But you, my gall'ry friends- [First Gal- She that could jig, and nick-name all Heaven's lery.] come, what say you?

Your wives are with you-shake their noddles
too!

Above there-hey, lads! [Upper Gallery.]
You'll not treat us so-

You side with us?-They grin and grumble
No!

Yet hold-though these plain folks traduce
their doxies,

Sure we have Eleonords in the boxes!

here ?

Inhuman beaux!-why that ill-natur'd sneer? What, then, you think there's no such idiot [know, There are, no doubt, though rare to find, I Who could lose husbands, yet survive the blow. Two years a wife-view Lesbia, sobbing, crying;

Her chair is waiting, but my lord is dying:
Preparing for the worst, she tells her maid
To countermand her points and new brocade;
"For, Oh! if I should lose the best of men,
Heaven knows when I shall see the Club again.
So, Lappet, should he die when I am out,
You'll send for me at Lady Basto's rout:
The doctor said he might hold out till three,
But I ha'n't spirits for the Coterie!" [fever,
Now change the scene-place madam in the
My lord, for comfort, at the Sçavoir Vivre ;
His valet enters-shakes his meager head-
"Chapeau, what news?"-"Ah! sir, my lady's
dead."

creatures,

[tures; With sorrows, not her own, deforms her feaWith stale reflections keeps a constant pother; Greece gave her one face, and she makes

another

So very pious, and so full of woe,
You well may bid her, "To a nunnery go."
Not so Melpomene; to nature true,
She holds her own great principle in view.
She, from the first, when men her power con-
fess'd,

When grief and terror seiz'd the tortur'd breast,
She made, to strike her moral to the mind,
The stage the great tribunal of mankind.

Hither the worthies of each clime she draws,
Who founded states, or rescued dying laws;
Who, in base times, a life of glory led,
And for their country who have toil'd or bled,
Hither they come-again they breathe, they
live,

And virtue's meed through every age receive.
Hither the murd'rer comes, with ghastly

mien,

[scene.
And the fiend conscience hunts him o'er the
None are exempted; all must re-appear,
And even kings attend for judgment here;
Here find the day, when they their power abuse,
Is a scene furnish'd to the tragic muse.

Such is her art; weaken'd perhaps at length,
And, while she aims at beauty, losing strength.
[sick!--Oh! when, resuming all her native rage,
Shall her true energy alarm the stage?

"The deuce!--'tis sudden, faith--but four days Well, seven's the main--(poor Kate!)-eleven's a nick."

But hence reflections on a senseless train, Who, lost to real joy, should feel no pain! 'Mongst Britain's daughters still can Hymen's light

This night a bard-(our hopes may rise too

high

'Tis yours to judge, 'tis yours the cause to try :) This night a bard, as yet unknown to fame, Once more, we hope, will rouse a genuine flame. [rule: His no French play-tame, polish'd, dull by [fer, Vigorous he comes, and warm from Shakspeare's school.

Reveal the love which charm'd your hearts

to-night;

Show beauteous martyrs, who would each pre-
To die for him, who long has liv'd for her;
Domestic heroines, who, with fondest care,
Outsmile a husband's griefs, or claim a share;
Search where the rankling evils most abound,
And heal with cherub-lip the poison'd wound.
Nay, such bright virtues in a royal mind,
Were not alone to Edward's days confin'd;
Still, still they beam around Britannia's throne,
And grace an Eleonora of our own.

60. Prologue to Braganza. MURPHY.
WHILE, in these days of sentiment and grace,
Poor Comedy, in tears, resigns her place,
And, smit with novels full of maxims crude,
She that was frolic once now turns a prude;
To her great end the Tragic Muse aspires,
At Athens born, and faithful to her sires.
The comic sister in hysteric fit,
You'd swear, has lost her memory of wit;
Folly for her may now exult on high;
Feather'd by ridicule, no arrows fly;
But, if you are distress'd, she's sure to cry.

Cæsar and Brutus, Agamemnon, Hector,

But, ah! the painter's skill they little knew, Nay, Jove himself, who here has quaff'd his Nor by what curious rules of art he drew.

nectar!

Shall they who govern Fortune, cringe and
court her,

Thirst in their age, and call in vain for porter?
Like Belisarius tax the pitying street

The ladies, blooming all, deriv'd their faces
From Charles the Second's beauties, and the
Graces.

