$71. Epilogue spoken by Mrs. Pritchard, on her quitting the stage. 1768. GARRICK.

THE Curtain dropt-my mimic life is past, That scene of sleep and terror* was my last. Could I in such a scene my exit make, When every real feeling is awake? Which beating here, superior to all art, Bursts in full tides from a most grateful heart. I now appear myself, distress'd, dismay'd, More than in all the characters I've play'd; In acted passion, tears may SEEM to flow, "But I have that within that passeth show." Before I go, and this lov'd spot forsake, What gratitude can give, my wishes, take: Upon your hearts may no affliction prey, Which cannot by the stage be chas'd And may the stage, to please each virtuous mind,

away;

Grow ev'ry day more moral, more refin'd,
Refin'd from grossness, not by foreign skill:
Weed out the poison, but be English still!
To all my brethren whom I leave behind,
Still may your bounty, as to me,
be kind;
To me for
many years your favours flow'd,
Humbly receiv'd-on small desert bestow'd:
For which I feel-what cannot be express'd
Words are too weak-my tears must speak the

rest.

$72. Prologue to the Good-natured Man. 1768.

JOHNSON. PREST by the load of life the weary mind Surveys the gen'ral toil of human kind, With cool submission joins the lab'ring train, And social sorrow loses half its pain: Our anxious bard without complaint may share This bustling season's epidemic care; Like Cæsar's pilot dignified by fate, Tost in one common storm with all the great;

* The last scene of Lady Macbeth.

Distrest alike the statesman and the wit,
When one a Borough courts, and one the Pit.
The busy candidates for power and fame
Have hopes, and fears, and wishes just the same:
Disabled both to combat or to fly,
Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply.
"Uncheck'd on both loud rabbles vent their rage,
As mongrels bay the lion in a cage.

Th' offended burgess hoards his angry tale,
For that blest year when all that vote may rail;
Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss,
Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss.
"This day the powder'd curls and golden

Lies at my feet; I hiss him, and he dies."

The great, 'tis true, can charm the electing tribe;

The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe. Yet judg'd by those whose voices ne'er were sold,

He feels no want of all-persuading gold;
But confident of praise, if praise be due,
Trusts without fear to merit and to you.

§ 73. Prologue to False Delicacy. 1768. Spoken by Mr King. GARRICK.

I'm vex'd-quite vex'd-and you'll be vex'd -that's worse

To deal with stubborn scribblers-there's the

curse.

Write moral plays

-the blockhead!—why,

good people,
You'll soon expect this house to wear a steeple!
For our fine piece, to let you into facts,
You'll scarce believe me, till the proof appears;
Is quite a sermon-only preach'd in acts.
But even I, Tom Fool, must shed some tears;
Do, ladies, look upon me-nay, no simpering;
Think you this face was ever made for whim-
p'ring?

Can I a cambric handkerchief display,
Thump my unfeeling breast, and roar away?
Why this is comical, perhaps you'll say..
I ask'd him what he meant?—He, somewhat
Resolving this strange awkward bard to pump,

66

plump,

New-purs'd his belly, and his lips thus biting-
I must keep up the dignity of writing!"-
You'll not keep up that dignity of belly."
"You may; but if you do, sir, I must tell ye,
Still he preach'd on- Bards of the former age
Held up abandon'd pictures on the stage;
Spread out their wit with fascinating art,
And catch'd the fancy, to corrupt the heart:
But, happy change! in these more moral days,
You cannot sport with virtue, even in plays;
On virtue's side his pen the poet draws,
And boldly asks a hearing for his cause."
Thus did he prance and swell.-The man may
prate,

And feed these whimsies in his addle pate,

That you'll protect his Muse because she's good:
A virgin, and so chaste!-O lud! O lud!
No muse the critic beadle's lash escapes;
Though virtuous, if a dowdy and a trapes:
If his come forth a decent likely lass,
You'll speak her fair, and grant the proper pass:
Or should his brain be turn'dwithwild pretences,
In three hours time you'll bring him to his senses;
And well you may, when in your pow'r you get
him;

In that short space, you blister, bleed, and sweat him.

