Suppose these characters, various as they are, The knave, the fool, the worthy, wise, and fair, For and against the author pleading at your bar. First pleads Tom Jones-grateful his heart and

warm

"Brave gen'rous Britons! shield this play from harm;

My best friend wrote it; should it not succeed, Though with my Sophy blest-my heart will bleed;"

Then from his face he wipes the manly tear. "Courage, my master!" Partridge cries, "don't fear:

Should Envy's serpents hiss, or Malice frown, Though I'm a coward, zounds; I'll knock 'em down."

Next, sweet Sophia comes-she cannot speak-
Her wishes for the play o'erspread her cheek;
In ev'ry look her sentiments you read,
And more than eloquence her blushes plead.
Now Blifil bows-with smiles his false heart
gilding-

"He was my foe-I'll beg you'll damn this Fielding."

"Right!" Thwackum roars, "no mercy, sirs, I pray;

Scourge the dead author, through his orphan play."

"What words!" cries Parson Adams; "fie, fie! disown 'em!

Good Lord!-de mortuis nil nisi bonum: ['em?
If such are Christian teachers, who'll revere
If thus they preach, the devil alone should hear
'em."
[vagrant
Now Slipslop enters" Though this scriv ning
Slated my virtue, which was ever flagrant,
Yet, like black Thello, I'd bear scorns and
Slip into poverty to th' very hips, [whips,
T exult this play-may it decrease in favor,
And be its fame immortaliz'd for ever!"
Squire Western, reeling with October mellow,
Tally-o, boys!-Yoicks!-Critics, hunt the
fellow!

Damn 'en! these wits are varmint not worth
breeding:
[ing?"
What good e'er came of writing and of read-
Next comes, brimfull of spite and politics,
His sister Western-and thus deeply speaks:
"Wits are arm'd pow'rs; like France attack

the foe;

Negociate till they sleep-then strike the blow."
Allworthy, last, pleads to your noblest passions:
"Ye gen rous leaders of the tastes and fashions,
Departed Genius left his orphan play
To your kind care-what the dead wills, obey:
O then respect the father's fond bequest,
And make his widow smile, his spirit rest!"

§ 106. Prologue to the Miniature-Picture. 1780. SHERIDAN. CHILL'D by rude gales, while yet reluctant May

Withholds the beauties of the vernal day;

As some fond maid, whom matron-frowns reprove,

Suspends the smile her heart devotes to love;
The season's pleasures too delay their hour,
And winter revels with protracted pow'r :
Then blame not, critics, if thus late we bring
A winter's drama; but reproach-the spring.
What prudent cit dares yet the season trust,
Bask in his whisky, and enjoy the dust?
Hous'd in Cheapside, scarce yet the gayer spark
Achieves the Sunday triumph of the Park:
Scarce yet you see him, dreading to be late,
Scour the New-road, and dash through Grosve
nor-gate.

Anxious-and fearful too-his steed to show,
The hack'd Bucephalus of Rotten-row :
Careless he seems, yet vigilantly sly,
Wooes the stray glance of ladies passing by;
While his off-heel, insidiously aside,
Provokes the caper which he seems to chide.
Scarce rural Kensington due honor gains:
The vulgar verdure of her walk remains,
Where white-rob'd misses amble two by two,
Nodding to booted beaux-"How do, how do?"
With gen'ral questions, that no answer wait,
"How vastly fall? A'n't you come vastly late?
Isn't it quite charming? When do you leave

town?

An't you quite tir'd? Pray, can we set you down?"

These suburb pleasures of a London May
Imperfect yet, we hail the cold delay:
But if this plea's denied, in our excuse
Another still remains you can't refuse;
It is a lady writes-and hark-a noble muse!
But see a critic starting from his bench-
"A noble author!" Yes, sir, but the play's
not French;

Yet if it were, no blame on us could fall;
For we, you know, must follow fashion's call:
And true it is, things lately were in train
To woo the Gallic Muse at Drury-lane;
Not to import a troop of foreign elves,
But treat you with French actors in our-
selves.

A friend we had, who vow'd he'd make us speak
Pure flippant French-by contract-in a week;
Told us 'twas time to study what was good,
Polish, and leave off being understood:
That crowded audiences we thus might bring
To Monsieur Parsons, and Chevalier King;
Or should the vulgar grumble now and then,
The prompter might translate-for country gen-

tlemen.

