Then grant 'em gen'rous terms who dare to write, To men of fenfe I'll prophefy anew,
Since now that feems as defp'rate as to fight.
If we must yield-yet, ere the day be fix'd,
Let us hold out the third, and, if we may, the fixth.
And tell you wondrous things that will prove
Undaunted colonels will to camps repair,
Affur'd there'll be no fkirmishes this year;
On our own terms will flow the with'd-for peace,
$26. Prologue to the Baffet-Table; 1706. Spoken All wars, except 'iwixt man and wife, fhall by Mr. Pinkethman.
all the faces that to plays refort, Whether of country, city, mob, or court, I've always found, that none fuch hopes infpire, As you dear brethren of the upper tier. Poets in prologues may both preach and rail, Yet all their wifdom nothing will avail; Who writes not up to you, 'tis ten to one will fail.
Your thund'ring plaudit 'tis that deals out fame; You make plays run, though of themselves but lame.
How often have we known your noife commanding,
Impofe on your inferior masters understanding! Therefore, dear brethren, fince I'm one of you,
Whether adorn'd in grey, green, brown,or blue, This day ftand all by me, as I will fall by you.. And now let
The poor pit fee how Pinky's voice commands. Silence-Now rattle all your fticks,and clap your grimy hands.
I greet your love-and let the vaineft author. fhew
Half this command on cleaner hands below: Nay, more to prove your intereft, let this play
So may you thare good claret with your mafters, Still free in your amours from their difafters; Free from poor houfe-keeping, where peck is under locks;
Free from cold kitchens, and no Christmas-box: So may no long debates i' th' House of Commons Make you i' th' lobby ftarve, when hunger fum
The Grand Monarque may with his fon a throne,
But hardly will advance to lofe his own.
This feafon most things bear a smiling face;
But play'rs in fummer have a difmal cafe,
Since your appearance only is our act of grace.
Court ladies will to country feats be gone,
My lord can't all the year live great in town;
Where, wanting operas, baffet, and a play,
They'll figh, and stitch a gown to pass the time
Gay city wives at Tunbridge will appear,
Whofe hufbands long have wifhed for an heir;
Where many a courtier may their wants relieve,
But by the waters only they conceive.
The Fleet-ftreet fempftrefs-toaft of Temple
sparks,
That runs fpruce neck cloths for attorneys clerks,
At Cupid's gardens will her hours regale,
Sing fair Dorinda, and drink bottled ale.
At all affemblies rakes are up and down,
And gamefters, when they think they are not
known.
Should denounce our author's fate, to-day, To cry down prophecies, you'd damn the lay; Yet whims like these have fometimes made you laugh,
'Tis tattling all like Ifaac Bickerstaff.
Since war and places claim the bards that write,
Be kind, and bear a woman's treat, to-night;
Let your indulgence all her fears allay,
And none but women-haters damn this play.
§ 28. Prologue to The Man's bewitch'd; 1710. CENTLIVRE.
OUR female author trembling stands within,
Her fear arifes from another's fin;
One of her sex has so abus'd the town,
That on her fcore the dreads your angry frown;
Though I dare fay, poor foul, the never writ
Lampoon, or fatire, on the box or pit;
A harmlets huin'rous play is her extent of wit.
Tho' Bickerstaff's vaft genius may engage,
And lafh the vice and follies of the age;
Why should the tender Delia tax the nation?
Stickle and make a noife for reformation,
Who always gave a loose herself to inclination?
THOUGH modern prophets were expos'd of Scandal and latire's thrown afide to-day,
The author could not prophefy his fate :
If with fuch scenes an audience had been fir'd,
The poet must have really been inspir'd.
But thefe, alas! are melancholy days,
For modern prophets, and for modern plays.
Yet fince prophetic lyes pleafe fools of fashion,
And women are fo fond of agitation;
And humour the fole bufinets of our play.
