A Tragedy.

BY NICHOLAS ROWE, ESQ.

CORRECTLY GIVEN, FROM COPIES USED IN THE THEATRES,

BY

THOMAS DIBDIN,

Author of several Dramatic Pieces: and
PROMPTER OF THE THEATRE ROYAL, DRURY LANE.

Printed at the Chiswick Press,
BY C. WHITTINGHAM;

FOR WHITTINGHAM AND ARLISS, PATERNOSTER
ROW, LONDON.

JANE SHORE,

A TRAGEDY greatly and deservedly admired, was produced at Drury Lane in 1713. "With all its merit," says a late celebrated theatrical writer, "and all the hold it has taken of the public, this play has been the subject of perpetual criticism, and some of the strictures on it breathe more a spirit of envy than candour." Mr. Pope is impli cated in this charge of ill nature, for asserting that Jane Shore, professedly written in imitation of the style of Shakspeare, had no other resemblance to our great bard's manner, but in this simple line

"And so good morrow t' ye, good master lieutenant." Unfortunately for the quoter there is no such line in the play; the passage alluded to is, with some little variation, to be found in LADY JANE GREY. Others have complained of want of probability and breach of unities, &c.; "but we must take the brilliant with this flaw, or we cannot have it at all; and it were pity to lose that lustre it really has, by perpetually contemplating on a trifling defect."

TO-NIGHT, if you have brought your good old taste,
We'll treat you with a downright English feast:
A tale, which, told long since in homely wise,
Hath never fail'd of melting gentle eyes.
Let no nice sir despise our hapless dame,
Because recording ballads chaunt her name;
Those venerable ancient song-enditers
Soar'd many a pitch above our modern writers ;
They caterwaul'd in no romantic ditty,
Sighing for Phillis', or Chloe's pity.

Justly they drew the fair, and spoke her plain,
And sung her by her christian name-'twas Jane.
Our numbers may be more refin'd than those,
But what we've gain'd in verse, we've lost in prose.
Their words no shuffling, double-meaning knew,
Their speech was homely, but their hearts were true.
In such an age, immortal Shakspeare wrote,
By no quaint rules, nor hampering critics taught;
With rough majestic force he mov'd the heart,
And strength and nature made amends for art.
Our humble author does his steps pursue,
He owns he had the mighty bard in view;
And in these scenes has made it more his care,
To rouse the passions, than to charm the ear.
Yet for those gentle beaux who love the chime,
The ends of acts still gingle into rhyme.
The ladies, too, he hopes will not complain,
Here are some subjects for a softer strain,
A nymph forsaken, and a perjur'd swain.
What most he fears, is, lest the dames should frown,
The dames of wit and pleasure about town,
To see our picture drawn, unlike their own.
But lest that error should provoke to fury
The hospitable hundreds of Old Drury,
He bid me say, in our Jane Shore's defence,
She dol'd about the charitable pence,

Built hospitals, turn'd saint, and dy'd long since.

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For her example, whatsoe'er we make it,
They have their choice to let alone or take it.
Though few, as I conceive, will think it meet,
To weep so sorely for a sin so sweet:
Or mourn and mortify the pleasant sense,
To rise in tragedy two ages hence.