The new manufacture, Foote and Co. undertakers. All pleaders may, when difficulties rife,
Play, opera, pantomime, farce-by the makers.
We fcorn, like our brethren, our fortunes to owe
To Shakspeare and Southerne,to Otway and Rowe:
Tho' our judgment may err, yet our juftice is fhewn;
For we promife to mangle no works but our own;
And morcover, on this you may firmly rely,
If we can't make you laugh, that we won't make

To gain one truth expend an hundred lies.
O. Wild. To curb this practice I am fomewhat
loth;

you cry;

For our monarch, who knew we were mirth-
loving fouls,
[bowls;
Has lock'd up his lightning, his daggers, and
Refolv'd that in bufkins no heroes fhould ftalk,
He has fhut us quite out of the tragedy walk.
No blood, no blank verfe-in fhort we 're undone,
Unless you 're contented with frolic and fun.
If, tir'd of her round in the Ranelagh mill,
There should be one female inclin'd to fit ftill;
If blind to the beauties, or fick of the fquall,
A party fhouldn't choofe to catch cold at Vauxhall;
If at Sadler's fweer Wells the wine fhould be thick,
The cheesecakes be four, or Mifs Wilkinfon fick
If the fume of the pipe fhould prove pow'rful in
June,

Or the tumblers be lame, or the bells out of tune;
We hope you will call at our warehouse in Drury:
We've a curious affortment of goods, I affure ye,
Domestic and foreign, indeed all kind of wares,
English cloth, Irish linens, and French pet en-

l'airs.

If, for want of good custom, or loffes in trade,
The poetical partners fhould bankrupts be made:
If, from dealingstoo large, we plunge deeply indebt.
And a whereas comes out in the Mufes' Gazette,
We'll on you, our affigns, for certificates call;
Tho' infolvents, we're honeft, and give up our all.

A lawyer has no credit but on oath.

M. Gr. Then to the fofter fex fome favourfhew: Leave us poffeffion of our modest No!

O. Wild. O freely, Ma'am, we 'll that allowance
give,

So that two Noes be held affirmative:
Provided ever, that your pifh and fie,
On all occafions, fhould be deem'd a lye.
M. Gr. Hard terms!

On this rejoinder then I reft my cause :
Should all pay homage to truth's facred laws,
Let us examine what would be the cafe;
Why, many a great man would be out of place.
O. Wild. 'Twould many a virtuous character

reftore.

just,

The tragic mufe attends the mournful herfe,
Whene'er the patriot finks to filent duft,
And pays her tribute of immortal verfe.
Inspired by noble deeds, she seeks the plain,
In honour's caufe where mighty chiefs are flain;

63. Epilogue to the Lyar, 1761; between Mifs And bathes with tears the fod that wraps the dead, Grantham and Old Wilding.

M. Gr. HOLD, Sir!

[done.

}

Our plot concluded, and ftrict juftice
Let me be heard as counfel for your fon.
Acquit I can't, I mean to mitigate;
Profcribe all lying, what would be the fate
Of this and every other earthly ftate?
Confider, Sir, if once you cry it down,
You'll fhut up every coffec-houfe in town;
The tribe of politicians will want food,
Even now half famish'd-for the public good;
All Grub-street murderers of men and fenfe,
And every office of intelligence,

All would be bankrupts, the whole lying race,
And no Gazette to publifh their difgrace.
0. Wild. Too mild a fentence! Muft the good

and great,

Patriots be wrong'd, that book fellers may eat?
M. Gr. Your patience, Sir; yet hear another
word,

Turn to that hall where Juftice wields her fword:
Think in what narrow limits you would draw,
By this profcription, all the fons of law:
For 'tis the fix'd determin'd rule of courts,
(Vyner will tell you-nay, even Coke's Reports)

And bids the turf lie lightly on his head.

Nor thus content, the opens death's cold womb,
And burfts the cearments of the awful tomb,
To caft him up again-to bid him live,

And to the fcene his form and prefence give.
Thus once-fam'd Effex at her voice appears,
Emerging from the facred duft of years.

Nor deem it much, that we retrace, to-night,
A tale to which you 've liften'd with delight.
How oft, of yore, to learned Athens' eyes
Did new Electras and new Phædras rife !
In France how many Theban monarchs groan
For Laius' blood, and inceft not their own!
When there new Iphigenias raise the sigh,
Fresh drops of pity guth from ev'ry eye.
The heart ftill finds the fympathetic tear.
On the fame theme tho' rival wits appear,

If there foft pity pour her plenteous store,
Much more thould you from freedom's glorious
For fabled kings, and empires now no more;
Much more fhould you with kindred forrows glow
Who still inherit all the rights of man; [plan,
For your own chiefs, your own domeftic woe;
Much more a British story should impart
The warmest feelings to each British heart.

