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Prologue to The Miflakes, a Play write by Jofeph Harris, Comedian; 1690. DRYDEN. Enter Mr. Bright.

Our drums and trumpets frighted all the women; [§ 13.
Our fighting fear'd the beaux and billet-doux men.
So Spark, in an intrigue of quality,
Grows weary of his fplendid drudgery;
Hates the fatigue, and cries, A pox upon her!
What a damn'd buftle's here, with love and

honour!

In humble comedy we next appear,
No fop, or cuckold, but, flap-dath, we had him

here;

We fhew'd ye all; but you, malicious grown,
Friends' vices to expofe, and hide your own,
Cry, Damn it-this is fuch or fuch a one!
Yet,nettled, Plague! what does this scribbler mean,
With his damn'd characters, and plots obfcene?
No woman without vizard in the nation
Can fee it twice, and keep her reputation-
That's certain, forgetting-

That he himself, in every grofs lampoon,
Her lewder fecrets fpread about the town;
Whilft their feign'd nicenefs is but cautious fear,
Their own intrigues fhould be unravell'd here.
Our next recourfe was dwindling down to farce,
Then, Zounds-what ftuff is here! Is wit fo
fcarce?

Well, gentlemen, fince none of thefe has fped,
Gad, we have bought a fhare in the fpeaking head.
So there you'll fave a fice,

You love good husbandry in all but vice.

The bead rifes upon a trifled poft, on a bench from under the flage. After Jevern Speaks

to its mouth.

Stentor.

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GENTLEMEN, we must beg your pardoni
here's no prologue to be had to-day; our
new play is like to come on without a frontii-
piece; as bald as one of you young beaux,
without your periwig. I left our young port
fnivelling and fobbing behind the scenes, and
curfing fomebody that has deceived him.
Enter Mr. Bowen.

Hold your prating to the audience; here is honeft Mr. Williams juft come in, half mellow, from the Rofe-Tavern. He fwears he is infpired with claret, and will come on, and that extempore too, either with a prologue of his own, or fomething like one. O here he comes to his trial, at all adventures: for my par, I with him a good deliverance.

I

[Exeunt Mr. Bright and Mr. Bowen,
Enter Mr. Williams.

Save ye, Sirs, fave ye! I'm in a hopeful way,
fhould speak fomething, in rhyme, now, for
the play:

But the deuce take me if I know what to fay.
I'll stick to my friend the author, that I can tell ye,
To the last drop of claret in my belly.

So far I'm fure 'tis rhyme-that needs to
granting:
[are wanting.
And, if my verfes feet ftumble-you fe my own
Our young poet has brought a piece of work,
In which tho' much of art there does not lurk,

After this it fings Sawny, langbs, cries God bless It may hold out three days-and that's as
the king, in order.

Stentor anfwers,

Speak louder, Jevern, if you'd have me repeat;
Plague of this rogue, he will betray the cheat.

[He speaks louder, it aufwers indirectly.
-Hum- -There 'tis again:
Pox of your echo with a northern ftrain.
Well-this will be bat a nine days wonder too;
There's nothing lafung but the puppet-shew.
What lady's heart to hard, but it would move,
To hear Philander and Irene's love?
Thole fifters too, the fcandalous wits do fay,
Two nemclefs keeping beaux have made to gay;
But thofe amours are perfect fympathy,
Their gallants being as mere machines as they.
Ohov the city wife, with her nown ninny,
Is charm'd with, Come into my coach, Mifs
Jenny!

But overturning- -Fribble cries--Adzigs,
The joggling rogue has murder'd all his kids.
The men of war cry, Pox on't this is dull;
We're for rough sports-dog Hector, and the
bull.

Thus each, in his degree, diverfion finds,
Your fports are fuited to your mighty minds;
Whilft fo much judgment in your choice you fhow,
The puppets have more fenfe than fome of
you.

long as Cork.