Thus done, and circled in a splendid frame.
His works adorn'd each room, and spread his
fame;

The wagon-load unpack'd, his ancient store Furnish'd for each a face drawn long before, God, dame, or hero, of the days of yore. The Cæsars, with a little alteration, Were turn'd into the mayor and corporation: With date obolum to all they meet? [gore; To represent the rector and the dean, Sha'n't I, who oft have drench'd my hands in He added wigs and bands to Prince Eugene : Stabb'd many, poison'd some, beheaded more; Who numbers slew in battle on this plainSha'n't I, the slayer, try to feed the slain? Brother to all, with equal love I view The men who slew me, and the men I slew: I must, I will this happy project seize, That those too old to die may live with ease. The countrymen of taste admire and stare, Suppose the babes, I smother'd in the Tow'r, My lady's leer! Sir John's majestic air! By chance, or sickness, lose their acting-pow'r, Miss Dimple's languish too!-extremely like! Shall they, once princes, worse than all be And in the style and manner of Vandyke! serv'd[starv'd? Oh! this new limner's pictures always strike!" In childhood murder'd, and, when murder'd, Old, young; fat, lean; dark, fair; or big or Matrons half-ravish'd for your recreation, In age should never want some consolation. Can I, young Hamlet once, to nature lost, Behold, O, horrible! my father's ghost, With grisly beard, pale cheek, stalk up and down,

And he, the royal Dane, want half a crown?
Forbid it, ladies! gentlemen, forbid it!
Give joy to age, and let 'em say-you did it.
To you, ye gods! [to the Upper Gallery.] I make
my last appeal;

You have a right to judge, as well as feel;
Will your high wisdoms to our scheme incline,
That kings, queens, heroes, gods, and ghosts
may dine?

Olympus shakes!-that omen all secures ;
May every joy you give be tenfold yours!
62. Prologue to the Capuchin. 1776.
Spoken by Mr. Foote. COLMAN.
CRITICS, whene'er I write, in ev'ry scene
Discover meanings that I never mean;
Whatever character I bring to view,
I am the father of the child, 'tis true,
But ev'ry babe his christ'ning owes to you.
"The comic poet's eye, with humorous air
Glancing from Watling-Street to Grosvenor-
Square,

He bodies forth a light, ideal train,

And turns to shape the phantoms of his brain :
Meanwhile your fancy takes more partial aim,
And gives to airy nothing place and name."

A limner once, in want of work, went down
To try his fortune in a country town:
The wagon, loaded with his goods, convey'd
To the same spot his whole dead stock in trade,
Originals and copies-ready made.

'To the new painter all the country came;
Lord, lady, doctor, lawyer, squire and dame,
The humble curate, and the curate's wife,
All ask a likeness-taken from the life.
Behold the canvass on the easel stand!

little,

"The very man or woman to a tittle!"

Foote and this limner in some points agree,
And thus, good sirs, you often deal by me.
When, by the royal license and protection,
I show my small academy's collection,
The connoisseur takes out his glass to pry
Into each picture with a curious eye;
Turns topsy-turvy my whole composition,
And makes mere portraits all my exhibition.
But still the copy's so exact, you say;
Alas! the same thing happens ev'ry day!
How many a modish, well-dress'd fop you meet,
Exactly suits his shape in Monmouth-Street ;
In Yorkshire warehouses and Cranbourn-Alley,
'Tis wonderful how shoes and feet will tally!
As honest Crispin understands his trade,
On the true human scale his lasts are made,
The measure of each sex and age to hit,
And ev'ry shoe, as if bespoke, will fit.
My warehouse thus, for nature's walks supplies
Shoes for all ranks, and lasts of ev'ry size.
Sit still, and try them, sirs-I long to please

POSTHASTE 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.

In sweet domestic chat we ne'er shall mingle,
And, wedded though I am, shall still live single
However modish, I detest this plan;

A pallet grac'd his thumb, and brushes fill'd For me no mawkish creature, weak and wan;

his hand:

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.
If 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;

Scarce have they smiles to honor grace or wit,
Though Roscius spoke the verse himself had
writ!
[ceive
Thus through the time when vernal fruits re-
The grateful show'rs that hang on April's eve;
Though every coarser stem of forest birth
Throws with the morning-beam its dews to
earth,.

Ne'er does the gentle rose revive so soon-
But, bath'd in nature's tears, it droops till noon.
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-

Then I'll forgive him, if he proves to 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,
Take care that Hymen's torch continues burn-Thy lip still conscious of the recent sigh,

ing.

At weddings, now-a-days, the torch, thrown down,

Just makes a smoke, then stinks throughout
the town!