$65. Prologue to the School for Lovers, 1762. Written and spoken by Mr. GARRICK. SUCCESS makes people vain-the maxim's

We all confefs it, and not over new.
The verieft clown, who ftumps along the streets,
And doffs his hat to each grave cit he meets,
Some twelve-months hence, bedaub'd with livery
lace,

Shall thrust his faucy flambeau in
Not fo our bard-tho' twice your kind applaufe
Has, on this fickle fpot, efpous'd his caufe;
He owns with gratitude th' obliging debt;
Has twice been favour'd, and is modeft yet.
Your giant wits, like thofe of old, may climb
Olympus high, and step o'er space and time;
May itride, with feven-leagued boots, from thore
to fhore,

To turn the penny, once, a wit
Upon a curious fancy hit:
Hung out a board, on which he boasted,
Dinner for three-pence, boil'd and roasted.
The hungry read, and in they trip,
With eager eye, and finacking lip-
"Here, bring this boil'd and roafted, pray-"

And nobly, by tranfgreffing, charm ye more.
Alas! our author dares not laugh at fchools-
Plain fente confines his humbler mufe to rules:
He shifts no fcene-But here I ftopt him fhort-Enter potatoes, drefs'd each way.
"Not change your fcenes?” faid Η“I'm forry

§ 67. Epilogue to Elvira; 1763. LADIES and gentlemen-'tis fo ill-bred— We have no epilogue, because I'm dead; For he, our bard, with phrenfy-rolling eye, Swears you fhan't laugh,when he has made you cry. At which I gave his fleeve a gentle pull, Suppofe they fhould 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 eafy. The town hates epilogues-It is not true, I anfwer'd that for you-and you and you [To Pit, Boxes, and First Gallery. They call for epilogues and hornpipes too. [To the Upper Gall: Madam, the critics fay-to you they 're civil, Here, if they have 'em not, they'll play the devil. 3 R

Out of this houfe, fir, and to you alone,
They'll fmile, cry Bravo! charming!-Here they Himfelf the hero of each little tale.

In bath, and doth, was rarely known to fail,

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 paflions, purify the mind:

With wits and lords this man was much de

lighted,

And once it has been faid) was near being
knighted.

One Ariftophanes (a wicked wit,
Who never heeded grace in what he writ)
Had mark'd the manners of this Grecian fage,
And, thinking him a fubje&t for the stage,
Had from the lumber cull'd, with curious care,
His voice, his looks, his gefture, gait, and air,
His affe&tation, confequence, and mien,
And boldly launch'd him on the comic scene.
Loud peals of plaudits through the circle ran,
All felt the fatire, for all knew the man.

Then Peter-Petros was his claffic name,
Fearing the lofs of dignity and fame,
To a grave lawyer in a hurry flies,
Opens his purfe, and begs his best advice.
The fee fecur'd, the lawyer ftrokes his band,
"The cafe you put I fully understand;

The thing is plain from Cocos's reports,
For rules of poetry a'n't rules of 'courts:
"A libel this-I'll make the gummer know
"it."-

To which I fay, to ftrike those blockheads dumb,"
With phyfic always give a fugar-plum.
I love these fugar-plums in profe or rhymes:
No one is merrier than myself fometimes;
Yet I, poor I, with tears and conftant moan,
Am melted down almoft to fkin and bone :
This night, in fighs and fobs I drew my breath;
Love, marriage, treafon, prifon, poifon, death,
Were fcarce fufficient to complete my fate;
Two children were thrown in, to make up weight.
With all thefe fuff'rings, is it not provoking,
To be denied at last a little joking

>

If they will make new laws, for mirth's fakt break 'em ;

Roar out for epilogues, and let me speak 'em.

A Grecian conftable took up the poet,
Reftrain'd the fallies of his laughing mufe,
Call'd harnlefs humour fcandalous abuse:
The bard appeal'd from this fevere decree,
Th' indulgent public fet the pris'ner free:
Greece was to him what Dublin is to me.

$ 69. Prologue Spoken by Mr. Love, on the opening the new Theatre on Richmond Green; 1765. GARRICK.

THE fhip now launch'd, with neceffaries for`d,
Rigg'd, mann'd, well-built, and a rich freight
on board,

All ready, tight and trim from head to poop,
And, by commithion, made a royal floop;
May Heaven from tempefts, rocks. and privateers,
Preferve the Richmond!- -Give her, bovs, three
[Three buzzas behind.

cheers!