But for this play-(which 'till I have done, we fhew not)

[not. What may be its fortune-by the Lord-I know This I dare fwear, no malice here is writ: 'Tis innocent of all things-even of wit. He 's no high-flyer-he makes no sky-rockets, His fquibs are only levell'd at your pockets. And if his crackers 'light among your pelf, Ye are blown up; if not, then he 's blown up himielf.

By this time I'm fomething recover'd of my
flufter'd madness:

And now, a word or two, in fober sadness.
Ours is a common play; and you pay down
A common harlot's price-just half a crown.
You'll fay, I play the pimp on myfriend's score,;
But fince 'tis for a friend, your gibes give o'er:
For many a mother has done that before.
How's this?

you cry: an actor write! we know it;
But Shakspeare was an actor and a poet.
Has not great Jonfon's learning often fail'd,
While Skakfpeare's greater genius still prevail'd?
Have not fome writing actors, in this age,
Deferv'd and found fuccefs upon the stage?
To tell the truth, when our oid wits are tir'd,
Not one of us but means to be infpir'd.

The firge of the city of Cerk.

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Let

Let your kind prefence grace our homely cheer;
Peace and the butt, is all our bus'nefs here;
So much for that-and the devil take finall beer.

}

$14.
Epilogue to King Arthur, an Opera;
1691. Spoken by Mrs. Bracegirdle,
Character of Emeline.

Grave, folemn things (as graces are to feafts),
Where poets begg'd a bletling from their guests.
But now no more like fuppliants we come!
A play makes war, and prologue is the drum.
Arm'd with keen fatire, and with pointed wit,
in the We threaten you, who do for judges fit,
DRYDEN. Tofave our plays; or elfe we'll damn your pit.
But, for your comfort, it falls out to-day,
We've a young author, and his firft-born play :
So, ftanding only on his good behaviour,
He 's very civil, and entreats your favour.
Not but the man has malice, would he fhew it:
But, on my confcience, he's a bathful poet;
You think that ftrange-no matter; he'll
outgrow it.

I'VE had to-day a dozen billet-doux,
From fops, and wits, and cits, and Bow-ftreet

beaux :

Some from Whitehall, but from the Temple

more,

A Covent-Garden porter brought me four.
I have not yet read all; but, without feigning,
We maids can make fhrewd gueffes at your
meaning.

What if, to fhew your styles, I read them here ?
Methinks I hear one cry," O Lord, forbear!
"No, Madam, no; by Heaven that's too fe-
Well then, be fafe-
[vere."

But fwear henceforward to renounce all writ-
ing,

And take this folemn oath of my inditing,
"As you love eafe, and hate campaigns and

fighting."

Yet,'faith, 'tis juft to make fome few examples:
What if I fhew'd you one or two for famples?
Here's one defires my ladyfhip to meet
[Pulls out one.
At the kind couch above, in Bridges-ftreet.
Ofharping knavelthatwould have you know what, §
For a poor fneaking treat of chocolate.
Now, in the name of luck, I'll break this open,
[Pulls out another.
Because I dreamt last night I had a token;
The fuperfcription is exceeding pretty,
"To the defire of all the town and city."
Now, gallants, you must know, this precious fop
Is foreman of a haberdasher's fhop;
One who devoutly cheats, demure in carriage,
And courts me to the holy bands of marriage :
But with a civil inuendo too,
My overplus of love fhall be for you.

[Reads.
"Madam, I fwear, your looks are fo divine,
"When I fet up your face fhall be my fign.
"Tho' times are hard, to fhew how I adore you,
Here's mywhole heart, and halfa guinea for you.
"But have a care of beaux; they 're falfe, my

"honey;

"And, which is worfe, have not one rag of
""
"money.

See how maliciously the rogue would wrong ye:
But I know better things of fome among ye.
My wifeft way will be to keep the stage,
And truf to the good-nature of the age;
And he that likes the mufic and the play,
Shall be my favourite gallant to-day.