Among the Turks, indeed, he'd run no danger; They sacred hold a madman and a stranger.

$74. Scrub's Trip to the Jubilee. 1769.
Spoken by Mr. Weston.

FROM Stratford arriv'd-piping hot-gentle-
folks,

From the rarest of shows, and most wonderful jokes,

Your simple acquaintance, Scrub, comes to declare,

'Twas fuller, by far, than our Lichfield great fair;
Such crowdsof fine ladies serenading and singing,
Such firing of loud patereroes, and ringing
To tell it in London, must seem all a fable;
And yet I will tell it as well as I'm able.
First, something, in lingo of schools call'dan ode;
All critics, they told me, allow'd very good :
One said-you may take it for truth, I assure ye,
Twas made by the little great man of Old Drury,
By my brother Martin (for whose sake, d'ye
hear?)

This night I'd a mind for a touch at Shakspeare*;

But, honestly speaking, I take more delight in A bit of good fun, than drums, trumpets, and fighting.

The procession, 'twas said, would have been a fine train,

But could not move forward-Ola-for the rain!
Such tragical, comical folks, and so fine-
What pity it was that the sun did not shine!
Since ladies, and baronets, aldermen, squires,
All went to this jubilee full of desires,
In crowds, as they go for to see a new play;
And when it was done-why, they all came
away!

Don't let me forget-a main part of the show,
Was long-tail'd fine comets, by fam'd Angelo.
Some turtle I got, which they call'd paspapee;
But honest roast beef's the best turtle for me.
I hate all ragouts; and, like a bold Briton,
Prefer good plum pudding to aught I e'er bit on.
I drank too (and now I a poet may be)
From a charming fine cup of the mulberry-tree,
To bed I must go-for which, like a ninny,
I paid like my betters, no less than a guinea,
For rolling-not sleeping-in linen so damp,
As struck my great toe, ever since, with the

cramp.

This alludes to Mr. Weston's design of playing Richard.

$75. Prologue to Doctor Last in his Chariot: 1769. Spoken by Mr. Foote. GARRICK. YOUR servant, kind masters, from bottom to top,

Be assur'd while I breathe, or can stand-I mean hop;

Be you pleased to smile, or be pleased to grumble,

Be whatever you please, I am still your most humble.

As to laugh is a right only given to man,
To keep up that right is my pride and my plan.
Fair ladies, don't frown; I meant woman too:
What's common to man, must be common to
you.

You all have a right your sweet muscles to curl, From the old smirking prude to the titt'ring young girl;

And ever with pleasure my brains I could spin,
To make you all giggle, and you, ye gods, grin.
In this present summer, as well as the past,
To your favor again we present Dr. Last,
Who, by wonderful feats, in the papers re-
counted,

From trudging on foot to his chariot is mounted.
Amongst the old Britons when war was begun,
Charioteers would slay ten, while the foot
could slay one.

So when doctors on wheels with dispatches are sent,

Mortality bills rise a thousand per cent.
But think not to physic that quackery's confin'd;
All the world is a stage, and the quacks are
mankind :

There's trade, law, and state quacks: nay, would we but search,

We should find-Heaven bless us !-some quacks in the church!

The stiff band and stiff bob of the Methodis

Had I my will, those slattern sluttish damesThey all should see the bottom of the Thames." If you are here, good Sirs, to breed a riot, [Looking about the house. Don't show your spite; for if you are not quiet, 'Tis ten to one-I speak it for your sake, This School for Rakes will prove your Wit's last Stake:

As you [To the Pit] save me from their tyrannic will,

You will not let them use a woman ill.
Protect her and her brat-the truly brave
Women and children will for ever save.

We are like brother Ashley, pro publico bono, Each Magpie, your honours, will pick at his brother,

And their natures were always to crib from each other.

Young landlords and old ones are taught by their calling

[ing.

