EPILOGUE to the WONDER. Spoken by Mrs. CRESPIGNY, in the Character of VIOLANTE, at the Clofe of her Theatricals.

'HO', in this play, I've borne the heroine's part,

ΤΗ

Its foolish title rankles in my heart.

A woman keeps a fecret-THIS THE WONDER!
O, I fhall prove it an egregious blunder!

In ages paft, indeed, when woman's power
Was circumfcrib'd, juft like her fcanty dower;
When pin-money-dear bleffing! was unknown,
And we had nothing we could call our own;
In fome dull Gothic hall we pafs'd our lives,

And work'd, and walk'd, and pros'd with farmers' wives;
Then scarce a carriage did the doors approach,
And Sunday, only, faw the great old coach.
A fecret then-O, 'twas a charming thing
To whisper till it made the village ring!
But times are fweetly chang'd-
-our manners, fashions,
Conduct, behaviour, nay, our very paffions!
And tell-tale women often now conceal
Events, which men are anxious to reveal;
For, when quick circling bowls their fpirits raife,
In fancy's borrow'd beams they fondly blaze;
The wink, the nod, the fhrug, they call to aid,
And boast of conquefts they have never made.-
Secrets indeed!-'tis now become THE WONDER,
If man can keep his boasting paffion under.

The world's quite chang'd-things go a different way--
Now women tyrannize, and men obey-

Yet, we can all find fome good-natur'd friend,

Who lets us know how very few commend.

E'en bere perhaps, fome, with a shrug, will own,
"They think this acting better let alone."
If there are any fuch wife cenfors here,

I fain world whifper fomething in their ear-
"What motive prompts this genius-damping feer?"
If it be judgment from all envy free,

They then fhall make a convert too of me :
But while from each dramatic bard I learn
The genuine form of Virtue to discern;
While, hid in fhapes that captivate all eyes,
Inftruction comes in Pleafure's luring guife,
My heart forbids me to be fway'd by fears
Which blaft the joys that Innocence uprears:
But a thought rifes which must damp my fire,
And make each kindling spark at once expire-

Detefted

Detefted thought! It paints a parting fcene,
And proves our pleasures but a tranfient dream.
Tho' Fame to Afia's fhore for laurels fped,
And twines them round our Ifabella's head;
Tho' Frederick, here, has Rofcius' fires renew'd,
And we, in him, a fecond Garrick view'd;
Tho' Felix with fuch energy complains,
And tells his love in fuch pathetic strains;
Nay, did fo meltingly for pardon fue,
One almoft wifh'd the fweet delufion true :
Tho' to our sprightly Colonel's tafie, you know,
My ftage, my scenes, and all that's here I owe;
Save these Aonian Nymphs-for whom I bend
To Ifabella's all-accomplish'd friend:

Tho' at Liffardo's birth Thalia fmil'd,

And own'd him for her lov'd and favourite child;
Tho' Flora, bere, and Inis fcold and cry,
Till laughter fits in each beholder's eye;
Tho' Lopez and Don Pedro, in good truth,
Have age's wifdom blended with their youth;
Tho' Violante's trueft fmiles appear,

When focial Mirth and partial friends are here;
Yet 'tis a fact-and fure this is THE WONDER,"
That ties like thefe must now be broke asunder!

PROLOGUE to BETTER LATE THAN NEVER, a Comedy, by Mr. ANDREWS.

Written by his Grace the Duke of LEEDS.

And Spoken by Mr. BANNISTER, jun.

USTOM commands a Prologue to each Play;

No form prescrib'd, 'tis difficult to find,
How to conciliate the public mind.

The bashful Bard-the modest Muse's fears,
So long have jingled in your patient ears,

:

That now, perhaps, you'll fcarce vouchsafe to stay,
To hear both their Apology-and Play.

No! Better fure on him at once to call,

With Sir, if frighten'd thus, why write at all?
We're not reduc'd yet to a trembling pen!

Zounds! Bards will croud us foon, like-Gentlemen."
Something like this, I heard a friend once say,

Who wish'd (poor foul) to hear a new-launch'd Play:

Box'd fnug, at firft, completely to his mind,
With only one grave auditor behind;
Ere the third act had ftruggled to its end,
In reel'd three critics, each the author's friend
On praise determin'd-wit confirm'd by wine;

Each And! and If! was chafte-correct-damn'd fine.
To tafte fo mark'd, my friend, of courfe, gave way;
But fqueez'd, thump'd, kick'd-ftill liften'd to the play;
Till by repeated plaudits grown fo fore,

Nor flesh nor blood could bear one comment more.
Such boift'rous friends they furely cannot need,
Who wish by merit only to fucceed.

To-night we offer to the public view,

A character, you'll own, perhaps, is new;
From Doctor's Commons we the model draw ;
A promifing eleve of Civil Law

And Civil fure that Law which can provide
Or (fhou'd need be) release you from a bride.
Thrice blefs'd the manfion where, in fpite of ills,
Alive or dead, you still can have your wills.
Much could offer in our Author's caufe;
Nay, prove his firft great object--your applause,
But, left dull Friendship fhould his genius wrong,
I'll ftop-before the Prologue grows too long,
And Better late than never hold my tongue.