Straight all subscrib'd-kings, gods, mutes, singer, actor;

A Flanders figure-dancer our contractor.
But here I grieve to own, though 't be to you,
He acted-e'en as most contractors do,
Sold what he never dealt in; and, th' amount
Being first discharg'd, submitted his account.
And what th' event? Their industry was such,
Dodd spoke good Flemish, Bannister bad Dutch:
Then the rogue told us, with insulting ease,
So it was foreign, it was sure to please:

Beaux, wits, applaud, as fashion should com

mand,

And misses laugh-to seem to understand.
So from each clime our soil may something
gain;
[Spain;
Manhood from Rome, and sprightliness from
Some Russian Roscius next delight the age,
And a Dutch Heinel skate along the stage.
Exotic fopperies, hail! whose flatt'ring smile
Supplants the sterner virtues of our isle!
Thus while with Chinese firs and Indian pines
Our nurs'ries swarm, the British oak declines.
Yet vain our Muse's fear-no foreign laws
We dread, while native beauty pleads our cause:
While you too judge, whose smiles are honors
higher

Than verse should gain, but where those
inspire.

eyes

But if the men presume your pow'r to awe,
Retort their churlish senatorial law:
This is your house—and move-the gentlemen
withdraw.

Then they may vote with envy never-ceasing,
Your influence has increas'd and is increasing:
But there, I trust, the resolution's finish'd;
Sure none will say-it ought to be diminish'd.

THE men, like tyrants of the Turkish kind, Have long our sex's energy confin'd; In full-dress black, and bows, and solemn stalk, Have long monopoliz'd the Prologue's walk. But still the flippant Epilogue was ours: It ask'd, for gay support, the female pow'rs; It ask'd a flirting air, coquet and free, And so, to murder it, they fix on me.

Much they mistake my talents—I was born To tell, in sobs and sighs, some tale forlorn; To wet my handkerchief with Juliet's woes; Or turn to Shore's despair my tragic nose.

Yes, gentlemen, in education's spite,
You still shall find that we can read and write;
Like you, can swell a debt or a debate,
Can quit the card-table to steer the state,
And bid our Belle Assemblée's rhet'ric flow,
To drown your dull declaimers at Soho.
Methinks e'en now I hear my sex's tongues,
The shrill, smart melody of female lungs !
The storm of Question, the division calm,
With hear her, hear her! Mrs. Speaker,
Ma'am !

O order! order!" Kates and Susans rise,
And Margret moves, and Tabitha replies.
Look to the camp-Coxheath and Warley
Common

Supplied, at least, for ev'ry tent a woman;
The cartridge-paper wrapp'd the billet-doux,
The rear and piquet form'd the rendezvous;
The drum's stern rattle shook the nuptial bed,
The knapsack pillow'd Lady Sturgeon's head:
Love was the watch-word, till the morning fife
Rous'd the tame Major and his warlike wife.

Look to the stage-to-night's example draws A female dramatist to grace the causeSo fade the triumphs of presumptuous man! And would you, ladies, but complete my plan, Here should ye sign some patriot petition To mend our constitutional condition. The men invade our rights, the mimic elves Lisp and nick-name God's creatures like ourselves,

Rouge more than we do, simper, flounce, and fret,

And they coquet, good gods, how they coquet!
They too are coy, and, monstrous to relate,
Their's is a coyness in a tête-à-tête.
Yes, ladies, yes; I could a tale unfold,
Would harrow up your-cushions- were it
told;
[tum,
Part your combined curls, and freeze-poma-
At griefs, and grievances, as I could state 'em.
But such eternal blazon must not speak;
Besides, the House adjourns some day next
This fair committee shall detail the rest, [week.
And then let monsters, if they dare, protest.

§108. Prologue to Fatal Curiosity. 1782. COLMAN.

LONG since, beneath this humble roof, this

play,

Wrought by true English genius, saw the day. Forth from this humble roof it scarce has stray'd; In prouder theatres 'twas never play'd. [piece There you have gap'd and doz'd o'er many a Patch'd up from France, or stolen from Rome or Greece,

Or made of shreds from Shakspeare's golden fleece.

There scholars, simple nature cast aside,
Have trick'd their heroes out in classic pride;
No scenes where genuine passion runs to waste,
But all hedg'd in by shrubs of modern taste!
Each tragedy laid out like garden grounds,
One circling gravel marks its narrow bounds.
Lillo's plantations were of forest growth-
Shakspeare's the same-great nature's hand in
both.

