleads the tale that gives to future times The son's misfortunes, and the parent's crimes; There shall his fame (if own'd to-night) survive, Fix'd by the hand that bids our language live!

§ 101. Prologue to Bonduca. 1778. GARRICK.
To modern Britons let the old appear
This night, to rouse 'em for this anxious year:
To raise that spirit, which of yore, when rais'd,
Made even Romans tremble while they prais'd:
To rouse that spirit, which through every age
Has wak'd the lyre, and warm'd th' historian's

page;

That dauntless spirit, which on Cressy's plain Rush'd from the heart through ev'ry British vein;

Nerv'd ev'ry arm the numerous host to dare,
Whilst Edward's valor shone the guiding star,
Whose beams dispers'd the darkness of despair:
Whate'er the craft or number of his foes,
Ever from danger Britain's glory rose.
To the mind's eye let the fifth Harry rise,
And in that vision boasting France despise ;
Then turn to later deeds your sires have wrought,
When Anna rul'd, and might Marlb'rough
fought.

Shall Chatham die and be forgott?-O no!
Warm from its source let grateful sorrow flow;
His matchless ardor fir'd each fear-struck mind,
His genius soar'd when Britons droop'dand pin'd;
Whilst each State Atlas sunk beneath the load,
His heart unshook with patriot virtue glow'd;
Like Hercules, he freed 'em from the weight,
And on his shoulders fix'd the tottering state;
His strength the monsters of the land defied,
To raise his country's glory was his pride,
And for her service, as he liv'd, he died.
O for his powers, those feelings to impart,
Which rous'd to action every drooping heart;
Now, while the angry trumpet sounds alarms,
And all the nation cries, "To arms, to arms!"
Then would his native strength each Briton
know,

And scorn the threats of an invading foe:
Hatching and feeding every civil broil,
France looks with envy on our happy soil;
When mischief's on the wing she cries for

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1778. CUMBERLAND. ERE dark November, with his dripping wings, Shuts out the cheerful face of men and things, You all can tell how soon the dreary scene Affects your wives and daughters with the spleen. Madam begins-"My dear, these odious rains Will bring on all my old rheumatic pains; In fifty places it came in last nightThis vile old crazy mansion's such a fright!" "What's to be done?"-" In very truth, my love,

I think 'twere better for us to remove."

This said, if as it chance that gentle spouse
Bears but a second int'rest in the house,
The bill is pass'd-no sooner said than done→
Up springs the hen-bird, and the covey's gone:
Then hey for London! there the game begins;
Bouquets, and diamond stars, and golden pins,
A thousand freakish wants, a thousand sighs,
A thousand poutings, and ten thousand lies.
Trim, and new-rigg'd, and launch'd for plea-
sure's gale,

Our madam comes, her goslings at her tail;
Away they scamper to present their faces
At Johnson's citadel, for side-box places.
He to their joint and supplicating moan
Presents a face of brass, a heart of stone;
Or, monarch-like, while their address is stating,
Sends them a "veto" by his lord in waiting.
Returning thence, the disappointed fleet
Anchors in Tavistock's fantastic street;
There under Folly's colors gaily rides,
Where humor points, or veering passion guides.
In vain the steward racks, and tenants rave:
Money she wants, and money she will have.
Meanwhile, terrific hangs the unpaid bill,
Long as from Portman-square to Ludgate-hill.
The squire, exhausted, in desponding plight
Creeps to his chambers to avoid the sight,
Or at the Mount with some old snarler chimes
In damning wives, and railing at the times.
Such is the scene!-If then we fetch you down
Amusements which endear the smoky town,
And through the peasant's poor but useful hands
We circulate the produce of your lands;
In this voluptuous dissipated age,
Sure there's some merit in our rural stage.
Happy the call, nor wholly vain the play,
Which weds you to your acres but a day.

§ 103. Epilogue to Percy. 1778. GARRICK. I MUST, will speak-I hope my dress and air

Announce the man of fashion, not the play'r: Though gentlemen are now forbid the scenes, Yet I have rush'd through heroes, kings, and queens;

Resolv'd, in pity to this polish'd age,

To drive these ballad-heroes from the stage—

Life of Richard Savage, by Dr. Samuel Johnson. ↑ Lord Chatham died May 11, 1778.

This prologue was spoken at the private theatre of Mr. Hanbury, of Kelmarsh in Notthamptonshire.

"To drive the deer with hound and horn,
Earl Percy took his way;
The child may rue that is unborn
The hunting of that day."