Beaux may drefs on, to catch the ladies' hearts,
And good affurance pafs for mighty parts:
The cits may bring their spouses without fear;
Ve fhew no wife that's poaching for an heir,
Nor teach the ufe of fine gauze handkerchier.
Cowards may huff, and talk of mighty wonders,
And jilts fet up-for twenty thousand pounders.
30
Our author, even though the krows full well,
Is fo good-natur'd, fhe forbe its to tell,
What colonels, lately, have found out the knack.
To mufter madam, ftill, by Ned or Jack.
To keep their pleafures up, a frugal way, [pay
They give her-ubaltern's fubfiftence for her
In short, whate'er your darling vices are,
They pafs untouch'd in this night's bill of fare.
But if all this can't your good-nature wake,
Tho' here and there a fcene thould fail to take,
Yet fpare her for the Bufy Body's fake.
Then, powder'd for th' enfuing day's delights,
Sows thro' his crowd of duns, and drives to
White's.
Nor could I like the wretch that all night plays,
And only takes his reft on winning days:
Then fets up, from a lucky hit, his rattler;
Then 's traced from his orig'nal-in the Tatler.
To tell you all that are my fix'd averfion,
Would tire the tongue of malice or afperfion.
But if I find 'mongit all one gen'rous heart,
That deaf to ftories takes the ftage's part;
That thinks that purse deserves to keep the plays,
Soken by Mrs Whofe fortune's bound for the fupport of operas;
CENTLIVRE.
That thinks our conftitution here is justly fix'd:
And now no more with lawyers' brawls perplex'o;
He, I declare, fhall my whole heart receive;
And (what's more ftrange) I'll love him while I
live.
Epilogue to the fame.
Oldfield; 1710.
[A Porter delivers a Letter, juft as
is going to fpeak.
WHAT's this? a billet-doux! from hand.
'Tis new to fend it thus 'fore all the town: But fince the poor man's fo agog,
I'll read it out, by way of epilogue.
Permit a wretch to let you know,
That he 's no more in ftatu que;
My ruin from this night commences,
Unless your fimiles refund my fenfes;
For, with one thrust of Cupid's dart,
$30. Prologue to Cato; 1713.
wake the foul by tender strokes of art,
To raife the genius, and to mend the heat;
To make mankind, in confcious virtue bold.
Live o'er each fcene, and be what they behold:
For this the tragic mufe first trod the stage,
Commanding tears to stream through ev'ry age
Tyrants no more their favage nature kept,
And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.
Our author fhuns by vulgar fprings to move,
You've whipp'd your flave quite thro' the The hero's glory, or the virgin's love;
Therefore, I beg you, caft your eye
O'er boxes, pit, and gallery,
In pity of my pains and doubt,
And try if you can't find me out.
Pour foul! he feems indeed-in ditinal plight;
Let's fee! it can't be, fure! from th' upper Hight;
No, no-that's plain-for-none of them can
write :
In pitying love, we but our weak nefs fhow,
And wild ambition well deferves its woc.
Flere tears fhall flow from a more gen'rous cause,
Such tears as patriots fhed for dying laws:
He bids your breafts with ancient ardour rife,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes,
Virtue confefs'd in human fhape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was :
No common object to your fight difplays,
But what with pleature Heaven itfelf furveys,
A brave man fruggling in the ftorms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
Nor can I think it from the middle fell,
For I'm afraid as few of them can spell;
Befide, their haggling paffions never gain
Beyond the pallage-walking nymphs of Drury-While Cato gives his little fenate laws,
And then the pit's more stock'd with rakes and
What bofom beats not in his country's caufe?
Who fees him act, but envies ev'ry deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to bloed)
Even when proud Cæfar, 'midst triumphal cars,
The fpoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
Than any of thefe fenfelefs, whining lovers.
The backs o' th' boxes too feem moftly lin'd
With fouls whofe paffion's to themfelves contin'd.
