Confefs alike the peasant's and the king's,
Nor once confider in what foil it fprings.
EPILOGUE to the new tragedy of ELVIRA,
Written by Mr. GARRICK.
Spoken by Mrs. CIBBER, in the character of ELVIRA.
Adies and gentlemen-'tis fo ill bred-
We have no epilogue, because I'm dead;
For he, our bard, with frenzy-rolling eye,
Swears you fhan't laugh, when he has made you cry.
At which I gave his fleeve a gentle pull,
Suppose they should not cry, and should be dull:
In fuch a cafe, 'twould furely do no harm;
A little lively nonsense taken warm:
On critic ftomachs delicate and queafy,
"Twill even make a heavy meal fit easy.
The town bates Epilogues.-It is not true,
I answer'd that for you and you-and you-
(To pit, boxes, ft gallery.
They call for epilogues and hornpipes too-
(To the upper gallery.
Madam, the critics fay-To you they're civil,
Here if they have 'em not, they'll play the devil;
Out of this houfe, fir, and to you alone,
They'll fmile, cry bravo! charming!--Here they groan:
A fingle critic will not frown, look big,
Harmless and pliant as a fingle twig.
But crowded here they change, and 'tis not odd,
For twigs, when bundled up, become a rod.
Critics to bards, like beauties to each other,
When tête à tête their enmity they smother!
"Kifs me, my dear--how do you?--charmingcreature!
"What shape! what bloom! what spirit in each feature!
"You flatter me-'pon honour, no-you do -
"My friend-my dear-fincerely yours-adieu;"
But when at routs, the dear friends change their tone-
I fpeak of foreign ladies, not our own.
Will you permit, good firs, thefe gloomy folk,
To give all tragedy without one joke?
They gravely tell us-tragedy's defign'd
To purge the paffions, purify the mind;
To which I fay, to ftrike thofe blockheads dumb,
With phyfic always give a fugar-plum ;
I love thefe fugar-plums in profe or rhimes;
No one is merrier than myself fometimes;
Yet I, poor I, with tears and constant moan,
Am melted down almoft to skin and bone
This night, in fighs and fobs, I drew my breath;
Love, marriage, treason, prifon, poison, death,
Were fcarce fufficient to compleat my fate;
Two children were thrown in to make up weight.
With all these sufferings, is it not provoking,
To be deny'd at last a little joking?
If they will make new laws, for mirth's fake break 'em,
Roar out for epilogues, and let me fpeak 'em.
PROLOGUE
To the new Tragedy call'd,
The DISCOVERY.
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.
Female culprit at your bar
Nor deftitute of hope, nor free from fears.
Her utmoft crime she's ready to confess,
A fimple trefpafs, neither more nor less.
For, truant like, fhe rambles out of bounds,
And dares to venture on poetic grounds.
The fault is deem'd high treafon by the men,
Those lordly tyrants who ufurp the pen ;
For women, like ftate criminals, they think,
Shou'd be debarr'd the use of pen and ink:
And thus the vile monopoly they hide,
With flatt'ring arts-"You ladies have befide
"So many ways to conquer-Sure 'tis fit
"You leave to us that dang'rous weapon, wit."
Sometimes they frown, and looking great and wife,
"You'd better mind your puddings and your pies."
Our author, who difclaims fuch Salique laws,
To her own fex appeals to judge her caufe:
She pleads old Magna Charta on her fide,
That British fubjects by their peers be try'd.
Our humble mufe no charms of art can boast,
But fimple nature, and plain fense at most :
Perhaps fome character-a moral too;
And, what is ftranger ftill-the story's new!
No borrow'd thoughts throughout the piece are fhewn,
But what our author writes is all her own.
By no fly hint or incident fhe tries
To bid on modeft cheeks one blush arife:
The loofeft thought our decent fcenes fuggeft,
Virtue herfelf might harbour in her breast;
And where our fatire vents its harmless spleen
The fob'reft prude may laugh without a screen.
Ladies, to you the dedicates her lays,
Affert your right to cenfure or to praise:
Boldly your will in open court declare,
And let the men difpute it-if they dare!
EPILOGUE to the ANDRIA,
BUT why act plays?-fome formal greybeard cries:
I'll answer that, who am not over-wife :
To learn their leffons, and to play the fool,
Are the two great concerns of boys at school;
And our good mafters prudently difcerning,
How much we lean to folly more than learning,
Contriv'd thefe plays, by which the veriest dunce
May learn his book and play the fool at once.
For Greek and Latin we have small devotion,
Terence himself goes down a fickly potion;
But fet us once to act him-never fear us-
Our qualms are gone, 'tis you are fick who hear us.
Ne'er may our actors, when they quit the school,
Tread the great ftage of life to play the fool;
No partial friends can there our faults conceal,
Should we play characters we cannot feel.