Give me a tale the passions to control, [soul!" "Whose slightest word may harrow up the A magic potion, of charm'd drugs commixt, Where pleasure courts, and honor comes betwixt!

view.

Such are the scenes that we this night renew, Scenes that your fathers were well-pleas'd to [prevail, Once we half-paus'd-and, while cold fears Strive with faint strokes to soften down the tale; But soon, attir'd in all its native woes, The shade of Lillo to our fancy rose: "Check thy weak hand, it said, or seem'd to Nor of its manly vigor rob my play! [sayFrom British annals I the story drew, And British hearts shall feel, and bear it too. Pity shall move their souls, in spite of rules; And terror take no lesson from the schools. Speak to their bosoms, to their feelings trust, You'll find their sentence generous and just."

THE Jealous Wife a comedy, poor man! A charming subject, but a wretched plan. His skittish wit, o'erlcaping the due bound, Commits flat trespass upon tragic ground. Quarrels, upbraidings, jealousies, and spleen, Grow too familiar in the comic scene. Tinge but the language with heroic chime, 'Tis passion, pathos, character, sublimé!

Wonders were wrought by Nature in her prime,
Nor was the ancient world a wilderness of time.
Yet lost to fame is virtue's orient reign;
The patriot liv'd, the hero died, in vain.
Dark night descended o'er the human day,
And wip'd the glory of the world away:
Whirl'd round the gulf, the acts of time were

tost,

Then in the vast abyss for ever lost.

Virtue from Fame disjoin'd began to 'plain Her votaries few, and unfrequented fane. Her voice ascended to almighty Jove; He sent the Muses from the throne above.

The bard arose; and full of heavenly fire, With hand immortal touch'd th' immortal lyre; Heroic deeds in strains heroic sung,

All earth resounded, all heaven's arches rung: The world applaud what they approv'd before, Virtue and Fame took sep'rate paths no more.

Hence to the bard, interpreter of heaven, The chronicle of fame by Jove is given; His eye the volume of the past explores, His hand unfolds the everlasting doors; In Minos' majesty he lifts the head, Judge of the world, and sov'reign of the dead; On nations and on kings in sentence sits, Dooms to perdition, or to heaven admits;

pous scene,

A king the husband, and the wife a queen! Then might Distraction rend her graceful hair, See sightless forms, and scream, and gape, and

stare.

Drawcansir Death had rag'd without control,
Here the drawn dagger, there the poison'd bowl.
What eyes had stream'd at all the whining woe!
What hands had thunder'd at each Ah! and Oh!
But peace! the gentle prologue custom sends,
Like drum and serjeant, to beat up for friends.
At vice and folly, each a lawful game,
Our author flies, but with no partial aim.
He read the manners, open as they lie
In nature's volume to the gen'ral eye. [store-
Books too he read, nor blush'd to use their
He does but what his betters did before.

Shakspeare has done it, and the Grecian stage
Caught truth of character from Homer's page.
If in his scenes an honest skill is shown,
And, borrowing little, much appears his own;
If what a master's happy pencil drew
He brings more forward in dramatic view;
To your decision he submits his cause,
Secure of candour, anxious for applause.

But if, all rude, his artless scenes deface The simple beauties which he meant to grace; If, an invader upon others' land,

He spoil and plunder with a robber's hand;
Do justice on him-as on fools before-
And give to blockheads past one blockhead more.

$113. Prologue to Runnamede. BEFORE the records of renown were kept, Or theatres for dying heroes wept, The race of fame by rival chiefs was run, The world by former Alexanders won; Ages of glory in long order roll'd, New empires rising on the wreck of old:

Calls up the hero from th' eternal world, Surrounds his head with wreaths that ever

bloom,

And vows the verse that triumphs o'er the tomb.
While here the Muses warble from the shrine,
Oft have you listen'd to the voice divine.
A nameless youth beheld, with noble rage,
One subject still a stranger to the stage;
A name that's music to the British ear,
A name that's worshipp'd in the British sphere:
Fair Liberty! the goddess of the isle,
Who blesses England with a guardian smile.

Britons! a scene of glory draws to-night!
The fathers of the land arise to sight;
The legislators and the chiefs of old,
The roll of patriots and the barons bold,
Who, greatly girded with the sword and shield,
Did the grand charter of your freedom draw,
At storied Runnamede's immortal field,
And found the base of liberty on law.

Our author, trembling for his virgin muse, Hopes in the fav'rite theme a fond excuse. If, while the tale the theatre commands, Your hearts applaud him, he'll acquit your hands;

Proud on his country's cause to build his name, And add the patriot's to the poet's fame.