In fhort, I can't perceive, morgft all your fparks.hew'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in ftate:
The wretch diftinguifh'd by thefe bloody marks: As her dead father's rev'rend image pafs'd,
But fince the town has heard your kind commands, The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'creaft;
fir,
The triumph ceas'd, tears guth'd from ev'ry eye;
The world's great victor pafs'd unheeded by;
fer laft good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honour'd Cæfar's less than Cato's fword.
Britons, attend; be worth like this approved,
And fhew you have the virtue to be mov'd.
Vith honeft fcorn the first tam'd Cato view'd
The town fhall e'en be witnefs of my answer.
First then, beware you prove no fpark in red,
With empty purse and regimental head;
That thinks no woman can refule t'engage in 't,
While love 's advanc'd with offer'd bills on agent
Thatfwears he 'il fettle from his joys commencing
And make the babe, the day he 's born, an enfignome learning arts from Greece, whom thefubdued:
Nor could I bear a titled bean, that steals
From fasting fpoufe her matrimonial meals;
That modith fends next morn to her apartment
A civil how d'ye-far, alas! from th' heart meant
Our feene precarioufly fubfifts too long
On French tranflation, and Italian fong.
Dare to have fenfe yourfelves; affert the stage,
Be juftly warm'd with your own native rage:
Such
Such plays alone fhould please a British ear, As Cato's felf had not difdain'd to hear.
§ 31. Prologue to Laly Jane Gray; 1715. RowE.
TO-NIGHT the nobleft fubject swells our scene,
A heroine, a martyr, and a queen;
And though the poet dares not boast his art,
The very theme thall fomething great impart,
Towarm the gen'rous foul, and touch the tender
heart.
To you, fair judges, we the caufe submit;
Your eyes fhall tell us how the tale is writ.
If your foft pity waits upon our woe,
If filent tears for full ring virtue flow;
Your grief the mufes' labour fhall confefs,
The lively pallions, and the just distress.
O! could our author's pencil juftly paint,
Such as the was in life, the beauteous faint;
Boldly your ftrict attention might we claim,
And bid you mark and copy out the dame.
No wand ring glance one wanton thought confefs'd,
No guilty with inflam'd her fpotiefs breaft:
The only love that warm'd her blooming youth,
Was hufband, England, liberty, and truth.
For thefe the fell, while, with too weak a hand,
She ftrove to fave a blind ungrateful land.
But thus the fecret laws of fate ordain,
William's great hand was doom'd to break that
chain,
And end the hopes of Rome's tyrannic reign.
For ever as the circling years return,
Ye grateful Britons! crown the hero's urn;
To his juft care you ev'ry bleffing owe,
Which or his own, or following reigns bestow:
Though his hard fate a father's name denied,
To you a father, he that lofs fupplied.
Then while you view the royal line's increase,
And count the pledges of your future peace,
From this great stock while ftill new glories come,
Conqueft abroad, and liberty at home;
While you behold the beautiful and brave,
Bright princeffes to grace you, kings to fave,
Enjoy the gift, but blefs the hand that gave.
$32. Epilogue to the Cruel Gift. Spoken by Mrs.
He thought he paid it off with being finart,
And, to be witty, cried, he'd fend the heart.
I could have told his gravity, moreover,
Were I our fex's fecrets to difcover,
'Tis what we never look for in a lover..
Let but the bridegroom prudently provide
All other matters fitting for a bride,
So he make good the jewels and the jointure,
To mifs the heart does feldom difappoint her.
'Faith, for the fashion hearts of late are made in,
They are the vileft baubles we can trade in.
Where are the tough brave Britons to be found,
With hearts of oak, fo much of old renown'd?
How many worthy gentlemen of late
Swore to be true to mother-church and state;
When their falfe hearts were fecretly maintaining
Yon trim king Pepin, at Avignon reigning?