My officers of state my taste display;
Cooks, scullions, pastry-cooks, prepare my way;
Holly and ivy round me honors spread,
And my retinue show-I'm not ill-fed;
Minc'd pies, by way of belt, my breast divide,
And a large carving-knife adorns my side,
'Tis no fop's weapon, 't will be often drawn:
This turban for my head-is collar'd brawn.
Though old, and white my locks, my cheeks
are cherry:

Warm'd by good fires, good cheer, I'm always merry,

With carol, fiddle, dance, and pleasant tale,
Jest, gibe, prank, gambol, mummery, and ale,
I English hearts rejoic'd in days of yore;
For new strange modes, imported by the score,
You will not sure turn Christmas out of door!
Suppose yourselves well seated by a fire,
(Stuck close, you seem more warm than you
desire)

Old Father Christmas, now in all his glory,
Begs with kind hearts you'll listen to his story;
Clear well your thoughts from politics and
spleen,

Hear my tale out, see all that's to be seen,
Take care, my children, that you well behave:
You, Sir, in blue, red cape, not quite so grave:
That critic there in black-so stern and thin,
Before you frown, pray let the tale begin-
You in the crimson capuchin, I fear you;
Why, madam, at this time so cross appear you?
Excuse me, pray-I did not see your husband
near you.

grant 'em,

do;

tam.

Let's return to the punch-I hope from my soul,

That now the old Magpie may sell you a bowl. We have all sorts and sizes, a quick trade to drive,

As one shilling, two shilling, three shilling, five:

I have no sauce to quicken lifeless sinners; My food is meant for honest hearty grinners. For you, your spirits with good stomachs bring, O make the neighb'ring roof with rapture ring: Open your mouths, pray, swallow every thing! Critics, beware how you our pranks despise; Hear well my tale, or you shan't touch my pies; The proverb change-Be merry but not wise.

§ 80. Prologue to the Maid of the Oaks. 1774. Spoken by Mr. King in the Character of Fame. GARRICK.

UNLIKE to ancient Fame, all eyes, tongues,

ears,

See modern Fame, arm'd cap-a-pie, appears,·
In ledgers, chronicles, gazettes, and gazetteers!
My soaring wings are fine election speeches,
And puffs of candidates supply my breeches.
My cap is satire, criticism, wit-
Is there a head that wants it in the pit?

[Offering it.
No flowing robe and trumpet me adorn;
I wear a jacket, and I wind a horn.
Pipe, song, and pastoral, for five months past,
Puff'd well by me, have been the general taste.
Now Marybone shines forth to gaping crowds;
Now Highgate glitters from her hill of clouds;
St. George's Fields, with taste and fashion
struck,

Display Arcadia at the Dog and Duck :
And Drury Misses here, in tawdry pride,
Are there Pastoras by the fountain side."
To frowsy bow'rs they reel through midnight
damps,

With Fauns half drunk, and Dryads breaking lamps.

Both far and near did this new whimsy run,
One night it frisk'd, forsooth, at Islington.
And now, as for the public bound to cater,
Our manager must have his fête champêtre.
How is the weather?-Pretty clear and bright.
[Looking about.

A storm's the devil on champêtre night!
Lest it should fall to spoil the author's scenes,
I'll catch this gleam, to tell you what he means:
He means a show as brilliant as at Cox's,
Laugh for the pit, and may be at the boxes;
Song, chorus, frolic, dance, and rural play,
The merry-making of a wedding day.

Like a young swimmer, whom his fears command,

tion

[tion. Is't his, or hers, or yours, Sir? That's the quesThe parent, bashful, whimsical, or poor, Left it a puling infant at the door; 'Twas laid on flow'rs, and wrapp'd in fancied cloaks,

And on the breast was written-Maid o' the Oaks.

The actors crowded round-the girls caress'd
it:
[bless'd it;
Lord! the sweet pretty babe!-they prais'd and
The master peep'd, smil'd, took it in, and
dress'd it.

Whate'er its birth, protect it from the curse
Of being smother'd by a parish nurse:
As you're kind, rear it-if you're curious, praise

it:

E'en now he starts to hear the torrent roar, Plunges from giddy heights into the Thames. While his pale fates stand frighted on the shore! Soon will he leap the precipice-Your nod Sinks him, or lifts him to a demi-god.