THIS play is a paradox: its characters are all as natural as were ever drawn, and yet they do nothing probable nor possible from the beginning of the play to the end. No house of a gentleman was ever thus mistaken for an inn; nor did any change of dress ever disguise the acquaintance of the morning into a stranger in the evening. A man must part with two of his senses to be deceived by a young lady, he knows, in the plain dress of a chambermaid, neither features nor tones changing with the habit.

The HARDCASTLE family exists in every county in England; but the first praise must be conferred upon the design of MARLOW: it is so common that no circle of company ever wanted a hero of the sort, bold and insulting among the loose and dissolute of the sex, confounded and abashed in the presence of the elegant and the virtuous; a kind of mean mischiefs that could never soar to tempt an angelic

nature.

The dialogue is written with little ambition of wit: humour there is in abundance; much in the diction, more in the situations, most improbable.

PROLOGUE.

By DAVID GARRICK, Esq.

Enter Mr. WOODWARD, dressed in Black, and holding a Handkerchief to his Eyes.

EXCUSE
me, Sirs, I pray-I can't yet speak-
I'm crying now-and have been all the week!
'Tis not alone this mourning suit, good masters;
I've that within-for which there are no plasters!
Pray wou'd you know the reason why I'm crying?
The Comic muse, long sick, is now a dying!
And if she goes, my tears will never stop:

For, as a play'r, I can't squeeze out one drop:

I

am undone, that's all-shall lose my bread-
I'd rather, but that's nothing—lose my head.
When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier,
Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here.
To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed,
Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed!
Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents,

We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments!
Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up,
We now and then take down a hearty cup.
What shall we do?-If Comedy forsake us!
They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us.
But why can't I be moral ?—Let me try—

My heart thus pressing-fix'd my face and eye

With a sententious look, that nothing means,
(Faces are blocks, in sentimental scenes)

Thus I begin-All is not gold that glitters,
Pleasure seems sweet, but proves a glass of bitters.
When ign'rance enters, folly is at hand;
Learning is better far than house and land.

Let not your virtue trip, who trips may stumble,
And virtue is not virtue, if she tumble.

I give it up-morals won't do for me ;
To make you laugh I must play tragedy.
One hope remains-hearing the maid was ill,
A doctor comes this night to shew his skill.
To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion,
He in five draughts prepar'd, presents a potion:
A kind of magic charm-for be assur'd,
If you will swallow it, the maid is cur'd:
But desp'rate the Doctor, and her case is,
If you reject the dose, and make wry faces!
This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives,
No pois'nous drugs are mix'd with what he gives;
Should he succeed, you'll give him his degree;
If not, within he will receive no fee!
The college you, must his pretensions back,
Pronounce him regular, or dub him quack.