Shame on the canting crew of foul-infurers,
That Tyburn-tribe of fpeech-making nonjurors;
Who, in new-fangled terms old truths explaining,
Teach honeft Englishmen damn'd double-mean-
[ing.
O, would you loft integrity reftore,
And boaft that faith your plain forefathers bore;
What furer pattern can you hope to find,
Than that dear pledget your monarch left behind?
See how his looks his honeft heart explain,
And speak the bleflings of his future reign!
In his each feature truth and candour trace,
And read plain dealing written in his face.
$33. Epilogue to the Pfeudolus of Plautus. Alted by the Scholars of Bury School, November 6,
HAVE been peeping for thefe many days
I' th' tail of all the Greek and Latin plays, And, after ftri&teft fearch, to none can find An epilogue, like difhclout, pinn'd behind. Thole ancient bards knew when the play was done, Nor, like Sir Martin Mar-all, ftill play'd on; They imitated nature in their plan,
Nor made a monkey when they meant a man. From modern fancy then this custom rose, Like whimsical toupees among the beaux : Monttrous excrefcences both which difgrace (By being fix'd in an improper place) Heaven's great production, man; man's great production, plays.
Yet muft we, though as foolish we decry
WELL-'twas a narrow' fcape my lovermade-This mode, be fools in fashion, and comply:
That cup and meffage-I was fore afraid!
Was that a prefent for a new-made widow,
All in her difmal dumps, like doleful Dido ›
When one peep'd in-and hop'd for fomething
good,
There was-O gad! a nafty heart and blood *.
If the old man had fhew'd himself a father,
His bowl fhould have inclos'd a cordial rather;
Something to cheer me up amidst my trance,
L'eau de Barbade-or comfortable Naniz↑.
For rights, we know, howe'er abfurdly gain'd
At first, with obftinacy are maintain'd:
Since then this privilege you will not lose,
Let's hear what fort of epilogue you 'll choofe.
Are you for fatire? No; why there you're right:
The wifeit can't forefee where that may light.
Are ye for politics? There we cry No,
Where that may light-you eafily may know.
Another topic then, pray, ladies, hear;
Suppofe a panegyric on the fair.
This tragedy was founded upon the ftory of Sigifmunda and Guifcardo, out of Boccace's novels; wherein the heart of the lover is fent by the father to his daughter, as a prefent.
i. e. Citron-water and good brandy.
The Prince of Wales, then prefent.
So, I perceive, I've touch'd the ticklish place,
And clearly read confent in ev'ry face.
O fie! confent fo foon? that can't be right;
I hate fuch coming ladies-fo good night.
34. Epilogue to the Lying Valet; 1740.
GARRICK.
THAT I'm a lying rogue, you all agree,
And yet, look round the world, and you
fhall fee
That many more, my betters, le as fast as me.
Against this vice we all are ever railing,
And yet, fo tempting is it, fo prevailing,
You'll find but few without this useful failing.
Lady or Abigail, my Lord or Will,
The ye goes round, and the ball's never ftill.
My lyes were harmless, told to thew my parts,
And not like thofe, when tongues belye their hearts.
In all profeflions you will find this flaw;
And in the gravest too, in phyfic and in law.
The gouty ferjeant cries, with formal pause,
"Your plea is good, my friend, don't ftarve the
"caufe:"
But when my lord decrees for t' other fide,
Your cofts of fuit convince you that he lyed.
A doctor comes, with formal wig and face,
First feels your pulfe, then thinks, and knows your
cafe;
[you;
"Your fever 's flight, not dangerous, I affure
"Keep warm, and repetatur hauftus, Sir, will cure
you."
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Around the bed, next day, his friends are crying,
The patient dies; the doctor's paid for lying.
The poet, willing to fecure the pit,
$35. Epilogue to Ignoramus, a&ted at Westminster School in December 1747. Spoken by Ignoramus and Mufæus.
gn. PEACE, bookworm! bless me, what a clerk
A frange place fure-this univerfity!
