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Go ask your manager-Who, me! Your pardon;
Those things are not our forte at Covent-Garden.
Our author's friends, thus placed at happy distance,
Give him good words indeed, but no assistance.
As some unhappy wight at some new play,
At the pit door stands elbowing away,

He

While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug; His simpering friends, with pleasure in their Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise :

eyes,

He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace;
But not a soul will budge to give him place.
Since then, unhelp'd our bard must now conform
<< To 'bide the pelting of this pit'less storm,»
Blame where you must, be candid where you can,
And be each critic the Good-Natured Man.

SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER;

OR,

THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT.

COMEDY:

AS ACTED

AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT-GARDEN.

FIRST PRINTED IN THE YEAR MDCCLXXII.

DEDICATION.

TO

SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D.

DEAR SIR,

By inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean so much to compliment you as myself. It may do me some honour to inform the public, that I have lived many years in intimacy with you. It may serve the interests of mankind also to inform them, that the greatest wit may be found in a character without impairing the most unaffected piety.

I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality to this performance. The undertaking a Comedy, not merely sentimental, was very dangerous; and Mr Colman, who saw this piece in its various stages, always thought it so. However, I ventured to trust it to the public; and, though it was necessarily delayed till late in the season, I have every reason to be grateful.

I am,

DEAR SIR,

Your most sincere Friend and Admirer,

OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

PROLOGUE.

BY

DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.

Enter MR WOODWARD, dressed in black, and holding a handkerchief to his

Excuse me, sirs, I pray, I can't yet speak,-
I'm crying now-and have been all the week.
<< 'Tis not alone this mourning suit,» good masters:
<< I've that within»-for which there are no plasters!
Pray, would you know the reason why I'm crying?
The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying!
And if she goes, my tears will never stop ;
For, as a player, I can't squeeze out one drop:
I am undone, that's all-shall lose my bread-
I'd rather, but that's nothing-lose my head.
When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier,
SHUTER and I shall be chief mourners here.
To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed,
Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed!
Poor NED and I are dead to all intents;
We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments!
Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up,
We now and then take down a hearty cup.

eyes.

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