Queen Mab, our Shak fpeare fays,and I believe line.
In fleep haunts each vain mortal, to deceive him.
As in her hazel-nut she lightly trips,

By turns, o'er cyes, ears, fingers, nose, and 'irs,
Each quicken'd fenfe fuch fweet enchantment
feizes,

We hear, fee, fmell, tafte, touch-whate'er the
pleates.

Look round this houfe, and various proofs you
Strong glaring proofs that Mab has been with me
She caught me napping, knew where I was vain,
And tickled ev'ry fibre of my brain :
Deep in my mufing (deep as I was able)
Methought I faw her driving tow'rds my table;
She whisk'd her chariot o'er my books and shelves,
And at my standish stopp'd her tiny elves.

|

"What are you fcribbling there?-Quick, let me “ 'Tis he, by Jove! grown quite a clumfy fellow "fce"He's fit for nothing-but a Punchinello !" "Poh! leave this nonfenfe, and along with me!""O yes, for comic fcenes, Sir John-no further: I, grinning, bow'd-" Bright star of Lilliput! "He's much too fat-for battles, rapes, and "Shall I not crowd you in your hazel-nut?'' "murther!" She fmil'd; and, fhewing me a large-fiz'd hamper, Worn in the fervice, you my faults will fpare, "Get into this, my friend, and then we'll fcainper." And make allowance for the wear and tear. I for this frolic wanting quick digestion, The Chellea penfioner, who, rich in scars, Sent to my tongue, polt-halte, another queftion; Fights o'er, in prattle, all his former wars; But, crack! fhe went, before that I could afk it; Tho' palt the fervice, may the young ones teach She in her stage-I, Falstaff, in the basket: To march-prefent-to fire-an mount the She wav'd her wand,then burst in fits of laughter, To fee me rolling, bounding, tumbling after: And I laugh'd too-Could you of laughing fail, To fee a minnow towing of a whale ? At last we refted on a hill hard by, With a fweet vale, to feaft the glutton eye"I'll fhew you more," the faid, "to charm and "move us;"

[us:

breach.

Should the drum beat to arms, at first he'll grieve
For wooden leg, loft eye, and armless fleeve:
Then cocks his hat, looks fierce, and fwells his
cheft:

'Tis for my king; and, zounds! I'll do my beft,"

And to the gardens, quick as thought, the drove § 71. Prologue to the Clande fline Marriage ;1766. Then, pointing to the shade→→“ There, there they

66 are,

"Of this moft happy ifle the happiest pair!"
O, may thofe virtuous raptures never cease,
Nor public cares disturb their private peace!
She nigh'd-and like the lightning was the feen
To drive her chariot o'er this fav'rite green;
Straight to this fpot-where the infus'dfuch things
Might turn the heads of twenty playhoufc kings.
But fear difperfing all my golden dream,
And I juft entering on this fairy-fcheme;
With wild furprife, I caft my eyes about,
Delution ends-and now I wake to doubt:
O, may the dream be realis'd by you!
Your miles or frowns can make this falfe or true.

GARRICK.

POETS and painters, who from nature draw

Their beft and richest stores, have made this
law;

That each fhould neighbourly affift his brother,
And fteal with decency from one another.
To-night, your matchlefs Hogarth gives the
thought,

Which from the canvas to the ftage is brought;
And who fo fit to warm the poet's mind,
As he who pictur'd morals and mankind?
But not the fame their characters and scenes;
Both labour for one end, by diff'rent means;
Their one great object, marriage à la mode;
Each, as it fuits him, takes a fep'rate road,
Where titles deign with cits to have and hold,
And change rich blood for more fubftantial gold!
And honour'd trade from int'reft turus afide,

$70. Prologue to Much ado about Nothing, afted
by Command of their Mayflies, 1765. Written
and spoken by Mr. GARRICK, being his fifTo hazard happiness for titled pride.
Appearance after bis Return from Italy.
WITH doubt, joy, apprehenfion, alinost dumb,
To face this awful court, once more I come:
Left Benedick fhould fuffer by my fear,
Before he enters, I myself am here.
I'm told (what flattery to my heart!) that you
Have with'd to fee me; nay, have prefs'd it too:
Alas! 'twill prove another Mach ado.
I, like a boy who long has truant play'd,
No letfons got, no exercifes made,

