in the Character of a Sailor, fuddled, and talkingELL, I've been beating up for volunteers, to bimself.

Enters, finging, "How pleafant a failor's life

Then fwears he to the charity is hearty,
But can't, in honour, break his evening party.
When to the gouty alderman I fued,
The nafty fellow ('gad) was downright rude.
Is begging grown the fafhion, with a pox!
The mayor fhould fet fuch housewifes in the
ftocks.

Give you a guinea! Zds! replied the beast,
'Twould buy a ticket for a turtle-feaft.
Think what a guinea a-head might set before ye-
Sir, mullet-turbot-and a grand John Dory.
I'll never give a groat, as I'm a finner,
Unless they gather 't in a difh-at dinner.

I truft, by art and more polite addrefs,
You fairer advocates met more fuccefs;
And not a man compaffion's caufe withstood,
When beauty pleaded for such genʼral good.

$54. Prologue to the Winter's Tale, and Ca-
therine and Petruchio; 1756. Written and
Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

TO various things the flage has been compard,

As apt ideas ftrike each humorous bard:
This night, for want of better fimile,
Let this our theatre a tavern be:
The poets, vintners, and the waiters we.
So, as the cant and cuftom of the trade is,
You're welcome, gem'men; kindly welcome,

ladies.

To draw in customers, our bills are spread;

Who, in the ftorms of paffion, humn and haw!-
For fuch our mafter will no liquor draw-
So blindly thoughtful, and fo darkly read,
They take Tom Durfey's for the Shakspeare's
Head.

A vintner once acquir'd both praise and gain,
And fold much Perry for the best Champagne.
Some rakes this precious ftuff did so allure,
They drank whole nights-what's that-when
wine is pure?

"Come, fill a buinper, Jack."-“ I will, my "Lord."

"Here's cream!-damn'd fine!-immenfe !<< upon my word!

"Sir William, what fay you "—“ The_beft, "believe me.

"In this-eh, Jack-the devil can't deceive me." Thus the wife critic, too, mistakes his wine; Cries out, with lifted hands-'Tis great! divine! Then jogs his neighbour, as the wonders strike him;

This Shakspeare! Shakspeare!—O, there's no-
thing like him!

In this night's various and enchanted cup
Some little Perry's mix'd, for filling up. [taken,
The five long acts, from which our three are
Stretch'd out to fixteen years, lay by, forfaken:
Iis now confin'd and bottled for your tafte.
Left then this precious liquor run to wafte,

'Tis my chief with, my joy, my only plan,
To lofe no drop of that immortal man!

§ 5. Prologue to the Apprentice; 1756. Spelen by Mr. Murphy, Author of the Piece, dressed in black. GARRICK.

You cannot mifs the fign, 'tis Shakspeare's Head. BEHOLD a wonder for theatric ftory!

From this fame head, this fountain-head divine,
For different palates fprings a different wine;
In which no tricks, to strengthen or to thin 'em -
Neat as imported-no French brandy in 'em-
Hence for the choiceft fpirits flows Champagne;.
Whofe fparkling atoms fhoot thro' every vein,
Then mountin magic vapours to th' enraptur'd
brain!

Hence flow for martial minds potations strong,
And fweet love-potions for the fair and young:
For you, my hearts of oak, for your regale,
[To the upper gallery
There's good old English ftingo, mild and ftale
For high, luxurious fouls, with lufcious fmack,
There's Sir John Falstaff in a butt of fack;
And, if the stronger liquors more invite ye,
Bardolph is gin, and Pistol aqua vitæ.
But thould you call for Falstaff, where to find him.
He's gone-nor left one cup of fack behind him.
Sunk in his elbow chair, no more he 'll roam,
No more, with merry wags, to Eaftcheap come;
He's gone-to jest and laugh, and give his fack
at home.