Well, I'm his advocate-by me he prays you,
(I don't know whether I fhall speak to please
you)

He prays-O blefs me! what fhall I do now?
Hang me if I know what he prays, or how!
And 'twas the prettieft prologue as he wrote it
Well, the deuce take me if I han't forgot it.
O Lord! for Heaven's fake excufe the play,
Becaufe, you know, if it be damn'd to-day,
I fhall be hang'd for wanting what to fay.
For my fake then-but I 'ni in fuch confufion,
I cannot ftay to hear your refolution.

[Runs of

16. Prologue, fpoken by Lord Buckburst, ar
Weftminfler School, at a reprefentation of Mr.
Dryden's CLEOMENES, the Spartan Hero, at
Chriftimas, 1695.
PRIOR.

PISH! Lord, I wish this prologue was but

Greek,

Then young Cleonidas would boldly speak :
But can Lord Buckhurft in poor English fay,
Gentle fpectators, pray excufe the play?
No, witnefs all ye gods of ancient Greece.
Rather than condefcend to terms like thefe,
I'd go to school fix hours on Christmas-day,
Or conftrue Perfius while my comrades play.
Such work by hircling actors fhould be done,
Who tremble when they fee a critic frown;
Poor rogues, that fmart like fencers for their
bread,

And if they are not wounded are not fed.
But, Sirs, our labour has more noble ends,
We act our tragedy to fee our friends:
Our gen'rous fcenes are for pure love repeated,
And if you are not pleas'd, at least you're
treated.

The candles and the clothes ourfelves we bought,
Our tops negle&ted, and our balls forgot.
To learn our parts we left our midnight bed,
Moft of you fnor'd whilft Cleomenes read:
Not that from this confeffion we would fue
Praife undeferv'd; we know ourselves and you:
Refolv'd to ftand or perith by our caufe,
CONGREVE. We neither cenfure fear, nor beg applause,
for thofe are Weftminster and Sparta's laws.
Yet if we fee fome judgment well inclin'd,
To young defert and growing virtue kind,

§ 15. Prologue to The Old Bachelor; 1693.

HOW this vile world is chang'd! In former

days

Prologues were ferious fpeeches before plays;

}

That

That critic by ten thousand marks fhould know, No critic here will he provoke to fight;

That greatest fouls to goodne's only bow;
And that your little hero does inherit
Not Cleomenes' more than Dorfet's fpirit.

17. Prologue to the Royal Mijchief; 1696. PRIOR.

LADIES, to you with pleasure we fubmit

This early offspring of a virgin-wit. From your good-nature nought our authoress

fears:

Sure you'll indulge, if not the mufe, her years;
Freely the praise the may deferve, bestow;
Pardon, not cenfure, what you can't allow ;
Smile on the work, be to her merits kind,
And to her faults, whate'er they are, he blind.
Let critics follow rules; the boldly writes
What Nature dictates, and what Love indites.
By no dull forms her queen and ladies move,
But court their heroes, and agnize their love.
Poor maid! fhe'd have (what e'en no wife would
crave)

A husband love his fpoufe beyond the grave:
And, from a fecond marriage to deter,
Shews you what horrid things step-mothers are.
Howe'er, to conftancy the prize the gives,
And tho' the fifter dies the brother lives.
Bleft with fuccefs, at laft he mounts a throne,
Enjoys at once his mistress and a crown.
Learn, ladies, then, from Lidaraxa's fate,
What great rewards on virtuous lovers wait.
Learn too,if heaven and fate fhould adverfe prove,
(For fate and heaven don't always fmile on love)
Learn with Zelinda to be still the fame,
Nor quit your first for fecond flame:
any
Whatever fate, or death, or life, be given,
Dare to be true, fubmit the reft to Heaven.

§18. Prologue to Love and a Bottle; 1699.
FARQUHAR.
[Servant attending with a bottle of wine.
AStubborn atheifts, who difdain to pray,
Repent, tho' late, upon their dying day;
Soin their pangs molt authors, rack'd with fears,
Implore your mercy in our fuppliant pray`rs.
But our new author has no caufe maintain'd,
Let him not lose what he has never gain'd:
Love and a Bottle are his peaceful arms;
Ladies and gallants, have not thofe fone charms?
For love, all mankind to the fair muft fue:
And, Sirs, the bottle he prefents to you.
Health to the play I toaft Drinks]-e'en let it pafs,
Sure none fit here that will refute their glass!
O there's a damning foldier-let me think-
He looks as he were fworn-to what? To drink.
[Drinks.

