To check th' unruly passions' wild career, And draw from Pity's eye the tender tear; Of Folly's sons t' explore the ample train, The sot, the fop, the vicious, and the vain ; Hypocrisy to drag from her disguise, And Affectation hunt through all her lies: Such was your bard. Who then can deem the stage, The worthless fav'rite of an idle age? $83. Prologue to Bon Ton. 1775. COLMAN. FASHION in every thing bears sovereign sway, And words and periwigs have both their day; Each have their purlieus too, are modish each, In stated districts, wigs as well as speech. The Tyburn scratch, thick club, and Temple tie; The parson's feather-top, frizz'd broad and high; The coachman's cauliflower, built tiers on tiers; Differ not more from bags and brigadiers, Than great St. George's or St. James's styles From the broad dialect of Broad St. Giles. What is Bon Ton ?-" O, damme!" cries a buck, [luck : Half drunk-" ask me, my dear, and you're in Bon Ton's to swear, break windows, beat the watch, [catch. Pick up a wench, drink healths, and roar a Keep it up! keep it up! damme, take your swing! [thing!" Bon Ton is life, my boy; Bon Ton's the "Ah! I loves life, and all the joys it yields," Says Madame Fussock, warm from Spitalfields, Bon Ton's the space 'twixt Saturday and Monday, And riding in a one-horse chair o' Sunday! "Tis drinking tea, on summer afternoons, At Bagnigge Wells, with china and gilt spoons! "Tis laying by our stuffs, red cloaks, and pattens, To dance cowṭillions all in silks and satins!" "Vulgar!" cries Miss-" Observe, in higher life, [wife: The feather'd spinster, and thrice-feather'd The Club's Bon Ton. Bon Ton's a constant Of rout, festino, ball, and masquerade! [trade Tis plays and puppet-shows-Tis something 'Tis losing thousands every night at lu! [new; Nature it thwarts, and contradicts all reason, 'Tis stiff French stays, and fruit when out of season! A rose, when half-a-guinea is the price; son. This is Bon Ton, and this we call the world!” Trim be the mode, whipt-syllabub the matter! In sightly semicircles round your nails, [fails: Keep your teeth clean-and grin, if small-talk But never laugh, whatever jest prevails : Nothing but nonsense e'er gave laughter birth, That vulgar way the vulgar show their mirth. Laughter's a rude convulsion, sense that justles, Disturbs the cockles, and distorts the muscles. Hearts may be black, but all should wear clean faces; § 84. Prologue to the Rivals. 1775. Enter Sergeant at Law, and Attorney following and giving a Paper. Serj. WHAT's here?-a vile cramp hand! Without my spectacles. Att. He means his Att. Yea, sir! though you without reward, Would gladly plead the muses' cause-Serj. So, so! Att. And if the fee offends, your wrath should fall On me-Serj. Dear Dibble, no offence at all. Att. Some sons of Phoebus in the Courts we Serj. Full-bottom'd heroes thus on signs unfurl Á leaf of laurel in a grove of curl! [Exit. Serj. For practice then suppose-this brief will show it Me, Serjeant Woodward-counsel for the poet. No tricking here to blunt the edge of law, No writ of error lies-to Drury-lane! Yet when so kind you seem, 'tis past dispute We gain some favor, if not costs of suit. No spleen is here! I see no hoarded fury; I think I never fac'd a milder jury! The servile suitors watch her various face, She smiles preferment-or she frowns disgrace, Curtsies a pension here-there nods a place. Nor, with less awe, in scenes of humbler life, The widow'd partner of his day of rest, The soldier, fairly proud of wounds and toil, But ye more cautious-ye nice-judging few, Sad else our plight!-where frowns are trans-Who give to beauty only beauty's due, portation, A hiss the gallows-and a groan damnation! the general voice will stand or fall. $85. Epilogue to the same. 1775. SHERIDAN. LADIES, for you-I heard our poet say, He'd try to coax some moral from his play; "One moral's plain,” cried I, "without more Man's social happiness all rests on us: [fuss; Through all the drama, whether damn'd or not, Love gilds the scene, and women guide the plot. From ev'ry rank obedience is our due: D'ye doubt?-the world's great stage shall prove it true." The cit, well skill'd to shun domestic strife, Will sometimes counsel with a lady's eyes; Though friends to Love-ye view with deep $86. Epilogue to Edward and Eleonora. 1775. SHERIDAN. YE wedded critics, who have mark'd our tale, How say you? does our plot in nature fail? May we not boast that many a modern wife Would lose her own, to save a husband's life? Would gladly die-O monstrous and ill bred! There's not a husband here but shakes his head! But you, my gall'ry friendst-come, what say you? [100! Your wives are with you-shake their noddles Above there-hey, lads! You'll not treat us [No! You side with us?-They grin and grumble Yet hold-though these plain folks traduce their doxies, Sure we have Eleonoras in the boxes! [sneer? Inhuman beaux!-why that ill-natur'd What, then, you think there's no such idiot here? [know, There are, no doubt, though rare to find, Í Who could lose husbands, yet survive the blow. Two years a wife-view Lesbia, sobbing, cryHer chair is waiting, but my Lord is dying: [ing; + First Gallery. + Upper Gallery. Preparing for the worst, she tells her maid fever, dead." "The duce!-'tis sudden, faith-but four days sick! 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 Reveal the love which charm'd your hearts to- Hither they come-again they breathe, they live, And virtue's meed through every age receive. Hither the murd'rer comes, with ghastly mien, And the fiend conscience hunts him o'er the None are exempted; all must re-appear, [scene. And even kings attend for judgement here; Here find the day, when they their pow'r 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 Oh! when, resuming all her native rage, Shall her true energy alarm the stage? [high This night a bard (our hopes may rise too "Tis yours to judge, 'tis yours the cause to try)This night a bard, as yet unknown to fame, Once more, we hope, wil rouse a genuine flame. His no French play-tame, polish'd, dull by Still, still they beam around Britannia's throne, § 88. Epilogue by Mr. Garrick on quitting the And grace an Eleonora of our own. §87. 