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Allow you are inconstant, yet 'tis strange, No more th' Italian squalling tribe admit, For sense is still the same, and ne'er can change; In tongues unknown; 'tis popery in wit. Yet even in that you vary as the rest,

The songs (themselves confess) from Rome And ev'ry day new notions are profest.

they bring, Nay, there's a wit* has found, as I am told, And 'tis high-mass, for aught you know, they New ways to heaven, despairing of the old :

sing. He swears he 'll spoil the clerk and sexton's Husbands, take care, the danger may come trade,

nigher,
Bells shall no more be rung, nor graves be made: | The women say their eunuch is a friar.
The hearse and six no longer be in fashion, But is it not a serious ill to see
Since all the faithful may expect translation. Europe's great arbiters so mean can be ;
What think you of the project? I'm for trying; Passive, with an affected joy to sit,
I'll lay aside these foolish thoughts of dying, Suspend their native taste of manly wit;
Preserve my youth and vigour for the stage, Neglect their comic humour, tragic rage,
And be translated to a good old age.

For known defects of nature and of age?
Arise! for shame!

ye conqu’ring Britons, rise!

Such unadorn'd effeminacy despise ; $ 117. Prologue to The Tender Husband, or the Accomplished Fools. ADDISON.

Adinire (if you will dote on foreign wit)

Not what Italians sing, but Romans writ. In the first rise and infancy of farce, So shall less works, such as to-night's slight play, When fools were many, and when plays were At your command, with justice die away; scarce,

Till then forgive your writers, that can't bear The raw unpractis'd author could with ease

You should such very tramontanes appear, A young and inexperienc'd audience please;

The nations, which contemn you, to rerere. No single character had e'er been shown, Let Anna's soul be known for all its charms; But the whole herd of fops were all their own: As fam'd for lib'ral sciences as arms : Rich in originals, they set to view,

Let those derision meet, who would advance In ev'ry piece, a coxcomb that was new.

Manners, or speech, from Italy or France. But now our British theatre can boast

Let them learn you, who would your favour Drolls of all kinds, a vast unthinking host!

find, Fruitful of folly and of vice, it shows (beaux; And English be the language of mankind. Cuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps, and Rough country-knights are found of ev'ry shire, Of every fashion gentle fops appear; And punks of diff'rent characters we meet, § 119. Epilogue to the Gamester. As frequent on the stage as in the street :

CENTLITRI Our modern wits are forc'd to pick and cull, And here and there, by chance, glean up a fool: For his offences past, a pendulum,

As one condemnn'd, and ready to become, Long ere they find the necessary spark, They search ihe town and beat about the Park: Then, like the swan, expires in a song ;

Does, ere he dies, bespeak the learned throng, To all his most frequented haunts resort, Oft dog him to the ring, and oft to court,

So I (tho' doubtful long which knot to choose, As love of pleasure or of place invites ;[White's. Condemn’d, good people, as you see, for life,

Whether the hangman's, or the marriage noose), And sometimes catch him taking snuff at to play that tedious, juggling game, a wife,

Howe'er, to do you right, the present age Have but one word of good advice to say, Breeds very hopeful inonsters for the stage ;

Before the doleful cart draws quite away: That scorn the paths their dull forefathers trod, And won't be blockheads in the common road.

You roaring boys, who know the midnight Do but survey this crowded house to-night: -Here's still encouragement for those that Who labour hard to bring your ruin on,

Of rattling tats, ye sons of hopes and fears ; write.

