O! may her social rules instructive spread, Till Truth erect her long-neglected head; Till, through deceitful Night she dart her ray, And beam, full glorious, in the blaze of day! Till man by virtuous maxims learn to move; Till all the peopled world her laws approve, And the whole human race be bound in brother's love.

PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.

For faults that flow from habit more than nature, We'll blend, with honest mirth, some wholesome satire.

Now for our bark-the vessel's tight and able! New built!-new rigg'd!-[Pointing to the scenes] with canvass-mast-and cable! Let her not sink,—or be unkindly stranded, Before the moral freight be fairly landed! For though with heart and hand we heave together, "Tis your kind plaudit must command the weather: Nor halcyon seas,-nor gentle gales attend us, Till this fair circle with their smiles befriend us.

A PROLOGUE,

SPOKE AT THE OPENING Of the theatrE AT YORK, AFTER IT WAS ELEGANTLY ENlarged.

ONCE on a time his earthly rounds patrolling,
(Your heathen gods were always fond of strolling)

Jove rambled near the cot of kind Philemon,
When night, attended by a tempest, came on;
And as the rain fell pattering, helter skelter,
The deity implor'd the hind for shelter.

Philemon plac'd his godship close beside him,
While goody Baucis made the fire that dry'd him;
With more benevolence than one that 's richer,
He spread the board, he fill'd the friendly pitcher;
And, fond to give his guest a meal of pleasure,
Sung a rough song, in his rude country measure.
Jove was so pleas'd with these good-natur'd sallies,
Philemon's cot he conjur'd to a palace.

Taste, like great Jupiter, came here to try us, (Oft from the boxes we perceiv'd her spy us) Whether she lik'd us and our warm endeavours, Whether she found that we deserv'd her favours, I know not but 'tis certain she commanded Our humble theatre should be expanded.

The orders she pronounc'd were scarcely ended, But, like Philemon's house, the stage extended: And thus the friendly goddess bids me greet ye; 'Tis in that circle [pointing to the boxes] she designs

to meet ye:

Pedants would fix her residence with heathens, But she prefers old York to Rome or Athens.

A PROLOGUE,

SPOKE AT THE OPENING AN ELEGANT LITTLE THEATRE AT WHITBY.

FROM Shakspeare-Jonson-Congreve-Rowe

and others

The laurel'd list, the true Parnassian brothers!
Hither we 're sent, by their supreme direction,
To court your favour, and to claim protection.
Our hopes are flatter'd with the fair's compliance;
Beauty and Wit were always in alliance!
Their mutual sway reforms the rude creation,
And Taste 's determin'd by their approbation.

The tragic Muse presents a stately mirror,
Where Vice surveys her ugly form with terrour :
And as the fiend departs-abash'd-discarded-
Imperial Virtue 's with the palm rewarded.
The comic glass, from modern groups collected,
Shows fops and fools of every class-dissected:
It marks the fair coquet's unfaithful dealings,
And proves that haughty prudes may have their
failings.

A PROLOGUE,

ON OPENING THE THEATRE AT WHITBY THE ENSUING
SEASON.

O'ER the wild waves, unwilling more to roam,
And by his kind affections call'd for home;
When the bold youth that ev'ry climate tries
'Twixt the blue bosoms-'twixt the seas and skies-
When he beholds his native Albion near,
And the glad gale gives wings to his career,
What glowing ecstasies, by Fancy drest,
What filial sentiments expand his breast!
In the full happiness he forms on shore,
Doubts-dangers-and fatigues are felt no more.

Such are the joys that in our bosoms burn!
Such the glad hopes that glow at our return!
With such warm ardours you behold us meet,
To lay, once more, our labours at your feet.

(Not without hopes your patronage will last) We bend with gratitude for favours past. That our light bark defy'd the rage of winter, Rode ev'ry gale-nor started ev'n a splinter; We bow to Beauty-('twas those smiles secur'd her) And thank our patrons who so kindly moor'd her. Still-still-extend your gentle cares to save her, That she may anchor long in Whitby's-favour.

