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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?
Or judge that pleasure, with instruction join'd,
Can soil the manners, or corrupt the mind?
Far other thoughts your generous breasts inspire,
Touch'd with a spark of true Promethean fire:
Sure that the Arts with Commerce came to earth,
That the same parents gave those sisters birth,
Cold creeping Prejudice you dar'd despise,
And bade this temple to the muses rise.
O that my tongue could utter all I feel!
Or that my powers were equal to my zeal!
Placed by your favor, not by right divine,
Th' unworthy high priest of the sacred nine,
No tainted incense should pollute their shrine,
Nor aught be offer'd to the public view,
But what was worthy them-and worthy you.

$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;
A set of bays scarce bigger than six mice:
To visit friends-you never wish to see;
Marriage 'twixt those who never can agree.
Old dowagers, dress'd, painted, patch'd, and
curl'd-

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son.

This is Bon Ton, and this we call the world!”
True," says my lord, "and thou, my only
[Ton!
Whate'er your faults, ne'er sin against Bon
Who toils for learning at a public school,
And digs for Greek and Latin, is a fool.
French, French, my boy, 's the thing! jasez!
prate, chatter!

Trim be the mode, whipt-syllabub the matter!
Walk like a Frenchman; for, on English pegs
Moves native awkwardness with two left legs.
Of courtly friendship form a treacherous league,
Seduce men's daughters, with their wives in
trigue ;

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;

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§ 84. Prologue to the Rivals. 1775.
SHERIDAN.

Enter Sergeant at Law, and Attorney following and giving a Paper.

Serj. WHAT's here?-a vile cramp hand!
I cannot see

Without my spectacles. Att. He means his
Nay, Mr.Serjeant, good sir, try again. [fee.
Gives Money.
Serj. The scrawl improves-[more.] O
come, 'tis pretty plain.
Hey; how's this?-Dibble-sure it cannot be!
A poet's brief! a poet-and a fee!

Att. Yea, sir! though you without reward,
I know,

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

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Serj. Full-bottom'd heroes thus on signs unfurl

Á leaf of laurel in a grove of curl!
Yet tell your client, that, in adverse days,
This wig is warmer than a bush of bays.
Att. Do you then, sir, my client's place sup-
Profuse of robe, and prodigal of tie- [ply,
Do you, with all those blushing powers of face,
And wonted bashful hesitating grace,
Rise in the court, and flourish on the case.

[Exit. Serj. For practice then suppose-this brief will show it

Me, Serjeant Woodward-counsel for the poet.
Us'd to the ground-I know 'tis hard to deal
With this dread Court, from whence there's
no appeal;

No tricking here to blunt the edge of law,
Or damn'd in equity—escape by flaw;
But judgement given-your sentence must re-
main;

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,
Is view'd the mistress, or is heard the wife.
The poorest peasant of the poorest soil,
The child of poverty, and heir to toil,
Early from radiant love's impartial light
Steals one small spark to cheer his world of
night;
[woes,
Dear spark! that oft, through winter's chilling
Is all the warmth his little cottage knows!
The wand'ring tar-who not for years has
press'd

The widow'd partner of his day of rest,
On the cold deck, far from her arms remov'd,
Still hums the ditty which his Susan lov'd:
And while around the cadence rude is blown,
The boatswain whistles in a softer tone.

The soldier, fairly proud of wounds and toil,
Pants for the triumph of his Nancy's smile;
But ere the battle, should he list her cries,
The lover trembles and the hero dies!
That heart, by war and honor steel'd to fear,
Droops on a sigh, and sickens at a tear!

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!
But such the public candor, without fear
My client waves all right of challenge here.
No newsman from our session is dismiss'd,
Nor wit nor critic we scratch off the list;
His faults can never hurt another's ease,
His crime at worst-a bad attempt to please:
Thus, all respecting he appeals to all,
And by

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 sup abroad; but first-he'll ask his wife.
John Trot, his friend, for once will do the same;
But then-he'll just step home to tell his dame.
The surly squire at noon resolves to rule,
And half the day-Zounds! Madam is a fool!
Convinc'd at night, the vanquish'd victor says,
Ah, Kate! you women have such coaxing ways!
The jolly toper chides each tardy blade,
Till reeling Bacchus calls on love for aid:
Then with each toast he sees fair bumpers swim,
And kisses Chloe on the sparkling brim !
Nay, I have heard that statesmen, great and
wise,

Will sometimes counsel with a lady's eyes;
To the Pit.

Though friends to Love-ye view with deep

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$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

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[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.