And diligently toil 10 be undone ;
Our author, to divert his friends to-day,
Stocks with variety of fools his play ;

You 're fortune's sporting footbals at the best

, And, that there may be something gay and new, Suppose then fortune only rules the dice,

Few are his joys, and small the gamester's rest: Two ladies-errant has expos'd to view: The first a damsel travell'd in romance ;

And on the square you play; yet who, that's

wise, The other more refin'd, she comes from France. Would to the credit of a faithless main Rescue, like courteous knights, the nymph Trust his good dad's hard-gotten hoarded gain? from danger; [stranger. But then such vultures round a table wait

, And kindly treat, like well-bred men, the And hov'ring watch the bubble's sickly state;

fond gambler, covetous of more, -$118. Epilogue to the same. STEELE. Like Æsop's dog, loses his certain store;

Britons, who constant war, with factious Then the spunge, squeez'd by all, grows dry
For liberty, against each other wage, [rage,
From foreign insults save this English stage.

Completely wretched, turns a sharper too.
These fools, for want of bubbles, too, playfair

, • Asgill.

And lose to one another on the square:

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weal;

So whores the wealth from numerous culls | But, bless me!-hold-what sounds are these they glean,

I hear?
Still spend on bullies, and grow poor again. I see the Tragic Muse herself appear!
This itch for play has likewise fatal been,

[The black scene opens, and discovers a roAnd more than Cupid drawn the ladies in :

mantic sylvan landscape, from which A thousand guineas for basset prevails,

Sigismunda, in the character of the TraA bait, when cash runs low, that seldom fails; gic Muse, advances slowly lo music, and And when the fair-one can't the debt defray

speaks the following lines: In sterling coin, does sterling beauty pay. Hence with your flippant epilogue, that tries

In vain we labour to divert your care, To wipe the virtuous tears from British eyes; Nor song nor dance can bribe your presence That dares my moral, tragic scene profane, here,

With strains-at best, unsuiting, light, and vain. You Ay this place like an infectious air; Hence from the pure, unsullied beams, that To yonder happy quarter of the town

play
You crowd, and your own fav’rite stage disown; In yon fair eyes, where virtue shines--Away!
We're like old mistresses ; you love the vice, Britons, to you, from chaste Castalian groves,
And hate us only cause we once did please. Where dwelt the tender, oft unhappy loves ;
Nor can we find how else 'tis we deserve, Where shades of heroes roam, each mighty
Like Tantalus, ʼmidst plenty thus to starve.

name,
And court my aid, to rise again to fame:

To you I come; to freedom's noblest seat;. $ 120. Prologue to Tancred and Sigismunda. And in Britannia fix my last retreat.

THOMSON.

In Greece, and Rome, I watch'd the public Bold is the man, who in this nicer age

The purple tyrant trembled at my steel ; Presumes to tread the chaste, corrected stage. Nor did I less o'er private sorrows reign, Now, with gay tinsel arts we can no more And mend the melting heart with softer pain. Conceal the want of nature's sterling ore: On France and you then rose my bright'ning star Our spells are vanish’d, broke our magic wand, With social ray—The arts are ne'er at war. That us'd to waft you over sea and land :

O! as your fire and genius stronger blaze; Before your light the fairy people fade;

As yours are gen'rous freedom's bolder lays ; The demons fly-the ghost itself is laid. Let not the Gallic taste leave yours behind, In vain of martial scenes the loud alarms;

In decent manners and in life refin'd; The mighty Prompter thund'ring out to arms, Banish the motley mode, to tag low verse, The playhouse posse clattering from afar, The laughing ballad, to the mournful hearse. The close-wedg‘d battle, and the din of war, When through five acts your hearts have learnt Now e'en the Senate seldom we convene;

to glow, The yawning fathers nod behind the scene. Touch'd with the sacred force of honest woe, Your taste rejects the glitt'ring false sublime,

O keep the dear impression on your breast, To sigh in metaphor, and die in rhyme.