A PROLOGUE,

SPOKE IN THE CHARACTER OF A SAILOR, ON OPENING THE NEW THEATRE AT NORTH SHIELDS.

[Without. HOLLO! my masters, where d'ye mean to stow us We're come to see what pastime ye can show us; Sal, step aloft-you shan't be long without me, I'll walk their quarter deck and look about me.

[Enters.

Tom and Dick Topsail are above-I hear 'em, Tell 'em to keep a birth, and, Sal-sit near 'em: Sal's a smart lass—I'd hold a butt of stingo In three weeks' time she'd learn the playhouse lingo: She loves your plays, she understands their meaning, She calls 'em-MORAL RULES made entertaining: Your Shakspeare books, she knows 'em to a tittle; And I, myself (at sea) have read—a little.

At London, sirs, when Sal and I were courting, I tow'd her ev'ry night a playhouse sporting: Mass! I could like 'em and their whole 'paratus, But for their fiddlers and their damn'd sonatas; Give me the merry sons of guts and rosin, That play-God save the King, and Nancy Daw[Looking about.

son:

Well-though the frigate's not so much bedoyzen'd,

Tis snug enough!-"Tis clever for the size on 't:
And they can treat with all that's worth regarding
On board the Drury Lane or Common Garden.
[Bell rings.
Avast!-A signal for the lanch, I fancy:
What say you, Sam, and Dick, and Doll, and Nancy',
Since they have trimm'd the pleasure-barge so
tightly,

Sha'n't you, and I, and Sal, come see them nightly?
The jolly crew will do their best endeavours,
They'll grudge no labour to deserve your favours.
A luckier fate they swear can ne'er behap 'em
Than to behold you pleas'd, and hear you-clap 'em.

AN EPILOGUE,

SPOKE AT NORWICH, IN THE CHARACTER OF MRS. DEBORAH
WOODCOCK, IN LOVE IN A VILLAGE.

AFTER the dangers of a long probation,
When, Sybil like, she's skill'd in penetration;
When she has conquer'd each unruly passion,
And rides above the rocks that others dash on;
When deeply mellow'd with reserve and rigour,
When decent gravity adorns her figure,
Why an old maid, I wish the wise would tell us,
Should be the standing jest of flirts and fellows!
In maxims sage! in eloquence how clever!
Without a subject she can talk-for ever!
Rich in old saws, can bring a sentence pat in,
And quote, upon occasion, lawyer's latin.

Set up that toast, that culprit, nobus corum,
'Tis done-and she 's demolish'd in turrorum.
If an old maid 's a dragoness on duty,
To guard the golden fruit of rip'ning beauty;
'Tis right, for fear the giddy sex should wander,
To keep them in restraint by decent slander.
When slips are made, 'tis easy sure to find 'em ;
We can detect before the fair design'd them.

As for the men, whose satire oft bath stung us, Many there are that may be rank'd among us. Law, with long suits and busy mischiefs laden, In rancour far exceeds the ancient maiden. 'Tis undeny'd, and the assertion 's common, That modern PHYSIC is a mere old woman. The puny fop that simpers o'er his tea dish, And cries,-" Indeed-Miss Deb'rah 's-quite old Of doubtful sex, of undetermin'd nature, [maidish!" In all respects is but a virgin cretur.

Jesting apart, and moral truths adjusting! There's nothing in the state itself disgusting; Old maids, as well as matrons bound in marriage, Are valu'd from propriety of carriage: If gentle sense, if sweet discretion guide 'em, It matters not though coxcombs may deride 'em; And virtue 's virtue, be she maid or wedded, A certain truth! say-Deb'rah Woodcock said it.