If we act law---are judges !---then are we,
Like juftice, blind---as counfel we may fee
Enough to know the colour of a fee.
phyfick---practice is our best adviser,
The more we're puzzled, we must seem the wifer.
If war's our trade, and, we vain, bluft'ring, young,
Should, Thrafo like, fight battles with our tongue,
Soon 'twould appear how ill these airs become us;
The foe comes on-quid nunc ?—quin redeamus.
In short, be what we may, experience teaches
This truth-One deed is worth a thousand speeches.
John Moody of fir Wronghead well has told it,
He can fpeak ftawtly, but he canna' hawld it.
This for myfelf and fchool!-Now let me fay,
Why with thefe English rhimes we clofe our play.
Ladies, for you they're meant-I feel to you,
Small as I am, that great respect is due :
Quit of my Grecian fervitude, I crave
Still to be English Davus, and your slave-
To fuccour English damfels is my plan;
If you should want me, ladies, I'm your man.
Should ftubborn age your tender hearts provoke,
"I foften rocks, and bend the knotted oak :"
Or fhould falfe fwains for other nymphs forfake ye,
Stay a few years, and I'll be proud to take ye.
If in your fmiles we approbation read,
'Tis done already-I'm a man indeed.
Mr. GARRICK's Addrefs to the Town,
In the Character of the Busy BODY.
SINCE my good friends, tho' late, are pleas'd at last,
I bear with patience all my fuff'rings paft;
To you who faw my fuff'rings, it is clear,
bought my fecrets moft confounded dear,
To any gentleman not over-nice,
I'll fell 'em all again, and at half price.
Wou'd I had been among you-for, no doubt,
You all have feerets cou'd I find them out.
Each has a fecret fitted to his fancy!
My friends above there-honest John and Nancy;
How well their fecrets with their paffions fuit,
Hearts full of love, and pockets full of fruit;
Each jolly failor thus his mistress grapples,
They look, and laugh, and love, and eat their apples.
So good or wife this precious town is growing,
There's scarce a fecret here that's worth the knowing;
Nay, where a hungry mind expects a feaft,
'Mongit politicians-it will get the leaft.
They promife much-feem full-ftare, nod, and pout,
But tap 'em, and the devil a drop comes out.
In short, I'll give this bufy bufinefs over,
Where much is felt, and little to discover;
But should the ladies with, or want t' employ me,
I fhou'd be proud and pleas'd if they wou'd try me,
To manage meetings, or to flip a letter,
There's no French milliner can do it better.
As for the gentlemen-the rake, or beau,
I wou'd not give 'em that-for all they know :
Indeed, for fecrets there are none excel 'em ;
But then they make 'em, and when made they tell 'em,
There is one fecret ftill remains behind,
Which ever did, and will distract my
mind-
I'd give up all for that---nay, fix for ever,
To find the fecret---to deferve your favour.
PROLOGUE to PHILASTER.
Written by Mr. GEORGE COLMAN,
WHILE modern tragedy, by rule exact,
Spins out a thin-wrought fable, act by act,
We dare to bring you one of thofe bold plays
Wrote by rough English wits in former days;
Beaumont and Fletcher! thofe twin ftars, that run
Their glorious courfe round Shakespear's golden fun;
Or when Philafter, Hamlet's place fupplied,
Or Beffus walk'd the ftage by Falstaff's fide;
Their fouls, well pair'd, fhot fire in mingled rays,
Their hands together twin'd the social bays;
Till fashion drove, in a refining age,
Virtue from court, and nature from the stage.
Then nonsense, in heroics feem'd fublime;
Kings rav'd in couplets, and maids figh'd in rhime.
Next prim and trim, and delicate, and chafte,
A hash from Greece and France, came modern taste.
Cold are her fons, and so afraid of dealing
In rant and fuftian, they ne'er rife to feeling.
O fay, ye bards of phlegm, fay, where's the name
That can with Fletcher urge a rival claim?
Say, where's the poet, train'd in pedant fchools,
Equal to Shakespear, who o'erleapt all rules?
Thus of our bards we boldly speak our mind;
A harder task, alas! remains behind :
To-night, as yet by public eyes unfeen,
A raw unpractifed novice fills the scene.
Bred in the city, his theatric ftar
Brings him at length on this fide Temple-bar;
Smit with the mufe, the ledger he forgot,
And when he wrote his name, he made a blot.
Him while perplexing hopes and fears embarrass,
Sculking (like Hamlet's rat) behind the arras,
Me a dramatic fellow-feeling draws,
Without a fee, to plead a brother's cause.
Genius is rare; and while our great comptroller,
No more a manager, turns arrant stroller,
Let new adventurers your care engage,
And nurfe the infant faplings of the stage!
EPIGRAM.
MUCH has been writ, O Wilkes! in vain
Thy doubtful fame to afcertain ; At length two circumstances show Thy real character below.
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