Nor idly lose it for a wretched jest !
High rant is tumbled from his gallery throne:
Description, dreams-nay, similes are gone.
What shall we then ? to please you how de-
vise,

$ 122. Epilogue to Zara. AARON HILL. Whose judgment sits not in your ears and eyes? Here, take a surfeit, sirs, of being jealous, Thrice happy could we catch great Shak. And shun the pains that plague those Turkish speare's art,

fellows: To trace the deep recesses of the heart;

Where love and death joined hands, their darts His simple, plain sublime, to which is given To strike the soul with darted Aame from heaven; Save us, good heaven! from this new way of

confounding ! Could we awake soft Otway's tender woe; The pomp of verse, and golden lines of Rowe! Curs'd climate .--where to cards a lone-left

wounding! We to your hearts apply; let them attend : Before their silent, candid bar we bend. If warm'd they listen, 'tis our noblest praise : Sighs, and sits mop'd, with her tame beast 10

Has only one of her black guards to summon ! If cold, they wither all the muse's bays.

gaze at: And that cold treat is all the game she plays at !

For-should she once some abler hand be try$ 121. Epilogue to the same. THOMSON.

ing, Crama'd to the throat with wholesome Poignards the word! and the first deal is om moral stuff;

dying! Alas! poor audience ! you have had enough. Slife! should the bloody whim get round Was ever hapless heroine of a play

in Britain, In such a piteous plight as ours to-day? Where women's freedom has such heights to Was ever woman so by love betray'd? Match'd with two husbands, and yet--die a Daggers, provok'd, would bring on desolation, maid!

And murder'd belles un people half the nation !

woman

sit on;

Fain would I hope this play to move com- | From Doctors' Commons we the model draw, passion

A promising eleve of civil law; And live to hunt suspicion out of fashion.- And civil sure that law which can provide, Four motives strongly recommend, to lovers, Or, should need be, release you from, a bride. Hate of this weakness, that our scene discovers. Thrice bless'd the mansion, where, in spite of First then-A woman will or won't-de- ills, pend on't:

[on't. Alive or dead, you still can have your wills. If she will do't, she will—and there's an end Much could I offer in our author's cause, But, if she won't-since safe and sound your Nay, prove his first great object-your aptrust is,

plause ;

[wrong, Fear is affront, and jealousy injustice. But, lest dull friendship should his genius Next, He who bids his dear do what she I'll stop before the prologue grows too long, pleases,

And, Better Late than Never, hold my tongue. Blunts wedlock's edge, and all its torture eases. For not to feel your suff'rings, is the same As not to suffer-All the diff'rence-name. Thirdly—The jealous husband wrongs his $ 124. Epilogue to the same. Andrews. honor;

The drama done, and all its int'rest over, No wife goes lame, without some hurt upon her: Content the husband, and secure the lover, And the malicious world will still be guessing, Our timid bard, who dreads the critic ire, Who oft dines out dislikes her own cook's And thinks my little tongue can never tire, dressing

Would have me re-assume the wig and gown, Fourthly, and lastly—to conclude my lecture: To plead his goose-quill cause before the town, If you would fix th' inconstant wife-respect “ Lord, Sir," says I, “some better counsel her.

For females in a wig are not the thing. (bring, She who perceives her virtues over-rated, Your bearded barrister, if smartly made, is Will fear to have th'account more justly stated: A surer advocate among the ladies.". And, borrowing from her pride the good wife's Madam,” he cried, " or periwigg'd or bare, seeming,

So you but talk, I never need despair." Grow really such—to merit your esteeming. Suppose, ye fair, as I'm so smooth a prater,

I take a line so consonant 10 nature;

Give up the vain attempt your hearts to warm, § 123. Prologue to Mr. Andrews' Comedy of And 'gainst the men with female weapon arm. Better Late than Never. Duke of Leeds.

Oft have the wits, unmindful whom they vex, Custom commands a prologue to each play, Expos'd the foibles of the softer sex, But custom hath not told us what to say: Laugh'd at their dress, their well-shap'd cork, No form prescrib’d, 'tis difficult to find

their feathers, How to conciliate the public mind.