Come on then; foot to foot be boldly fet,
And our young author's new commiffion wet.
He and his bottle here attend their doom,
From you the poet's Helicon must come;
If he has any foes, to make amends, [friends
He gives his fervice[ Drinks]—Sure you now are

The day be theirs, he only begs his night.
Pray pledge him now, fecur'd from all abuse;
Then name the health you love, let none refuse.

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His neighbouri' th' great wig may take for wit.
Some authors court the few, the wife if any;
Our youth's content, if he can reach the many,
Who gowith much like ends to church andplay,
Not to obferve what priefts or poets fay-
No, no! your thoughts, like theirs, fie quite
another way.

The ladies fafe may fmile, for here's no flander, No finut, no lewd-tongued beau, no double entendre.

But then, fo far from beau-why he talks sense. 'Tis true, he has a fpark juft come from France, Like coin, oft carried out, but-feldom brought from thence.

There's yet a gang to whom our fpark fubmits, 1 Your elbow-fhaking fool, that lives by's wits, That's only witty tho', juft as he lives, by fits: Hunts, in the face of dinner, all the day, Who, lion-like, through bailiffs fcours away, At night with empty bowels grumbles o'er the

play.

And now the modifh 'prentice he implores,
Who, withh's mafter's cafh,ftoi'n out of doors,
Employs it on a brace of-honourable whores :
While their good bulky mother pleas'd fits by,
Bawd-regent of the bubble gallery.
Next to our mounted friends we humbly move,
Who all your fide-box tricks are much above,
And never fail to pay us with your love.
Ah, friends! poor Dorfet Garden-house is gone;
Our merry meetings there are all undone :
Quite loft to us, fure for fome ftrange misdeeds,
That ftrong dog Sampfon's pull'd it o'er our heads,
Snaps rope like thread; but when his fortune's
told him,

He'll hear perhaps of rope will one day hold him:
At least, hope that our good-natur'd town
Will find a way to pull his prices down.

On fecond thoughts, I 've but two words to fay
Well, that's all ! Now, gentlemen, for the play:
Such as it is, for your delight defign'd,
Hear it, read, try, judge, and speak as you find.

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Each aft a course; each scene a diff'rent dish:
Tho' we're in Lent, I doubt you're still for flesh.
Satire 's the fauce, high-seafon'd,fbarp, and rough:
Kindmarks and beaux, I hope you're pepper proof.
Wit is the wine; but 'tis fo fcarce the true,
Poets, like vintners, balderdash and brew.
Your furly fcenes, where rant and bloodthed join,
Are butcher's incat, a battle's a firloin:
Your fcenes of love, fo flowing, foft, and chafte,
Are water-gruel, without falt or tafte.
Bawdy's fat venifon, which, tho' ftale, can please:
Your rakes love baut-gouts, like your damn'd
French cheese.

Your rarity, for the fair guest to gape on,
Is your nice fqueaker, or Italian capon;
Or your French virgin-pullet, garnith'd round,
And diefs'd with fauce of fome-four hundred
pound.

An opera, like an oglio, nicks the age;
Farce is the hafty-pudding of the stage;
For when you're treated with indifferent cheer,

}

You can difpenfe with flender ftage-coach fare.
A pafioral's whipt-cream; ftage whims,mere trash;
And tragi-comedy, half fish and fleth.
But comedy, that, that's the darling cheer;
This night, we hope, you ll an Inconttant bear:
Wild-fowl is lik'd in play-house all the year.
Yet fince each mind betrays a diff'rent taste,
And ev'ry dish carce pleales ev'ry guest,
If aught you relith, do not damn the reft.
This favour crav'd, up let the mufic ftrike:
You're welcome all-now fall to where you like.