A PROLOGUE TO THE MUSE OF OSSIAN; LITTLE PIECE, ADAPTED to the stage by d. e. bakeR, FROM THE CELEBRATED POEM OF OSSIAN, THE SON OF FINGAL

To form a little work of nervous merit,
To give the sleepy stage a nobler spirit;

To the gallery.

To touch a sacred Muse, and not defile her,
This was the plan propos'd by our compiler.
Though Caution told him-the presumption 's
glaring!

Dauntless, he cry'd, "It is but nobly daring!
Can we peruse a pathos more than Attic,
Nor wish the golden measure stamp'd dramatic!
Here are no lines-in measur'd pace that trip it,
No modern scenes-so lifeless! so insipid!
Wrought by a Muse-(no sacred fire debarr'd her)
'Tis nervous! noble! 'tis true northern ardour!

"Methinks I hear the Grecian bards exclaiming, (The Grecian bards no longer worth the naming) In song, the northern tribes so far surpass us, One of their Highland hills they'll call Parnassus; And from the sacred mount decrees should follow, That Ossian was himself--the true Apollo."

Spite of this flash-this high poetic fury,
He trembles for the verdict of his jury:
As from his text he ne'er presum'd to wander,
But gives the native Ossian to your candour,
To an impartial judgment we submit him,
Condemn-or rather (if you can) acquit him.`

AN

EPILOGUE TO THE MUSE OF OSSIAN.

IN fond romance let Fancy reign creative!
Valour among the northern hills is native;
The northern hills, 'tis prov'd by Ossian's story,
Gave early birth to Caledonian glory;
Nor could the stormy clime, with all its rigour,
Repel, in love or war, the hero's vigour.

When bonour call'd, the youth disdain'd to ponder,
And as he fought, the fav'rite maid grew fonder.
The brave, by beauty were rejected never,
For girls are gracious when the lads are clever.

If the bold youth was in the field vindictive, The bard, at home, had ev'ry power descriptive; He swell'd the sacred song, enhanc'd the story, And rais'd the warrior to the skies of glory.

That northern lads are still unconquer'd fellows, The foes of Britain to their cost can tell us ; The sway of northern beauty, if disputed, Look round, ye infidels, and stand confuted: And for your bards, the letter'd world have known 'eni,

They're such-the sacred Ossian can't disown 'em.

To prove a partial judgment does not wrong you, And that your usual candour reigns among you, Look with indulgence on this crude endeavour, And stamp it with the sanction of your favour.

AN EPILOGUE,
SPOKE IN THE CHARACTER OF LADY TOWNLEY, IN THE
PROVOKED HUSBAND.

Ar lady-let me recollect-whose night is 't?
No matter at a circle the politest;
Taste summons all the satire she is able,
And canvasses my conduct to the table.

"A wife reclaim'd, and by an husband's rigour' A wife with all her appetites in vigour ! Lard! she must make a lamentable figure! "Where was her pride? Of ev'ry spark divested! To mend, because a prudish husband press'd it!

What! to prefer his dull domestic quiet,
To the dear scenes of hurricane and riot!
Parties disclaim'd, the happy rout rejected!
Because at ten she 's by her spouse expected!
Oh, hideous! how immensely out of nature!
Don't you, my dears, despise the servile creature?"
Prudence, although the company be good,
Is often heard, and sometimes understood.
Suppose, to justify my reformation,
She'd give the circle this concise oration.
"Ye giddy group of fashionable wives,
That in continued riot waste your lives;
Did ye but see the demons that descend,
The cares convulsive that on cards attend;
The midnight spectres that surround your chairs,
(Rage reddens here-there Avarice despairs)
You'd rush for shelter where contentment lies,
To the domestic blessings you despise.

"Or if you 've no regard to moral duty, ('Tis trite but true)-quadrille will murder beauty." Taste is abash'd, (the culprit) I'm acquitted, They praise the character they lately pity'd; They promise to reform-relinquish play, So break the tables up at-break of day.