Their steady bloom, unchanging in all weaThe bashful bard—the modest muse's fears,

[brown, So long have jingled in your patient ears, Swore locks were grey, that seem'd a comely That now, perhaps, you'll scarce vouchsafe to And, though all paid for, deem'd them not To hear both their apology-and play, [stay

their own. No: better sure on him at once to call, [all? Why not retort, avenge th' insulted fair, With—“Sir, if frighten'd thus why write at And show these men what wondrous things We're not reduc'd yet to a trembling pen

they are ? Zounds! bards will crowd us soon, like-gen- Now don't be frighten'd-poor eccentric elres! tlemen."

I only show what most you like yourselves. Something like this, I heard a friend once say, How! tremble at a woman? shame betide! Who wish'd, poor soul, to hear a new-launch'd Though I look fierce, like you—I'm all outside; play :

Yet ere my efforts your attention call Box'd snug at first, completely to his mind, To that dear portrait which should hit you all, With only one grave auditor behind;

Let me delineate what was once a beau, Ere the third act had struggled to its end, The Band-box Billy of some years ago. In reel'd three critics, each the author's friend- Sweet image of mamma in every feature, On praise determin'd-wit confirm'd by wine: The youth camne forth a most delicious creature, Each And and If was chaste-correct-damn'd With full-dress'd skirts, not quite unlike a hoop, fine !

[way; Hat under arm, fine button, and gilt loopTo taste so mark’d my friend of course gave Stiff stock, long sword still dangling in the way, But squeez'd, thump'd, kick’d-still listend to He sometimes ventur'd to a first-night play: the play;

Tripp'd through the lobby, most completely Till, by repeated plaudits grown so sore, Nor fresh 'nor blood could bear one comment Nor did a paw-paw thing for all the world! more.

Thus he discours'd: “ Sir Dilberry, ods so, Such boist'rous friends they surely cannot need, Dear, dear, good lack! have you a place below! Who wish by merit only to succeed.

Dem it, don't crowd so, fellow !-0, how To-night we offer to the public view

shocking!

[ing." A character you'll own, perhaps, is new : He's spoil'd my hair, and dirtied all iny stock

thers;

curl'd;

Such was the smart our grandmammas would | Or lisp her merry thoughts with loud endeapraise,

vour,

lever! Rather unlike the smart of present days: Now here, now there in noise and mischief For I defy all history to show

A school-girl next, she curls her hair in papers, One thing in nature like a modern beau; And mimics father's gout, and mother's vapors ; Hat slouch'd, short stick, knee-trappings that Discards her doll, bribes Betty for romances, bring back

Playsul at church, and serious when she dances; The memory of renown'd Sixteen-String Jack; Tramples alike on customs and on toes, Eternal boots, and collar you'd suppose And whispers all she hears to all she knows; Cut in kind contact with his buckship's nose. Terror of caps and wigs and sober notions ! Thus trimly deck'd, each night among the A romp! that longest of perpetual motions ! doxies

-Till, tam'd and tortur'd into foreign graces, He storms the lobby, and assails the boxes ; She sports her lovely face at public places; With gait and manner-something in this way, And, with blue laughing eyes, behind her fan, Proves his rare taste, and descants on the play First acts her part with that great actor, man. “Here, box-keeper! why don't the rascal come? Too soon a flirt-approach her and she flies; Halloo-Tom Gerkin! can you give us room? Frownswhen pursued, and when entreated sighs; What's this? The farce - Macbeth

Plays with unhappy men as cats with mice, an opera ?-0!

[low! Till fading beauty hints the late advice. Came out last season-stupid stuff_land Her prudence dictates what her pride disdain'd, Zounds, lei's be off!”—“ Zounds, be a little And now she sues to slaves herself had chain'd. calmer !"

[-R. Palıner.”