§ 114. Prologue to the Heiress.

FITZPATRICK. As sprightly sun-beams gild the face of day, When low'ring tempests calmly glide away, So, when the poet's dark horizon clears, Array'd in smiles the Epilogue appears. She of that house the lively emblem still, Whose brilliant speakers start what themes they will;

Still varying topics for her sportive rhymes,
From all the follies of these fruitful times;
Uncheck'd by forms, with flippant hand may
cull :-

Prologues, like peers, by privilege are dull-
In solemn strain address th' assembled pit,
The legal judges of dramatic wit,
Confining still, with dignified decorum,
Their observations to the play before 'em.
Now when each bachelor a helpmate lacks,
(That sweet exemption from a double tax)
When laws are fram'd with a benignant plan
Of light'ning burdens on the married man,
And Hymen adds one solid comfort more
To all those comforts he conferr'd before;
To smooth the rough laborious road to fame,
Our bard has chosen-an alluring name.
As wealth in wedlock oft is known to hide
The imperfections of a homely bride,
This tempting title he, perhaps, expects,
May heighten beauties-and conceal defects:
Thus Sixty's wrinkles, view'd through For-
tune's glass,

The rosy dimples of Sixteen surpass.
The modern suitor grasps his fair-one's hand,
O'erlooks her person, and adores—her land;
Leers on her houses with an ogling eye,
O'er her rich acres heaves an am'rous sigh,
His heart-felt pangs through groves of-timber

vents,

And runs distracted for-her three per cents.
Will thus the poet's mimic Heiress find
The bridegroom critic to her failings blind,
Who claims, alas! his nicer taste to hit,
The lady's portion paid in sterling wit?
On your decrees, to fix her future fate,
Depends our Heiress for her whole estate:
Rich in your smiles, she charms th' admiring
town;

A very bankrupt, should you chance to frown:
O may a verdict given, in your applause,
Pronounce the prosp'rous issue of her cause,
Confirm the name an anxious parent gave her,
And prove her Heiress of the public favour !

$115. Prologue to The Ambitious Step-mother. ROWE.

IF dying lovers yet deserve a tear; If a sad story of a maid's despair Yet move compassion in the pitying fair; This day the poet does his arts employ, The soft accesses of your souls to try. Nor let the stoic boast his mind unmov'd; The brute philosopher, who ne'er has prov'd The joy of loving and of being lov'd; Who scorns his human nature to confess, And, striving to be more than man, is less. Nor let the men the weeping fair Those kind protectors of the tragic muse, Whose tears did moving Otway's labours crown, And made the poor Monimia's grief their own: Those tears their art, not weakness, has confest, Their grief approv'd the niceness of their taste, And they wept most, because they judg'd the

best.

accuse,

O! could this age's writers hope to find
An audience to compassion thus inclin'd,
The stage would need no farce, nor song, nor
dance,
[France;
Nor cap'ring Monsieur brought from active
Clinch, and his organ-pipe, his dogs and bear,
To native Barnet might again repair,
Or breathe, with Captain Otter, Bankside air:
Majestic Tragedy should once again
In purple pomp adorn the swelling scene;
Her search should ransack all the ancient store,
The fortunes of their loves and arms explore,
Such as might grieve you, but should please the

§ 116. Epilogue to the same.

ROWE.

THE spleen and vapours, and this doleful play, Have mortified me to that height to-day, That I am almost in the mortal mind To die indeed and leave you all behind. Know then, since I resolve in peace to part, I mean to leave to one alone my heart :' (Last favours will admit of no partage, Ì bar all sharing but upon the stage :) To one who can with one alone be blest, The peaceful monarch of a single breast: To one-But, oh! how hard 'twill be to find That phoenix in your fickle, changing kind! New loves, new interests, and religions new, Still your fantastic appetites pursue.

Your sickly fancies loathe what you possess,
And ev'ry restless fool would change his place.
Some, weary of their peace and quiet grown,
Want to be hoisted up aloft, and shown;
Whilst from the envied height the wise get
safely down.

We find your wav'ring temper to our cost,
Since all our pains and care to please is lost.
Music in vain supports with friendly aid
Her sister Poetry's declining head:
Show but a mimic ape, or French buffoon,
You to the other house in shoals are gone,
And leave us here to tune our cronds alone.
Must Shakspeare, Fletcher, and laborious Ben,
Be left for Scaramouch and Harlequin?