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. She that could jig, and nick-name all heaven's creatures, With sorrows not her own deforms her features; So very pious, and so full of woe, When grief and terror seiz'd the tortur'd breast, 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, Stage, June, 1776. A VETERAN see! whose last act on the stage Entreats your smiles for sickness and for age; Their cause I plead—plead it in heart and mind; A fellow-feeling makes one wondrous kind: Might we but hope your zeal would not be less, When I am gone, to patronize distress, That hope obtain'd the wish'd-for end secures, To soothe their cares who oft have lighten'd Shall the great heroes of celestial line, [yours. Who drank full bowls of Greek and Roman wine, Cæsar and Brutus, Agamemnon, Hector, Nay, Jove himself, who here has quaff'd his [court her, nectar! Shall they who govern fortune, cringe and gore; Stabb'd many, poison'd some, beheaded more; In childhood murder'd, and, when murder'd stary'd? Matrons half ravish'd for your recreation, And he, the royal Dane, want half a crown? may dine? Olympus shakes!-that omen all secures; May every joy you give be tenfold yours! 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 the new painter all the country came; But, ah! the painter's skill they little knew, Thus done, and circled in a splendid frame, His works adorn'd each room, and spread his fame; The countrymen of taste admire and stare, Old, young; fat, lean; dark, fair; or big or "The very man or woman to a tittle!" [little, Foote and this limner in some points agree, And thus, good sirs, you often deal by me. When, by the royal licence 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 Since Faustus sign'd his contract with the Devil. Yet, spite of Satan, all men wish to make 'em, Tho' nineteen out of twenty love to break 'em. Butchers and mealmen, brewers, agents, factors, Pimps, poets, placemen, managers and actors, Bawds, bankrupts, booksellers, are all con[store, tractors; All lie and swear, and cheat, t'increase their And nought will serve him but a full divorce. My dear lov'd rib I never will abandon, $91. Prologue to the Spleen, or Islington Spa. Spoken by Mr. KING. 1776. GARRICK. THOUGH prologues now as blackberries are plenty, [twenty; And, like them, mawkish too-nineteen in Yet you will have them when their date is o'er, And Prologue! prologue! still your honors roar; Till some such dismal phiz as mine comes onLadies and gentlemen, indeed there's none; The prologue, author, speaker-all are dead and goue. [rout; These reasons have some weight, and stop the You clap-I smile-and thus go cringing out: While living, call me; for your pleasure use me; Should I tip off-I hope you'll then excuse me. So much for prologues and now enter Farce: Shall I a scene, I lately heard, rehearse? The place, the Park; the dramatis personæ, Two female wits with each a macaroni: "Pr'ythee, Lord Flimsey, what's this thing at Drury"This Spleen?"— -" "Tis low, damn'd low, Ma'am, I'll assure you." [evil, "C'est vrai, my Lor!-We now feel no such "Never are haunted with a vaporish devil. "In pleasure's round we whirl it from the brain: "You rattle it away with, Seven's the main ! "In upper life we have no spleen or gall; "And as for other life-it is no life at all.' What can I say in our poor bard's behalf? He hopes that lower life may make you laugh. May not a trader, who shall business drop, Quitting at once his old accustom'd shop, In fancy through a course of pleasures run, Retiring to his seat at Islington; And, of false dreams of happiness brim-full, Be at his villa miserably dull? Would not he Islington's fine air forego, Could he again be chok'd in Butcher-row; In showing cloth renew his former pleasure Surpass'd by none-but that of clipping mea sure? The master of this shop, too, seeks repose*, Will he in rural shades find ease and quiet? "Twas there the choicest dramatists have sought $92. Prologue introduced in the Prelude of New Brooms. Spoken by Mr. KING, at the opening of Drury Lane Theatre. 1776. GARRICK. men are, SCRIBBLERS are sportsmen; and as sports[beat fair: Some hit, some miss, some poach, and some This wounds a straggling bird; that often tries But never kills, he shoots and shuts both eyes: Like our train'd-bands, the mark he never hits; He scorns to see the murder he commits : Some will whole covies take, nineteen in twenty; [plenty; And then you smack your lips-for game is In short, by you their merits must be tried; And woe to them who are not qualified! Another simile we mean to broachA new one too!-the stage is a stage coachA stage-coach! why?—I'll tell you, if you ask it[basket Here some take places, and some mount the lame, fat, lean, old, and young! If, as we are jogging on, we sometimes stop, Some scold within, and some asleep will drop, While sailors and their doxies sing and roar [yeo' top. The coachman manager will sometimes please But should he stuff the coach too full, and [door; squeeze ye, You then begin to swear-" Zounds! shut the We're cramm'd already-here's no room for more "You're so damn'd fat! A little farther, Sir"Your elbow's in my stomach-I can't stir!" Hoit! Hoit! the coachman then drives on apace, And, smack! with other stages runs a race, Through thick and thin we dash, now up, now [town; down, Now raise a dust, now rattling through the for ever! Alluding to Mr. Garrick's retiring from the Stage. + Boxes. ‡ Gallery. |