PROLOGUE,

DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.

Enter Mr. WOODWARD, dreffed in Black, and holding a handkerchief to his Eyes.

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 fuit," good masters;
"I've that within"-- for which there are no plafters!
Pray, would you know the reafon why I'm crying?
The comic mufe, long fick, is now a dying!
And if he goes, my tears will never stop;
For as a play'r, I can't squeeze out one drop:
I am undone, that's all-fhall lofe my bread-
I'd rather, but that's nothing-lofe my head.
When the fweet maid is laid upon the bier,
Shuter and I fhall be chief mourners here.
To her a mawkifh drab of fpurious breed,
Who deals in Sentimentals, will fucceed!
Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents;
We can as foon fpeak Greek as Sentiments!
Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up,
We now and then take down a hearty cup.

What

What shall we do?-If Comedy for fake us!
They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us.
But, why can't I be moral ?-Let me try-

My heart thus preffing-fix'd my face and eye-
With a fententious look, that nothing means,
(Faces are blocks, in fentimental fcenes)
Thus I begin-"All is not gold that glitters,
"Pleasures seem fweet, but prove a glafs of bitters.
"When ign'rance enters, folly is at hand :
"Learning is better far than house and land.
"Let not your virtue trip, who trips may stumble,
"And virtue is not virtue, if she tumble."
I give it up-morals won't do for me;
To make you laugh, I must play tragedy.
One hope remains-hearing the maid was ill,
A Doctor comes this night to fhew his skill.
To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion,
He, in Five Draughts prepar'd, prefents a potion:
A kind of magic charm-for be affur'd,

If you will swallow it, the maid is cur'd:
But defp'rate the Doctor, and her cafe is,
If you reject the dofe, and make wry faces!
This truth he boafts, will boaft it while he lives,
No pois'nous drugs are mix'd in what he gives.
Should he fucceed, you'll give him his degree :
If not, within he will receive no fee!

The college you, must his pretenfions back,
Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Quack.

SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER:

O R,

THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT.

АСТ THE FIRST.

SCENE, a Chamber in an old-fashioned House.

Enter Mrs. HARDCASTLE and Mr. HARDCASTLE.

Mrs. HARDCASTLE.

I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're very particular.

Is there a creature in the whole country, but ourfelves, that does not take a trip to town now and then, to rub off the ruft a little? There's the two Mifs Hoggs, and our neighbour, Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month's polishing every winter.

HARDCASTLE.

Aye, and bring back vanity and affectation to laft them the whole year. I wonder why London cannot keep its own fools at home! In my time, the

follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel fafter than a stage-coach. Its fopperies come down, not only as infide paffengers, but in the very basket.

Mrs. HARDCASTLE.

Aye, your times were fine times, indeed; you have been telling us of them for many a long year. Here we live in an old rumbling manfion, that looks for all the world like an inn, but that we never fee company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame dancing-mafter and all our entertainment your old ftories of prince Eugene and the duke of Marlborough. I hate fuch old-fashioned trumpery.

HARDCASTLE.

And I love it. I love every thing that's old: old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine; and, I believe, Dorothy, (taking her hand) you'll own I have been pretty fond of an old wife.

Mrs. HARDCASTLE.

Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for ever at your Dorothy's and your old wife's. You may be a Darby, but I'll be no Joan, I promife you. I'm not fo old as you'd make me, by more than one good Add twenty to twenty, and make money of

year.

that.

HARDCASTLF.

Let me fee; twenty added to twenty, makes jut

fifty and feven.

Mrs.