The Critic;

Or, A Tragedy Rehearsed.

Prologue.

BY THE HONOURABLE RICHARD FITZPATRICK.

THE sister Muses, whom these realms obey,
Who o'er the drama hold divided sway,
Sometimes, by evil counsellers, 'tis said,
Like earth-born potentates have been misled.
In those gay days of wickedness and wit,
When Villiers criticised what Dryden writ,
The tragic queen, to please a tasteless crowd,
Had learned to bellow, rant, and roar so loud,
That frightened Nature, her best friend before,
The blustering beldam's company forswore;
Her comic sister, who had wit 'tis true,
With all her merits, had her failings too;
And would sometimes in mirthful moments use
A style too flippant for a well-bred Muse;

Then female modesty abashed began

To seek the friendly refuge of the fan,

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A while behind that slight intrenchment stood,
Till driven from thence, she left the stage for good.
In our more pious, and far chaster times,
These sure no longer are the Muse's crimes!
But some complain that, former faults to shun,
The reformation to extremes has run.
The frantic hero's wild delirium past,
Now insipidity succeeds bombast;

So slow Melpomene's cold numbers creep,
Here dulness seems her drowsy court to keep,
And we are scarce awake, whilst

you are fast asleep.
Thalia, once so ill-behaved and rude,
Reformed, is now become an arrant prude;
Retailing nightly to the yawning pit
The purest morals, undefiled by wit!
Our author offers, in these motley scenes,

A slight remonstrance to the drama's queens:
Nor let the goddesses be over nice;
Free-spoken subjects give the best advice.
Although not quite a novice in his trade,
His cause to-night requires no common aid.
To this, a friendly, just, and powerful court,
I come ambassador to beg support.

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Can he undaunted brave the critic's rage ?
In civil broils with brother bards engage ?
Hold forth their errors to the public eye,
Nay more, e'en newspapers themselves defy?
Say, must his single arm encounter all?

By numbers vanquished, e'en the brave may fall;
And though no leader should success distrust,
Whose troops are willing, and whose cause is just;
To bid such hosts of angry foes defiance,
His chief dependence must be, your alliance.

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Act First.

Scene I.

A Room in Dangle's House.

Mr and Mrs Dangle discovered at breakfast, and reading newspapers.

Dang. [Reading.] Brutus to Lord North.--Letter the second on the State of the Army-Psha! To the first L dash D of the A dash Y.-Genuine extract of a Letter from St Kitts.-Coxheath Intelligence. It is now confidently asserted that Sir Charles Hardy-Psha! nothing but about

the fleet and the nation!—and I hate all politics
but theatrical politics.-Where's the Morning
Chronicle?

Mrs Dang. Yes, that's your Gazette. Dang. So, here we have it.-[Reads.] Theatrical intelligence extraordinary.-We hear there is a new tragedy in rehearsal at Drury Lane Theatre, called the Spanish Armada, said to be written by Mr Puff, a gentleman well known in the theatrical world. If we may allow ourselves to give credit to the report of the performers, who, truth to say, are in general but indifferent judges, this piece abounds with the most striking and received beauties of modern composition.-So! I am very 20 glad my friend Puff's tragedy is in such forwardness. Mrs Dangle, my dear, you will be very glad to hear that Puff's tragedy

Mrs Dang. Lord, Mr Dangle, why will you plague me about such nonsense?—Now the plays are begun I shall have no peace.-Isn't it sufficient to make yourself ridiculous by your passion for the theatre, without continually teasing me to join you? Why can't you ride your hobbyhorse without desiring to place me on a pillion 30 behind you, Mr Dangle?

Dang. Nay, my dear, I was only going to read-
Mrs Dang. No, no; you will never read any thing

that's worth listening to. You hate to hear
about your country; there are letters every day
with Roman signatures, demonstrating the cer-
tainty of an invasion, and proving that the
nation is utterly undone. But you never will
read any thing to entertain one.

Dang. What has a woman to do with politics, Mrs
Dangle?

Mrs Dang. And what have you to do with the

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theatre, Mr Dangle? Why should you affect the character of a critic? I have no patience with you!-Haven't you made yourself the jest of all your acquaintance by your interference in matters where you have no business? Are you not called a theatrical quidnunc, and a mock Mæcenas to second-hand authors? Dang. True; my power with the managers is pretty 50 notorious. But is it no credit to have applications from all quarters for my interest-from lords to recommend fiddlers, from ladies to get boxes, from authors to get answers, and from actors to get engagements?

Mrs Dang. Yes, truly; you have contrived to get a