Then comes that good old character, a wife, “Who's that—the Jordan?"-"No, you fool, With all the dear distracting cares of life; Thus some are found, by ev'ry act revealing A thousand cards a-day at doors to leave, Perfect indifference to sense and feeling. And, in return, a thousand cards receive; To such our play not sues but you, ye fair, Rouge high, play deep, to lead the ton aspire, Ye wise, whom nature form’d with happier with nightly blaze set Portland-place on fire; care,

(rent; Snatch half a glimpse at concert, opera, ball, Whose lender bosoms, though by passions A meteor trac'd by none, though seen by all; Feel the soft virtues in their full extent, And when her shatter'd nerves forbid to roam, Cherish our author's plan, which aims to prove In very spleen-rehearse the girl at home. Life's best exertions spring from virtuous love. Last the grey dowager in ancient flounces,

With snuff and spectacles the age denounces; $ 125. Verses written to be spoken by Mrs.Sid- Knelt for a look, and duell’d for a smile ;

Boasts how the sires of this degenerate isle dons, at her Benefit, April 27, 1795.

ROGERS.

The scourge and ridicule of Goth and Vandal,

Her tea she sweetens, as she sips, with scandal; Yes, 'tis the pulse of life! my fears were vain! With modern belles eternal warfare wages, I wake, I breathe, and am myself again, Like her own birds that clamor from their cages; Still in this nether world! no seraph yet, And shuffles round to bear her tale to all, Nor walks my spirit when the sun is set, Like some old ruin “ nodding to its fall." With troubled step to haunt the fatal board Thus woman makes her entrance and her exit, Where I died last-by poison or the sword; Then most an actress when she leasts suspects it. And blanch each honest cheek with deeds of Yet nature oft peeps out and mars the plot, night,

Each lessoo lost, each poor pretence forgot ; Done here so oft by dim and doubtful light. Full oft with energy that scorns control,

To drop all metaphor, that little bell At once lights up the features of the soul; Call'd back reality, and broke the spell. Unlocks each thought chain'd down by coward No heroine claims your tears with tragic tone; | And to full day the latent passions start. [art, A very woman—scarce restrains her own! But she, whose first best wish is your applause, Can she, with fiction, charm the cheated mind, Herself exemplifies the truth she draws. When to be grateful is the part assign'd? Born on the stage, through ev'ry shifting scene, Ah, no! she scorns the trappings of her art; Obscure or bright, tempestuous or serene, No theme but truth, no prompter but the heart. Still has your smile her trembling spirit fird;

But, ladies, say, musi I alone unmask? And can she act, with thoughts like these inIs here no other actress, let me ask? Believe me, those, who best the heart dissect, Thus from her mind all artifice she fings, Know, every woman studies slage-effect : All skill, all practice, now unmeaning things ! She moulds her manners to the part she fills, To you uncheck d, each genuine feeling flows, As instinct teaches, or as humor wills;

For, all that life endears—to you she owes. And, as the grave or gay her talent calls, Acts in the drama, till the curtain falls. First, how her little breast with triumph $ 126., Verses to the Memory of Mr. Garrick. swells,

Spoken as a Monody by Mrs. Yates, at the When the red coral rings its silver bells!

Theatre Royal in Drury-lane. SHERIDAN. To play in pantomime is then the rage If dying excellence deserves a tear, Along the carpet's many-color'd stage; If fond remembrance still is cherish d here,

spir'd ?

day

Can we persist to bid our sorrows flow By whose faint breath his merits must abide,
Forfabled suff’rers and delusive woe; (strain, Unvouch'd by proof, 10 substance unallied !
Or with quaint smiles dismiss the plaintive E'en matchless Garrick's art, to heaven resign'd,
Point the quick jest-indulge the comic vein— No fix'd effect, no model, leaves behind.
Ere yet to buried Roscius we assign

The grace of action, the adapted inien, One kind regret, one tributary line?