}

As for the learned critics, grave and deep,
Who catch at words, and, catching, fall afleep;

The culprit of this night appears before ye
Before his judges dares these boards to tread,
"With all his imperfections on his head!"
Prologues precede the piece, in mournful verse,
As undertakers walk before the hearfe;
Whose doleful march may ftrike the harden'd
mind,

And wake its feelings for the dead—behind.
Trick'd out in black, thus actors try their art,
To melt that rock of rocks—the critic's heart.
No acted fears my vanity betray!

I am, indeed—what others only play.
Thus far myself. The farce comes next in view;
Tho' many are its faults, at least. 'tis new.
No fmuggled, pilfer'd fcenes from France we
thew;

'Tis English-English, Sirs-from top to toe.
Tho' coarfe my colours, and my hand unskill,
From real life my little cloth is fill'd.

My hero is a youth, by fate defign'd [mind
For culling fimples-but whofe stage-ftruck
Nor fate could rule, nor his indentures bind.
A place there is, where fuch young Quixotes-

mect;

'Tis call'd the fpouting-club-a glorious treat' Where 'prentic'd kings alarm the gaping ftret.

The action of the Winter's Fale, as written by Shakspeare, comprehends fixteen years.

There

Whate'er my faults, your candour can exceed $ 57. Epilogue to the Reprifal; 1757. Spoken

Epilogue to the fame; 1756. Spoken by AYE-now I can with pleasure look around, Safe as I am, thank Heaven, on English ground.

Mrs. Clive.
[Enters, reading the play-bill. In a dark dungeon to be stow'd away,
'Midft roaring, thund'ring, danger, and dismay;
Expos'd to fire and water, fword and bullet---
Might damp the heart of any virgin pullet.

But if this welkin angry clouds deform,
[Looking rond the boufe.
And hollow groans portend th' approaching
ftorm :
[To the gallery.
Should the defcending fhow 'rs of hail re double,
And these rough billows hifs, and boil and
bubble,
[To be pit.
He'll launch no more on fuch fell feas of
trouble.

FOOTE.

}

58. Prologue to the Author; 1757.
SEVERE their task, who, in this critic age,
With fresh materials furnifh out the stage!
Not that our fathers drain'd the comic ftore;
Fresh characters spring up as heretofore.
Nature with novelty does ftill abound;
On ev'ry fide fresh follies may be found.
But then the taste of every gueft to hit,
To please at once the gallery, box, and pit,
Requires, at leaft, no common fhare of wit.
Thofe who adorn the orb of higher life,
Demand the lively rake or modifh wife;
Whilft they who in a lower circle move,
Yawn at their wit, and flumber at their love.
If light low mirth employs the comic fcene,
Such mirth as drives from vulgar minds the spleen,
The polifh'd critic damns the wretched ftuif,
And cries---" Twill pleafe the gall'ries well
'enough."

Such jarring judgments who can reconcile ?
Since fops will frown, where humble traders fimile.
To dash the poet's ineffectual claim,
And quench his thirst for univerfal fame,
The Grecian fabulift in moral lay

Has thus addrefs'd the writers of his day:
Once on a tine, a fon and fire, we're told,
The ftripling tender, and the father old,
Purchas'd a jack-afs at a country fair,

To ease their limbs, and hawk about their ware;
But as the fluggish animal was weak,
They fear'd, if both should mount, his back would
break

Up gets the boy, the father leads the afs,

The pair, ftill pliant to the partial voice,
Difimount, and bear the afs---Then what a noife!
Huzzas, loud laughs, low gibe, and bitter joke,
From the yet filent fire, thefe words provoke:
"Proceed, my boy, nor heed their farther cali;
"Vain his attempts, who ftrives to please them all.”

$ 59. Prologue to the Trip to Paris. Spoken
by Mr. Shuter, at one of his Benefits. FOOTE.
IN former times there liv'd one Aristotle,

Who, as the fong fays, lov'd, like me, his bottle.
To Alexander Magnus he was tutor
(A'n't you furpris'd to hear the learned Shuter?)
But let that reft-a new tale I'll advance;
A tale ?-no, truth! mum-I'm just come from
France.