What's learning, virtue. modefty, or fenfe?
Fine words to hear-but will they turn the pence?
These stiff pedantic notions-far outweighs
That one fhort, comprehenfive thing-a face.
Go, match it if you can with all your rules
Of Greek or Roman, old or modern schools:
The total this of Ignoramus' skill,
To carve his fortune-place him where you will.
For not in law alone could I appear;
My parts would shine alike in any sphere.
my
And would I try the loftier ode to raife,
You'd fee me foon-a rival for the bays.
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Or, I could turn a journalist, and write
With little wit, but large recruits of spite;
Abuse and blacken-just as party fways
And lafh my betters-thefe are thriving ways.
My mind to graver phyfic would I bend,
Think you I'd ftudy Greek, like Mead or Friend!
No-with fome nofirum I'd enfure my fees,
Without the help of learning or degrees:
On drop or pill fecurely I'd rely,
And thake my head at the whole faculty.
Or would I take to orders-
Ign. One not too fcrupulous away might know:
'Twere but the forging of a hand-or fo.
In crders too my purposes I'd ferve;
And if I could not rife, I would not starve.
With lungs and face I'd make my butchers ftare,
Gives out, his play has humour, tafte, and wit:
The caufe comes on, and, while the judges try,Or publith-that I'd marry at May-fair,
Each groan and cat-call gives the bard the lye.
Now let us afk, pray, what the ladies do:
They too will fib a little, entre nous.
"Lord!" fays the prude (her face behind her fan)
"How can our fex have any joy in man?
“As for my part, the best could ne'er deceive me;
"And were the race extinct, 't would never grieve
Thefe, thefe are maxims, that will stand the teft :
But univerfities are all a jest.
"Their fight is odious, but their touch, O gad! "The thought of that 's enough to drive one "mad."
Mus. I grant, a prodigy we fometimes view,
Whom neither of our feats of learning knew.
Yet fure none thine more eminently great,
In law or phyfic, in the church or state,
Than thofe who early drank the love of fame
At Cam's fair bank, or Ifis' filver ftream.
Look round-here 's proof enough this point to
clear.
Ign. Blefs me!-what!-not one Ignoramus
You check'd him there-to you, to reafon juft,
He owns he triumph'd in your kind difgult.
Charm'd by your frown, by your ditpleafure grac'd,
He hails the rifing virtue of your taste.
Wide will its influence fpread, as foon as known;
Truth, to be lov'd, need only to be shewn.
Confirm it, once, the fashion to be good
(Since fashion leads the fool, and awes the rude),
No petulance thall wound the public car;
No hand applaud what honour fhuns to hear :
No painful blufh the modeft cheek shall stain;
The worthy breaft fhall heave with no difdain.
Chaftis'd to decency, the British stage
Shall oft invite the fair, invite the fage:
Both thall attend well-pleas'd, well-pleas'd depart;
Or, if they doom the verfe, abfolve the heart.
37. Prologue Spoken by Mr. Garrick at the opening of the Theatre in Drury-Lane, in the Year 1747. JOHNSON.
WHEN Learning's triumph o'er her barb'rous
First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakspeare rofe;
Each change of many-colour'd life he drew,
Exhaufted worlds, and then imagin'd new :
Existence faw him fpurn her bounded reign,
And panting Time toil'd after him in vain:
His pow'rful strokes prefiding Truth imprefs'd,
And unrefifted paffion storm'd the breaft.
Then Jonfon came, inftructed from the school,
To pleafe in method, and invent by rule;
His ftudious patience, and laborious art,
By regular approach affay'd the heart :
Cold approbation gave the ling'ring bays;
For those who durft not cenfure,fcarce could praife.
A mortal born, he met the gen'ral doon,
But left, like Egypt's kings, a lafting tomb.