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Preparing for the worst, she tells her maid
To countermand her points and new brocade;
For, O! 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 !”
Now change the scene― -place madam in the

fever,
My lord for comfort at the Sçavoir Vivre;
His valet enters-shakes his meagre head-
Chapeau, what news?-Ah! sir, my lady's

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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-
night;
[fer,
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;

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
rule:
[school.
Vigorous he comes, and warm from Shakspeare's
Inspir'd by him, he shows in glaring light
A nation struggling with tyrannic might;
Oppression rushing on with giant strides;
A deep conspiracy, which virtue guides;
Heroes, for freedom who dare strike the blow,
A tablature of honor, guilt, and woe.
If on his canvass nature's colors shine, [sign.
You'll praise the hand that trac'd the just de-

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;
With 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 nuņnery go."
Not so Melpomene; to nature true,
She holds her own great principle in view.
She, from the first, when men her pow'r 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,

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
Thirst in their age, and call in vain for porter?
Like Belisarius tax the pitying street
With date obolum to all they meet?
Sha'n't I, who oft have drench'd my hands in

gore;

Stabb'd many, poison'd some, beheaded more;
Who numbers slew in battle on this plain-
Sha'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.
Suppose the babes I smother'd in the Tow'r,
By chance, or sickness, lose their acting-pow'r,
Shall they, once princes, worse than all be
serv'd-

In childhood murder'd, and, when murder'd stary'd?

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!* 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!

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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 waggon 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!
A pallet grac'd his thumb, and brushes fill'd
his hand :

But, ah! the painter's skill they little knew,
Nor by what curious rules of art he drew.
The waggon-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 Caesars, with a little alteration,
Were turn'd into the mayor and corporation :
To represent the rector and the dean,
He added wigs and bands to Prince Eugene :
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 countrymen of taste admire and stare,
"My lady's leer! Sir John's majestic air!
Miss Dimple's languish too!-extremely like!
And in the style and manner of Vandyke!
O this new limner's pictures always strike!"
To the Upper Gallery.

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

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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
Then die, and go-where Faustus went before.
While thus o'er all we see th' infection spread.
No wonder it should taint the marriage bed:
Each wife forgets, each husband breaks his vow;
For what are contracts, what is wedlock now?
Garrick, who long was married to the town,
At length a fashionable husband grown,
Forsakes his spouse, base man! for truth to tell,
She lov'd her own dear Davy wondrous well;
Though now he slights her, breaks from her by
force,

And nought will serve him but a full divorce.
But be the fault in women or in men,
Thanks to our laws! they all may-wed again:
Her faithless fav'rite gone, the lady's free
To choose another, and may smile on me;
To the Lame Lover may resign her charms,
And, though a cripple, take me to her arms.
I'll promise to be constant, kind, polite,
And pay my duty-ev'ry other night.

My dear lov'd rib I never will abandon,
But stand by her, whilst I've one leg to stand on.
I'll make a solemn contract, play or pay,
And hope we shall not part this many a day.
Our brother scribbler too, I greatly fear,
Has made a foolish kind of contract here;
He promises, and ten to one you 're bit,
To furnish fable, sentiment, and wit.
I've seen his piece; the man appeal'd to me,
And I, as Chancellor, issued my decree; [it-
T has pass'd the seals, they're going to rehearse
But you're the House of Peers, and may re-
verse it.

$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*,
Sells off his stock in trade, his verse and prose,
His daggers, buskins, thunder, lightning, and
old clothes.

Will he in rural shades find ease and quiet?
Ono! he'll sigh for Drury, and seek peace in riot.
Nature of yore prevail'd through human kind;
To low and middle life she's now confin'd:

"Twas there the choicest dramatists have sought
her;
[caught her:
Twas there Moliere, there Jonson, Shakspeare
Then let our gleaning bard with safety come,
To pick up straws dropt from their harvest-home.

$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
Our cattle too, that draw the stage along,
Are of all sorts and sizes-weak and strong;
Brown, grey, black, bay, brisk, tame, blind,

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
Now first, now last, now jolted, crack! we fall-
Laugh'd, pelted, hooted at, and damn'd by all.
Your late old coachman, tho' oft splash'd by dirt,
And out in many a storm, retires unhurt;
Enjoys your kind reward for all his pains,
And now to other hands resigns the reins.
But the new partners of the old machine,
Hoping you'll find it snug, and tight, and clean,
Vow that with much civility they'll treat you,
Willdrive you well, and pleasantly will seat you.
The road is not all turnpike-and what worse is,
They can't insure your watches, or your purses;
But they'll insure you, that their best endeavour
Shall not be wanting to obtain your favor:
Which gain'd-Gee up! the old stage will run

for ever!

Alluding to Mr. Garrick's retiring from the Stage.

+ Boxes.

‡ Gallery.

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