PROLOGUE, Spoken in 1781, at the Theatre in WINCHESTER which adjoins to, or is over the Shambles.

By the late THOMAS WARTON.

WHOE'ER our house examines, muft excufe

The wond'rous fhifts of the Dramatic Mufe;

Then kindly liften, while the Prologue rambles
From wit to beef; from Shakespeare to the Shambles.
Divided only by a flight of ftairs,

The Monarch fwaggers, or the Butcher fwears.

Quick the transition when the curtain drops,
From meek Monimia's moans to mutton chops.
While for Lothario's lofs Calista cries,

Old women fcold, and dealers d-n your eyes.
Here Juliet liftens to the gentle lark;
There, in harth chorus, hungry bull-dogs bark.
Cleavers and fcymitars give blow for blow,
And heroes bleed above, and sheep below.
While tragic thunders thake the pit and box
Rebellows to the roar the stagg'ring ox:

Cow-horns and trumpets mix their martial tones,
Kidnies and Kings, mouthing and marrow-bones;
Suet and fighs, blank verse and blood abound,
And form a tragi-comedy around.

With weeping lovers, dying calves complain,
Confufion reigns, and Chaos comes again.
Hither your steelyards, Butchers, bring to weigh
The pound of fleth Antonio's bond must pay;
Hither your knives, ye Chriftians clad in blue,
Bring, to be wetted by the cruel Jew.
Hard is our lot, who, feldom doom'd to eat,
Caft a fheep's eye on this forbidden treat;
Gaze on firloins, which, ah! we. must not carve,
And in the midst of legs of mutton, ftarve!
But wou'd you to our house in crouds repair,
Ye gen'rous Captains, and ye blooming fair,
The fate of Tantalus we fhould not fear,
Nor pine for a repaft that lies fo near;
Monarchs no more wou'd fupperlefs remain,
Nor pregnant Queens for cutlets long in vain.

A

VERSES by Sir JOHN HARYNGTON.
To his WIFE. Of Womens Vertues.

WELL learn'd man, in rules of life no Stoyk,
Yet one that careles epicures derided,

Of weomens vertues talking, them devided
In three, the private, civill, and heroyke.
And what he faid of theife, to tell you briefly,
He firft began difcourfing of the private,
Which each playn cuntry hufwife may arive at,
As homely, and that home concearneth chiefly.
The fruit, malt, hops, to tend, to dry, to utter,
To beat, ftrip, fpin the woll, the hemp, the flax,
Breed poultry, gather honey, try the wax,
And more than all to have good cheese and butter.
Then next a step, but yet a lardge ftep higher,
Was civill vertue, fitter for the citty,

With modeft lookes, good cloths, and answers witty,
Those bafer things not done but guided by her.

Her idle tymes and ydle coyne the spends

On needle works; and, when the feafon farvs,
In making dainty junketts and confarvs
To welcom in kynd fort his deareft frends.

But

But far above them all, he most extolled

The stately Heroyns, whofe noble minde
Itfelf to those poor orders cannot bynde,
Anomelous that still live uncontrol'd.

Theis intertayn great princes; theis have learned
The tongs, toys, tricks of Rome, of Spayn, of Fraunce;
Theis can correntos and lavoltas daunce,

And though they foote it falfe 'tis near discearned.
The vertues of theis dames are so tranfcendant,
Themfelvs are learn'd, and their heroyke spirit
Can make difgrace an honor, fin a merit;
All pens, all prayfers are on them dependant.
Well, gentle wife, thou knowft I am not stoycall,
Yet would I wish, take not the wish in evill,
You knew the private vertue, kept the civill,
But in no fort afpire to that hearoycall.

YOUR mother layes yt to me as a cryme,
That I fo long do stay from you fometime,
And by her fond furmise would make you feare
My love doth grow more cold, or less finceare:
But let no caufles doubts make you beleeve
That being falfe yt being trew would greeve.

I, when I goe from thee the furtheft distance,
Do in my foule, by my true-loves affistance,
Infted of sweet imbracements, dove-like kisses,
Send kindeft thoughts, and most indeered wishes :-
Then letters, then kind tokens pass, and then
My bufie Muse imployes my ydle pen.

Then memory in loves defence alledges
Seavn organ-pipes, our loves affured pledges.
Alas, how many live ftill with their wives,
Yet in true kindness abfent all their lives!-
Abfence is true loves fauce, and ferves to whet it
They never lov'd whom absence makes forget it.

VERSES to Sir JOSHUA REYNOLDS, on his late Refignation of the Prefident's Chair of the ROYAL ACADEMY.

By the Earl of CARLISLE.

00 wife for conteft, and too meek for ftrife,

Like Lear, oppress'd by those you rais'd to life,

Thy fceptre broken, thy dominion o'er,

The curtain falls, and thou'rt a king no more.

5

Still,