From Paris I came; why I went there, no matter;
I'm glad that once more I'm on this fide the water,
'Twas to win a large wager that hurried me over;
But I wifh'd to be off when I came down to Dover,
To fwallow fea-water the doctors will tell ye,
But the fight of fuch water at once fill'd my belly;
They who choose it for phyfic maydrink of the sca,
But only to think on 't is phyfic for me.

When I first went on board, Lord! I heard fuch
a racket,

Such babbling and fquabbling, 'fore and aft, thro'
the packet;

The paffengers bawling, the failors yo-ho-ing,
The hip along dafhing, the winds aloft blowing;
Some fick, and tome ficaring, fome finging, fome
fhricking,

Sails hoifting, blocks rattling, the yards and booms
creaking;

Stop the fip!-but the tars, never minding our cafes,

Took their chaws, hitch'd their trowsers, and

grinn'd in our faces.

We made Calais foon, and were foon set on fhore, And I trod on French ground, where I ne'er trod before.

The fcene was quite chang'd; 'twas no more ye,
yo-ho,

And through the gazing crowd attempts to pafs.
Forth from the throng the greybeards hobble out,
And hail the cavalcade with feeble fhout.
"This the respect to rev'rend age you shew,
"And this the duty you to parents owe?
"He beats the hoof, and you are fet aftride;
Sirrah! get down, and let your father ride."Ties umble fervant, Sir, we glad to fee you.

With damme Jack, yes, boy-or damme Tom, no!
'Twas quite t'other thing, mun, 'twas all com-
plaifance;

As Grecian lads are feldom void of grace,
The decent, duteous youth refign'd his place.
Then a fresh murmur through the rabble ran,
Boys, girls, wives, widows, all attack the man.
"Sure never was brute beaft to void of nature!
"Have you no pity for the pretty creature?
"To your own baby can you be unkind?

Here--Suke, Bill, Betty-put the child be-
"hind."

With cringes and fcrapes we were welcom'd to
France:

Ab, Monfeer Angloy---they cried-be on ven nu,

I ne'er met fuch figures before in my rambles,
They flock'd round my carcafe like flies in the

thambles:

To be crowded amongst them at first I was loth,
For fear they fhould feize me, and foufe me for

broth.

At last, tho', they call'd me my Lor Angleterre,
(Lord, had you then feen but my ftrut and my
ftare!)

Old Dapple next the clowns' compaffion claim'd: Wee, wee, I cried, wee then-and put on a fword; 'Tis wonderment them boobies ben't afham'd! So at once Neddy Shuter turn'd into a lord. "Two at a time upon the poor dumb beast! I expected at France all the world and his wife, They might as well have carried him, at least." But I never was balk'd fo before in my life:

I should

I fhould fee wonders there, I was told by Monfeer;
So I did, I faw things that were wonderful queer;
Queer ftreets and queer houfes, with people much

queerer,

Each one was a talker, but no one a hearer.

I foon had enough of their pallovoufer;
It's a fine phrafe to fome folks, but nonfenfe to me.
All folks there are drefs'd in a toy fhop-like fhow,
A hodge-podging habit, 'twixt fidler and beau;
Such hats, and fuch heads too, fuch coats and fuch

fkirts

They fold me fome ruffles-but I found the fhirts Then, as to their dinners, their foups, and their ftewings,

O! what you fnivel?-Well, do fo no more-
Drop, to atone, your money at the door,
And-if I please—I'll give it to the poor.

61. Prologue to Polly Honeycombe; 1760. GARRICK.

HITHER, in days of yore, from Spain or France,

Came a dread forcerefs, her name Romance And Common Senfe in magic chain bound fast. O'er Britain's ifle her wayward spells the caft, In mad fublime did each fond lover woo,

And in heroics ran cach billet-doux :

High deeds of chivalry their fole delight,
Each fair a maid diftrefs'd, each fwain a knight.