21. Prologue on the propojed Union of the Two
Houses; 1793.
FARQUHAR.
NOW all the world's ta'en up with itate af-

fairs,

Some withing peace, fome calling out for wars,
Tis likewife fit we fheuid inform the age,
What are the prefent politics o' th' ftage:
Two diffrent states, ambitious both, and bold,
All free-born fouis, the New House and the
Have long contended, and made ftout effays,
Which thould be monarch abfolute in plays.
Long has the battle held with bloody trife,
Where many ranting heroes loft their life;
Yet fuch their enmity, that c'en the flain
Do conquer death, rise up, and fight again.
Whilt from the gallery, box, the pit, and all,
The audience look'd, and thook its awful head,
Wond'ring to fee fo many thoufands fall,

All this from emulation for the bays,
You lik'd the conteft, and beflow'd your praife
But now (as bufy heads love fomething new)
They would propofe an union-O mort dieu!
If it be to, let Cæfar hide his head,
And fight no more for glory, but for bread.
Let Alexander mourn, as once before,
Becaufe no worlds are left to conquer more.
But if we may judge finall from greater things,
The prefent times may fhew what union brings,
You feel the danger of united kings.
If we grow one, then flav'ry muft enfue,
To poets, players, and, my friends, to you.
For, to one house confin'd, you then must praife
Both curled actors, and confounded plays.
Then leave us as we are, and next advance
Bravely to break the tie 'twixt Spain and France.

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CENT LIVRE.

POETS like muthrooms rife and fall of late,
Invention 's rack'd to pleafe both eye and car,
But no fcene takes without the moving play'r:
Daily we fee plays, pamphlets, libels, rhymes,
Become the falling-Sicknefs of the times;
So fev'rith is the humour of the town,

Or as th' uncertain favourites of state;

It furfeits of a play cre three days run.

At Locket's, Browne's, and at Pontack's inquire
What modifh kick-fhaws the nice beaux defire,
Has beft pretentions to regale the palate.
What fam'd ragouts, what new-invented fallad,
If we prefent you with a medley here,
A hodge-podge difh ferv'd up in china ware,
We hope 'twill pleafe, 'caufe like your bills of
fare.

To pleafe you all we should attempt in vain,
In diff'rent perfons diff'rent humours reign.
The foldier's for the rattling fcenes of war,
The peaceful beau hates fhedding blood fo near.
Courtiers in comedy place their chief delight,
Old,'Caufe love's the proper bufinefs of the night.
The clown for paft ral his half-crown beftows,
But t'other haute by fad experience knows
This polish'd town produces few of those.
The merchant is for traffic ev'ry where,
And values not the best, but cheapest ware.
Since various humours are pleas'd various ways,
A critic's but a fool to judge of plays.
Fool, did I fay? 'Tis difficult to know
Who 'tis that 's fo indeed, or is not fo
If that be then a point fo hard to gain,
Wit's fure a moft profound unfathom'd main.
He that fits judge, the trident ought to fway,
To know who's greatest fool or wit to-day,
The audience, or the author of the play.

And then look'd pale to fee us look fʊ red.
For force of numbers, and poetic spell,
We've rais'd the ancient heroes too from hell,
To lead our troops; and on this bloody field
You've feen great Cæfar fight, great Pompeyyield.
Vaft fums of treasure too we did advance,
To draw fome mercenary troops from France;
Light-foote drogues,who, when they got their pay,
Took to their heels-Allons-and ran away.
Here you have feen great Philip's conqu'ring fon,
Who in twelve years did the whole world o'er-run;
Here has he fought, and found a harder job,
To beat one play-house, than fubdue the globe:

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A fickle, falfe, a finging, dancing crew,
Nay, now we hear they 've fmiling-mafters too;
Just now a Frenchman, in the dreffing-room,
Fom teaching of a beau to finile was come.
He fhew'd five guineas-Was n't he rarely paid
Thus all the world by fmiles are once betray'd.
The statesman fmiles on them he would undo,
The courtier's fmiles are very feldom true,
The lover's fmiles too many do believe,
And women fmile on them they would deceive.
When tradefmen fmile, they fately cheat with eafe;
And fmiling lawyers never fail of fees.
The doctor's look the patient's pains beguiles,
The fick man lives if the phyfician fmiles:
Thus fmiles with intereft hand in hand do go,
He fureft ftrikes, that fmiling gives the blow.
Poets, with us, this proverb do defy,
We live by finiles, for if you frown we die.
To please you, then, fhall be our chief endeavour,
And all we ask is but your fmiles for ever.

But for the fofter sex, whom most twe 'd more,
We've what the fair and chafte were form'd for→
love :

An artlefs paffion, fraught with hopes and fears,
And nearest happy when it most defpairs.
For masks, we've fcandal; and for beaux,
French airs.

To pleafe all taftcs, we 'll do the best we can;
For the galleries, we 've Dicky and Will Pia.

kethman.

Now, Sirs, you're welcome, and you know
your fare;

But pray, in charity, the founder spare,
Left you defirey at once the poct and the play`r.

§ 25. Prologue to the Twin Rivals; 1706.

FARQUHAR.

[An alarm founded

[Going. WITH drums and trumpets, in this warring

age,

A martial prologue fhould alarm the stage.
New plays-cre acted, a full audience here,
Seem tewas infefted, when a fiege they fear.
Frologues are like a forlorn hope, fent out
Before the play, to fkirmish and to scout:
Our dreadful fees, the critics, when they fpy,
hey cock, they charge, they fire-then back
they fly.

Hold-I forgot the author bid me fay,
She humbly begs protection for her play:
'Tis yours-the dedicates it to you all,
And you 're too gen'rous, fure, to let it fall;
She hopes the ladies will her caufe maintain,
Since virtue here has been her only aim.
The beaux, fhe thinks, won't fail to do her right,
Since here they're taught with fafety how to fight.1
She's fure of favour from the men of war,
A foldier is her darling character:
To fear their murmurs then would be abfurd,
They only mutiny when not preferr'd.
But yet, I fee, the does your fury dread,
And, like a pris'ner, ftands with fear half dead,
While you, her judges, do her fentence give;
If you 're not pleas'd, the fays, the cannot live.
Let my petition then for once prevail;
And let your gen'rous hands her pardon feal.

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For your fmart taftes we 've tofs'd you up a fop,
We hope the newest that 's of late come up;
The fol, beau, wit, and rake, fo mix'd he carries,
He feems a ragout piping hot from Paris.

The fiege is laid-there gallant chiefs abound; y
Herc-fees intrench'd, there-glitt'ring troops

around,

And the loud batt'ries roar-from yonder ri

fing ground.

}

In the firit act, brifk fallies (mifs or hit),
With vollies of fmall thot, or fhip-Inap wit,
Attack, and gall the trenches of the pit.
The next-the fire continues, but at lergth
Grows lefs, and flackens like a bridegroom's
ftrength.

The third---feints, mines, and countermines

abound;

Your critic engineers, fafe under ground,
Blow up our works, and all our art confound.
The fourth-brings on moft action, and 'ti.
Sharp,

Fresh focs crowd on, at your remiffaefs carp,
And defp'rate, though unskill'd, infult cur
counterfcarp.

Then comes the lait, the gen'ral storm is near,
The post-governor now quakes for fear;
Runs wildly up and down, forgets to huff,
And would give ali he 's plunder'd-to get cf.
So-Don, and Monfieur-Bluff, before the ge
Were quickly taur'd-at Venio, and at Liege
Twas Viva Spagnia! Viva France! befo:e;
Now, Quartier, Monfieur 1 Quartier! Ab. Sener!
But what your refolution can withstand?
You mafter all, and awe the fea and land.
In war-your valour makes the strong submit ;
Your judgment humbles all attempts in wit.
What play, what fort, what beauty can endure
All fierce affaults, and always be fecure?

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