A pretty basis truly, for a maudlin play!
What! shall a scribbling, senseless woman, dare
To offer to your tastes such tasteless fare?
Is Douglas, or is Percy, fir'd with passion,
Ready, for love or glory, death to dash on,
Fitcompany for modern still-life men of fashion?
Such madness will our hearts but slightly graze;
We've no such frantic nobles now-a-days.
Could we believe old stories, those strange fellows
Married for love, could of their wives be jealous-
Nay, constant to 'em too-and, what is worse,
The vulgar souls thought cuckoldom a curse!
Most wedded pairs had then one purse, one mind,
One bed too-so preposterously join'd!
From such barbarity (thank Heaven!) we're re-

fin'd.

Old songs at home their happiness record, From home they sep'rate carrriages abhorr'dOne horse serv'd both-my lady rode behind my lord. [der: 'Twas death alone could snap their bonds asunNow tack'd so slightly, not to snap's the wonder. Nay, death itself could not their hearts divide, They mix'd their love with monumental pride; For, cut in stone, they still lay side by side. But why these Gothic ancestors produce? Why scour their rusty armours? what's the use? "Twould not your nicer optics much regale, To see us beaux bend under coats of mail: Should we our limbs with iron doublets bruise, Good Heaven! how much court-plaster we should use!

We wear no armour now-but on our shoes.

Let not with barbarism true taste be blended;
Old vulgar virtues cannot be defended;
Let the dead rest-we living can't be mended.

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UNHAND me, gentlemen. By Heaven, I say, I'll make a ghost of him who bars my way. [Behind the scenes. Forth let ine come-a poetaster true, As lean as Envy, and as baneful too; On the dull audience let me vent my rage, Or drive these female scribblers from the stage. For sense or history, we've none but these: The law of liberty and wit they seize; In tragic-comic-pastoral-they dare to please. Each puny hard must surely burst with spite, To find that women with such fame can write: But O, your partial favor is the cause, Who feed their follies with such full applause; Yet still our tribe shall seek to blast their fame, And ridicule each fair pretender's aim, Where the dull duties of domestic life Wage with the muse's toils eternal strife.

What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex, While maids and metaphors conspire to vex!

In studious dishabille behold her sit,
A letter'd gossip, and a housewife wit;
At once invoking, though for different views,
Her gods, her cook, her milliner, and muse.
Round her strew'd room a frippery chaos lies,
A checquer'd wreck of notable and wise;
Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mass,
Oppress the toilet, and obscure the glass;
Unfinish'd here an epigram is laid,
And there a mantua-maker's bill unpaid;
Here new-born plays foretaste the town's ap-
plause,

There, dormant patterns lie for future gauze :
A moral essay now is all her care;
A scene she now projects, and now a dish;
Here's act the first-and here-Remove with

A satire next, and then a bill of fare:

fish.

Now while this eye in a fine phrensy rolls,
That, soberly casts up a bill for coals;
Black pins and daggers in one leaf she sticks,
And tears, and thread, and bowls, and thimbles
mix.

Sappho, 'tis true, long vers'd in epic song,
For years esteem'd all household studies wrong;
When, dire mishap! though neither shame
Sappho herself, and not her muse, lies in.
The virgin Nine in terror fly the bow'r,

nor sin,

And matron Juno claims despotic pow'r :
Soon Gothic hags the classic pile o'erturn,
A caudle-cup supplants the sacred urn;
Nor books nor implements escape their rage,
They spike the ink-stand, and they rend the page:
Poems and plays one barbarous fate partake;
Ovid and Plautus suffer at the stake;
And Aristotle's only sav'd-to wrap plum-cake.

And dare-but hold-I must repress my spleen:
Yet shall a woman tempt the tragic scene?
I see your hearts are pledg'd to her applause,
While Shakspeare's spirit seems to aid her cause,
Well pleas'd to aid since o'er his sacred bier
A female hand did ample trophies rear,
And gave the gentlest laurel that is worshipp'd

there.

§ 105. Prologue to the Fathers. 1779. GARRICE. WHEN from the world departs a son of Fame, His deeds or works embalm his precious name; Yet, not content, the public call for art, To rescue from the tomb his mortal part; Demand the painter's and the sculptor's hand, To spread his mimic form throughout the land; A form, perhaps, which living was neglected, And, when it could not feel respect, respected. This night, no bust or picture claims your praise; Our claim's superior-we his Spirit raise; From 'Time's dark store-house bring a long-lost play,

And drag it from oblivion into day.

But who the author? Need I name the wit Whom nature prompted as his genius writ? Truth smil'd on Fancy for each well-wrought story,

Where characters live, act, and stand, before ye.

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