No married Puritan, I'll follow pleasure,
And even the fashion-but in moderate meas-
ure;

I will of opera ecstasies partake,
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
space,

A kitchen-garden to adorn my face!
No rocks shall there be seen, no windmill,
fountain;

Nor curls, like guns set round to guard the
mountain !

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 ensures,
And best can ornament such charms as yours.

64. Epilogue to Semiramis. 1776.

SHERIDAN.

The graceful tear still lingering in thine eye-
Go-and on real misery bestow
The bless'd effusion of fictitious woe!

So shall our Muse, supreme of all the Nine,
Deserve indeed the title of--divine!
Virtue shall own her favor'd from above,
And Pity greet her with a sister's love!

$65. Prologue to the School for Scandal 1777.
GARRICK.

A SCHOOL for scandal!--Tell me, I beseech

you,

[you? Needs there a school this modish art to teach 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 powerful 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,
[freshing!
"Strong tea and scandal-bless me, how re-
Give me the papers, Lisp-how bold and free!
[sips.]
[Lady D.'
'Last night Lord L. [sips.] was caught with
For aching heads, what charming sal volatile!
[sips.]

DISHEVELL'D still, like Asia's bleeding 'If Mrs. B. will still continue flirting,
We hope she'll draw, or we'll undraw, the
curtain.'--

queen,

Shall I with jests deride the tragic scene?

No, beauteous mourners!-from whose down-Fine satire, poz! in public all abuse it!

But, by ourselves, [sips.] our praise we can't

refuse it.

Now, Lisp, read you there, at that dash and star."

"Yes, ma'am-A certain lord had best beware,
Who lives not twenty miles from Grosvenor.
Square;

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

villain!

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

Thus at our friends we laugh, who feel the| And you, ye knockers, that with brazen throat

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;

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

Proud of your smiles, once lavishly bestow'd,
Again our young Don Quixotte 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, th' 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.

$66. Epilogue to the same. 1777. Spoken
by Mrs. Abington, in the Character of Lady
Teazle. 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?
Seven's the main-dear sound!--that must
expire,

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 Teazle'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:
"Bless'd were the fair, like you her faults who
stopp'd,

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!"

67. Prologue to A Word to the Wise, per-
formed for the Benefit of Mr. Kelly's Fam-
ily. 1777. JOHNSON.

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 :
By all, 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.

§ 68. 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) [long; Lost at hot-cockles round a Christmas fire! Which feebly claim your sighs, nor claim them The transient hour of fashion too soon spent, Too great for pity, they inspire respect, "Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content! Their deeds astonish, rather than affect; Farewell the plumed head-the cushion'd tête, Proving how rare the heart that woe can move, That takes the cushion from his proper seat! Which reason tells us we can never prove. The spirit-stirring drum!-card-drums I mean: * Upon the first representation of this play, 1770Spadille, odd trick, pam, basto, king, and queen! it was damned from the violence of party.

Other the scene, where sadly stand confess'd | Returning thence, the disappointed fleet
The private pang that rends the sufferer's breast.
When sorrow sits upon a parent's brow,
When fortune mocks the youthful lover's vow,
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!
Whose youth no brother knew, with social care
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!

ý 69. Prologue to the Princess of Parma. 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 night-
This vile old crazy mansion's such a fright!"
"What's to be done?"-" In very truth, my
love,

Anchors in Tavistock's fantastic street ;
There, under folly's colors, gayly 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.t
Happy the call, nor wholly vain the play,
Which weds you to your acres but a day.

70. 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-
"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,
Fit company for modern still-life men of
fashion?
[graze;
Such madness will our hearts but slightly
We've no such frantic nobles now-a-days.
Could we believe old stories, those strange fel-

lows

mind,

[ous

I think 'twere better for us to remove."
Married for love, could of their wives be jeal-
This said, if as it chance that gentle spouse Nay, constant to 'em too-and, what worse,
Bears but a second int'rest in the house,
The vulgar souls thought cuckoldom a curse!
The bill is pass'd-no sooner said than done-Most wedded pairs had then one purse, one
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 pleas-

ure'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.

One bed too-so preposterously join'd!
From such barbarity (thank Heaven!) we're
refin'd.

[der:

Old songs at home their happiness record,
From home they sep'rate carriages abhorr'd-
One horse serv'd both-my lady rode behind
my lord.
'Twas death alone could snap their bonds asun-
Now 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.

This prologue was spoken at the private theatre • Life of Richard Savage, by Dr. Samuel Johnson. of Mr. Hanbury, of Kelmarsh, in Northamptonshire.`