To quell Adversity-or turn her darts,
To stamp fraternity on gen'rous hearts:
For these high motives-these illustrious ends,
Celestial Charity to night descends.

Soft are the graces that adorn the maid,
Softer than dew-drops to the sun-burnt glade!
She's gracious as an unpolluted stream,
And tender as a fond young lover's dream!
Pity and Peace precede her as she flies,
And Mercy beams benignant in her eyes!
From her high residence, from realms above,
She comes, sweet harbinger of heavenly love!
Her sister's charms are more than doubly

bright,

From the kind cause that call'd her here to night.
An artless grace the conscious heart bestows,
And on the generous cheek a tincture glows,
More lovely than the bloom that paints the vernal

rose.

The lofty pyramid shall cease to live' Fleeting the praise such monuments can give! But Charity, by tyrant Time rever'd, Sweet Charity, amidst his ruins spar'd, Secures her votaries unblasted fame, And in celestial annals saves their name.

AN EPILOGUE,

Spoke at EDINBURGH, IN THE CHARACTER OF LADY
FANCIFUL.

FANCY, we 're told, of parentage Italic,
And Folly, whose original is Gallic,
Set up to sale their vast misshapen daughter,
And Britain, by a large subscription, bought her.
The fertile soil grew fond of this exotic,
And nurs'd her, till her pow'r became despotic;
Till ev'ry would-be beauty in the nation
Did homage at the shrine of Affectation.
But Common-Sense will certainly dethrone her,
And (like the fair-ones of this place) disown her.
If she attempts the dimpled smile, delightful!
The dimpled smile of Affectation's frightful:
Mark but her bagatelles-her whine-her whim-

per

Her loll-her lisp-her saunter, stare-her simper;
All outrés, all-no native charm about her,
And Ridicule would soon expire without her.

Look for a grace, and Affectation hides it;
If Beauty aims an arrow, she misguides it:
So awkwardly she mends unmeaning faces,
To Insipidity she gives-grimaces.

Without her dear coquetish arts to aid 'em, Fine ladies would be just as-Nature made 'em, Such sensible-sincere-domestic creatures, The jest of modern belles, and petit maitres.

Safe with good sense, this circle 's not in danger, But as the foreign phantom 's-here a stranger, I gave her portrait, that the fair may know her, And if they meet, be ready to forego her; For trust me, ladies, she 'd deform your faces, And with a single glance destroy the graces.

AN EULOGIUM ON CHARITY.

SPOKE AT ALNWICK, IN NORTHUMBERLAND, at a chari-
TABLE BENEFIT PLAY, 1765.

To bid the rancour of Ill-fortune cease,
To tell Anxiety-I give thee peace,

AN EPILOGUE,

DESIGNED TO BE SPOKE AT ALNWICK, ON RESIGNING THE PLAYHOUSE TO A PARTY DETACHED FROM THE EDISBURGH THEATRE.

To Alnwick's lofty seat, a sylvan scene! To rising hills from distance doubly green, "Go," says the god of wit, "my standard bear, These are the mansions of the great and fair, 'Tis my Olympus now, go spread my banners there."

Led by fond Hope, the pointed path we trace,
And thank'd our patron for the flowery place;
Here-we behold a gently waving wood!
There we can gaze upon a wand'ring flood!
The landscape smiles!-the fields gay fragrance
wear!

Soft scenes are all around-refreshful air!
Slender repast indeed, and but cameleon fare!

A troop, at certain times compell'd to shift,
And from their northern mountains turn'd adrift;
By tyrant managers a while consign'd,
To fatten on what forage they can find;
With lawless force our liberty invades,
And fain would thrust us from these fav'rite shades;
But we (since Prejudice erects her scale,
To stronger holds with cool discretion run,
And puffs and petty artifice prevail)
And leave the conquerors to be undone.