The wits of Charles found eatier ways to fame,
Nor wifh'd for Jonfon's art, or Shak fpeare's flame;
Themselves they ftudied, as they felt they writ;
Intrigue was plot, obfcenity was wit.
Vice always found a fympathetic friend;
They pleas'd their age, and did not aim to mend.
Yet bards like thefe atpir'd to lafting praise,
And proudly hop'd to pimp in future days:
Their caufe was gen'ral, their fupports wereftrong,
Their flaves were willing, and their reign was long;
Till shame regain'd the poft that fense betray'd,
And virtue call'd oblivion to her aid.
Then crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as refin'd,
For years the pow'r of Tragedy declm'd :
From bard to bard the frigid caution crept,
Till declamation road, whilft paffion slept;
Yet ftill did virtue deign the ftage to tread,
Philofophy remain'd, though nature fled.
But forc'd at length her ancient reign to quit,
She faw great Fauftus lay the ghost of wit:
Exulting folly hail'd the joyful day,
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And Pantomime and Song confirm'd her fway.
But who the coming changes can prefage,
And mark the future periods of the stage?
Perhaps, if skill could diftant times explore,
New Behns, new Durfeys, yet remain in store;
Perhaps, where Lear has rav'd, and Hamlet died
Pernaps (for who can guess th' effects of chance ?)
On flying cars new forcerers may ride;
Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may dance.
Hard is his lot that, here by fortune plac'd,
Muft watch the wild viciffitudes of taste:
And chafe the new-blown bubble of the day.
With every meteor of caprice must play,
Ah! let not cenfure term our fate our choice,
The stage but echoes back the public voice;
The Drama's laws the Drama's patrons give,
For we that live to please, must please to live.
Then prompt no more the follies you decry,
'Tis yours this night to bid the reign commence
As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die;
Of rescued nature, and reviving fenfe;
To chafe the charms of found, the pomp of fhow,
Bid Scenic Virtue form the rifing age,
For ufeful mirth and falutary woe;
And Truth diffuse her radiance from the Stage.
938. Epilogue to Shakspeare's Firft Part of King Henry IV. Spoken by Mr. J.Y. in the Character of Falstaff, 1748. Acted by young Gentlemen at Mr. Newcome's School at Hackney.
[Pufb'd in upon the ftage by Prince Henry.
PLAGUE upon all cowards, ftill, I fay--
Old Jack must bear the heat of all the day,
And be the master-fool, beyond the play-
Amidft hot-plooded Hotspur's rebel strife,
By miracle of wit I fav'd my life;
And now ftand foolishly expos'd again
To th' hiffing bullets of the critic's brain.
Go to, old lad, 'tis time that thou wert wifer-
Thou art not fram'd for an epiloguizer.
There's Hal, now, or his nimble fhadow, Poins,
Straight in the back, and liffome in the loins,
Who wears his boot fmooth as his mistress' skin,
And thining as the glafs the dreffes in;
Can bow and cringe, fawn, flatter, cog, and lye→→
Which honeft Jack could never do-not 1.
Hal's heir-apparent face might stand it buff,
And make (ha ha! ha') a faucy epilogue enough;
But I am old, and stiff-nay, bashful grown,
For Shakspeare's humour is not now my owi ●
I feel myfelf a counterfeiting afs;
And if for fterling wit I give you brafs,
It is his royal image makes it pass.
Fancy now works; and here I ftand and ftew
In mine own greasy fears, which set to view
Eleven buckram critics in each man of you.
Wights, who with no out-facings will be sha nm'd,
Nor into rifibility be bamm'd," [treafon;
Will, tho' fhe thake their fides, think nature
And fee one damn'd-ere laugh withouta reafon.
Then how shall one, not of the virtuous, fpeed,'
Who merely has a wicked wit to plead—
Wit without measure, humour without rule,
Unfetter'd laugh, and lawless ridicule ?
'Faith! try him by his peers, a jury chosen→→→
The kingdom will, I think, fcarce raile the dozer,
393
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