One ounce of meat ferves for ten gallons of brew-Then might Statira Oroondates fee

ings;

1

For a flice of roaft beef how my mind was agog
But for beef they produc'd me a fricafee'd fog:
Out of window I tofs'd it, it wa'n't fit to eat,
Then down ftairs 1 jump'd, and ran into the street.
'Twas not their palaver could make me determine
To stay where I found it was tafte to eat vermin.
Frogs in France may be fine, and their Grand Mo-
narque clever;

I'm for beef, and King George, and Old England

for ever!

$60. Epilogue to the Minor; 1760. TEAR the mad manfions of Moorfields I'll. bawl;

NEAR

Friends, fathers, mothers, fifters, fons, and all,
Shut up your fhops and liften to my call.
With labour, toil, all fecond means difpenfe,
And live a rent charge upon Providence,
Prick up your ears; a ftory now I'll tell,
Which once a widow and her child befel,
I knew the mother and her daughter well:
Poor, it is true, they were, but never wanted;
For whatfoe'er they afk'd was always granted.
One fatal day the matron's truth was tried,
She wanted meat and drink, and faintly cried.
Child. Mother, you cry!--

Mather. O child! I've got no bread..
Child. What matters that? Why, Providence
an't dead!

With reafon good this child the truth might fay,
For there came in at noon, that very day,
Bread, greens, potatoes, and a leg of mutton,
A better fure a table ne'er was put on.
Ay, that might be, ye cry, with thofe poor fouls;
But we ne'er had a rather for the coals.

And d'ye deferve it? How d'ye spend your days?
In pafimes, prodigality, and plays!
Let's go fee Foote! O, Foote's a precious limb!
Old Nick will foon a foot-ball make of him!
For foremoft rows in fide-boxes you shove;
Think you to meet with fide-boxes above,
Where giggling girls and powder'd fopsmay fit?
No, you will all be cramm'd into the pit,
And crowd the house for Satan's benefit.-

At tilts and tournaments, arm'd cap-à-pie.
A dwarf to guard her, prane'd about the land.
She too, on milk-white palfrey, launce in hand,

A trufty Spanish blade, Toledo true:
This fiend to quell, his fword Cervantes drew,
Her taliimans and magic wand he broke ;
Knights, genii, caftles, vanish'd into fmoke.

But now, the dear delight of later years,
Lefs folema is her air, her drift the fame,
The younger fifter of Romance appears:
And Novel her enchanting, charming name.
Romance might ftrike our grave forefather's pomp,
But Novel for our buck, and lively romp!
Caffandra's folios now no longer read,
See two neat pocket volumes in their ftead!
And then, fo fentimental is the style,
So chafte, yet fo bewitching all the while!
Plot and elopement, paflion, rape, and rapture,
The total fum of ev'ry dear-dear-chapter.

'Tis not alone the finall-talk and the imart,
'Tis Novel moft beguiles the female heart.
Mifs reads the melts-fhe fighs-love teals upon
her-

And then-alas, poor girl!-good night, poor
Honour!

Thus of our Polly having lightly spoke,
Now for our author-but without a joke.
Tho' wits and journals, who ne'er fibb'd be.
• fore,

Have laid this bantling at a certain door,
Where, lying store of faults, they'd fain heap

• more,

I now declare it, as a ferious truth,
'Tis the fift folly of a fimple youth,
Caught and deluded by our harlot plays
Then crush not in the thell this infant Bayes!
Exert your favour to a young beginner;
Nor ufe the ftripling like a batter'd finner.'

$62. Prologue to All in the Wrong; 1761. Whit
ten and spoken by Mr. FOOTE.
TO-NIGHT, be it known to box, gall'ries, and
pit,

Will be open'd th' original warehouse of wit;

Thefe lines were added by Mr. Garrick, on its being reported that he was the author of the piece; and, however humourous and poetical, contain as strict matter of fact as the dulleft profe.

The