With gratitude, still we 'll acknowledge the fa

vours

So kindly indulg'd to our simple endeavours;
To the great and the fair we rest thankfully debtors,
And wish we could say, we gave place to our betters

1 The countess of Northumberland, who honoured the charity with her presence.

2 The earl and countess of Northumberland, lord and lady Warkworth, &c.

A PROLOGUE TO LOVE AND FAME.

SPOKE AT SCARBOROUGH.

[Entering.

WHERE is this author?-Bid the wretch appear,
Let him come in, and wait for judgment-here.
This awful jury, all impatient, wait;
Let him come in, I say, and meet his fate!
Strange, very strange, if such a piece succeeds!
(Punish the culprit for his vile misdeeds)
Know ye to night, that his presumptuous works
Have turn'd good Christians into-Heathen Turks?
And if the genius an't corrected soon,

In his next trip, he 'll mount us to the Moon.

Methinks I hear him say-" For mercy's sake Hold your rash tongue-my love and fame 's at stake;

When you behold me-diffident-distrest!
'Tis cruelty to make my woes a jest:
Well-if you will-but why should I distrust?
My judges are as merciful as just;

I know them well, have oft their friendship try'd,
And their protection is my boast-my pride."

Hoping to please, he form'd this bustling plan; Hoping to please! 'tis all the moderns can: Faith! let him 'scape, let Love and Fame survive, With your kind sanction keep his scenes alive; Try to approve (applaud we will exempt) Nor crush the bardling in this hard attempt. Could he write up to an illustrious theme, There's mark'd upon the register of Fame A subject-but beyond the warmest lays! Wonder must paint, when 'tis a G-nby's praise.

A PROLOGUE TO RULE A WIFE.

SPOKEN AT EDINBURGH.

>Tis an odd portrait that the poet drew! A strange irregular he sets in view! 'Mongst us-thank Heaven-the character 's unknown,

(Bards have creative faculties we own) And this appears a picture from his brain, Till we reflect the lady liv'd in Spain.

Should we the portrait with the sex compare, 'Twould add new honours to the northern fair; Their merit, by the foil, conspicuous made, And they seem'd brighter from contrasting shade. Rude were the rules our fathers form'd of old, Nor should such antiquated maxims hold; Shall subject man assert superior sway, And dare to bid the angel sex obey? Or if permitted to partake the throne, Despotic, call the reins of power his own? Forbid it, all that's gracious-that's polite! (The fair to liberty have equal right)

Nor urge the tenet, though from Fletcher's school, That every husband has a right to rule.

A matrimonial medium may be hit, Where neither governs, but where both submit.

The nuptial torch with decent brightness burns, Where male and female condescend by turns; Change then the phrase, the horrid text amend, And let the word obey,be condescend.

FOR SOME COUNTRY LADS, PERFORMING THE DEVIL OF A
WIFE, IN THE CHRISTMAS HOLIDAYS.

IN days of yore, when round the jovial board,
With harmless mirth, and social plenty stor'd,
Our parent Britons quaff'd their nut-brown ale,
And carols sung, or told the Christmas tale;
In struts St. George, old England's champion knight,
With hasty steps, impatient to recite
"How he had kill'd the dragon, once in fight."

From ev'ry side- from Troy-from ancient Princes pour in to swell the motley piece; [Greece, And while their deeds of prowess they rehearse, The flowing bowl rewards their hobbling verse.

Intent to raise this evening's cordial mirth, Like theirs, our simple stage-play comes to birth. Our want of art we candidly confess, But give you Nature in her homespun dress; No heroes here-no martial men of might! A cobler is the champion of to night; His strap, more fam'd than George's lance of old, For it can tame that dragoness, a scold: Indulgent, then, support the cobler's cause, And though he may n't deserve it, smile applause.

A PROLOGUE,

ON OPENING THE new theatre in NEWCASTLE, 1766.
IF to correct the follies of mankind,

To mend the morals-to enlarge the mind,
To strip the self-deceiving passions bare,
With houest mirth to kill an evening's care;