Faithful as nature to the varied scene; Edraws His fame requires we act a tend'rer part : Th'expressive glance, whose subtle comment His inemory claims the tear you gave his art. Entranc'd attention, and a mute applause ;

Thegen'ral voice, the meed of mournful verse, Gesture that marks, with force and feeling
The splendid sorrows that adorn'd his hearse, fraught,
The throng that mourn’d as their dead fav’rite A sense in silence, and a will in thought;
pass'd,

Harmonious speech, whose pure and liquid tone The grac'd respect that claim'd him to the last; Gives verse a music scarce confess'd its own, While Shakspeare's image, from its hallow'd As light from geins assumes a brighter ray, base,

[place: And, cloth'd with orient hues, transcends the Seem'd to prescribe the grave, and point the

(sense, Nor these, nor all the sad regrets that flow Passion's wild break, and frowns that awe the From fond fidelity's domestic woe, [due, And ev'ry charm of gentle eloquence, So much are Garrick's praise--so much his All perishable!—like th' electric fire, As on this spot-one tear bestow'd by you. But strike the frame, and, as they strike, expire

; Amid the arts which seek ingenuous fame, Incense too pure a bodied Aame to bear, sair

. Our toil attempts the most precarious claim; Its fragrance charms the sense, and blends with To him, whose mimic pencil wins the prize, Where then, while sunk in cold decay he Obedient fame immortal wreaths supplies : And pale eclipse for ever veils those eyes, (lies, Whate'er of wonder Reynolds now may raise, Where is the blest memorial that ensures Raphael still boasts contemporary praise : Our Garrick's fame!-whose is the trust? Each dazzling light and gaudier bloom subdued,

'tis yours. With undiminish'd awe his works are view'd: And, O! by ev'ry charm his art essay'd : E'en beauty's portrait wears a softer prime, To soothe your cares ! by ev'ry grief allay'd! Touch'd by the tender hand of mellowing time. By the hush'd wonder which his accents drew!

The patient sculptor owns an humbler part, By his last parting tear, repaid by you ! (night, A ruder toil, and more mechanic art;

By all those thoughts, which, many a distant Content with slow and timorous stroke to trace Shall mark his memory with a sad delight! The ling'ring line, and mould the tardy grace: Still in your hearts' dear record bear his name, But once achiev'd, though barb'rous wreck o'er- Cherish the keen regret that lifts his fame; The sacred fane, and lay its glories low, [throw To you it is bequeath'd, assert the trust, Yet shall the sculptur'd ruin rise to-day, And to his worth-'tis all you can be just. Grac'd by defect, and worshipp'd in decay; What more is due from sanctifying time, Th' enduring record bears the artist's name, To cheerful wit, and many a favor'd rhyme, Demands his honors, and asserts his fame. O'er his grac'd urn shall bloom, a deathless Superior hopes the poet's bosom fire,

wreath,

( beneath. O proud distinction of the sacred lyre! Whose blossom'd sweets shall deck the mask Wide as th' inspiring Phæbus daris his ray, For these when sculpture's rotive toil shall rear Diflusive splendor gilds his votary's lay. The due memorial of a loss so dear, Whether the song heroic woes rehearse O loveliest mourner, gentle muse! be thine With epic grandeur, and the pomp of verse ; The pleasing woe, to guard the laurell'd shrine. Or, fondly gay, with unambitious guile As Fancy oft by Superstition led Attempt no prize but fav’ring beauty's smile; To roam the mansions of the sainted dead, Or bear dejected to the lonely grove

Has vie:v'd, by shadowy eve's unfaithful gloom, The soft despair of unprevailing love; [clime A weeping cherub on a martyr's tomb, Whate'er the thenie,' throngh ev'ry age and So thou, sweet Muse, hang o'er his sculptur'd Congenial passions meet the according rhyme, bier,

The pride of glory, pity's sigh sincere, With patient woe, that loves the ling’ring tear; Youth's earliest blush, and beauty's virgin tear. With thoughts that mourn, nor yet desire relief,

Such is their meed-their honors thus secure, With meek regret, and fond enduring gries; Whose arts yield objects, and whose works en- With looks that speak--He never shall return! dure:

Chilling thy tender bosom, clasp bis urn! The actor only shrinks from time's award; And with soft sighs disperse th' irrev’rept dust

, Feeble tradition is his memory's guard ; Which time may strew upon his sacred bust.

THE END.

Printed by S. Hamilton, Weybridge, Surrey.

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