}

On bloody Monday takes his fearful stand,
And often eyes the birchen-fceptred hand.
'Tis twice twelve years fince firft the ftage I trod,
Enjoy'd your fmiles, and felt the crities rod :
A very nine-pin I, my stage life through;
Knock'd down by wits, fet up again by you.
In four-and-twenty years the fpirits cool;
Is it not long enough to play the fool?
To prove it is, permit me to repeat
What late I heard, in paffing through the street:
A youth of parts, with ladies by his fide,
Thus cock'd his glafs, and thro' it thot my pride:

The painter dead, yet ftill he charms the eye;
While England lives, his fame can never die :
But he who ftruts his hour upon the stage
Can scarce extend his fame for half an age;
Nor pen nor pencil can the actor fave;
The art and artist fhare one common grave.
O let me drop one tributary tear
On poor Jack Falstaff's grave, and Juliet's bier{
You to their worth muft teftimony give;
'Tis in your hearts alone their fame can live;
Still as the scenes of life will shift away,
The ftrong impreffions of their art decay.
Your children cannot feel what you have known;
They'll boaft of Quins and Cibbers of their own.
The greatest glory of our happy few,
Is to be felt, and be approv d, by you.

$72. Prologue to the Taylors; 1767. GARRICK, THIS night we add fome heroes to our store, Who never were as heroes seen before ;

* Mr. Quin and Mrs. Cibber both died a little before.
3

R 2

No

No blaring Romans, Trojans, Greeks, fhall

rage;

ftage
No knights, arm'd' cap à pié, shall crowd our
Nor fhall our Henries, Edwards, take the field,
Oppofing fword to fword, and fhield to fhield:
With other inftruments our troop appears;
Needles to thimbles thall, and thears to fhears;
With parchment gorgets, and in buckram arm'd,
Cold-blooded taylors are to heroes warm'd,
And flip-fhod flide to war.-No lions' glare,
No eye-balls flathing fire fhall make you stare;
Each outfide thall belie the stuff within:
A Roman fpirit in each Taylor's skin-
A taylor-legg'd Pompey, Catfius, shall you fee,
And the ninth part of Brutus ftrut in me!
What though no fwords we draw, no daggers
Yet can our warriors a quietus make [thake,

L. Alion. Should my lord beat you-
Spatter. Let them laugh that win:

With a bare bodkin.-Now be dumb, ye railers,For all my bruifes here 's gold-beaters skin!

And never, but in honour, call out taylors!
But thefe are heroes tragic, you will cry;
O, very tragic! and I'll tell you why-
Should female artifts with the make combine,
And mantua-makers with the taylors jom; [o'er,
Should all, too proud to work, their trades give
Not to be footh'd again by fix-pence more;
What horrors would enfué 'Firft you, ye beaux,
At once lofe all exiftence with your clothes!
And you, ye fair, where would be your defence:
This is no golden age of innocence!
Such drunken bacchanals the Graces meet,
And no police to guard the naked fireet:
Beauty is weak, and paffion bold and strong—
O then-but modefty reftrains my tongue.
May this night's bard a fkilful taylor be,
And like a well-made coat his tragedy:
Tho' clofe, yet eafy; decent, but not dull;
Short, but not fcanty; without buckram, full.

[Chinking the purse,
L. Alton. Nay, fhould he kill you!
Spatter. Ma'am?

L. Alton. My kindness meant
To pay your merit with a monument!
Spalter. Your kindness, lady, takes away my
breath:

We'll ftop,with your good leave, on this fide death,
L. Alton. Attack Amelia, both in verfe and profe,
Your wit can make a nettle of a rofe.
Spatter. A flinging-nettle for his lordship's
breast:

And to my stars and dashes leave the reft.
I'll make them miferable, never fear;
Pout in a month, and part in half a year.
I know my genius, and can trust my plan;
lil break a woman's heart with any man.
L. Alton. Thanks, thanks, dear Spatter ! be
fevere and bold!

Shatter. No qualms of confcience with a purse
of gold.

873. Epilogue to the English Merchant; 1767. Yours are my heart, foul, pen, cars, boncs, and all. Tho' pillries threaten, and tho' crab-sticks fall,

GARRICK.

Enter Lady Alton [Mrs. Abington] in a passion;
Spatter [Mr. King] following.

L. Alton.

I'LL hear no more, thon wretch
Spatter. Attend to reafon !

L. Alton. A woman of my rank, 'tis petty

treafon !

Hear reafon, blockhead! Reason! what is that?
Bid me wear pattens and a high-crown'd hat!
Won't you begone? What, won't you? What's

your view?

Lady Alton alone.

[Exit Spatter.

Thus to the winds at once my cares I fcatter-
O, 'tis a charming rafcal, this fame Spatter!
His precious mifchief makes the form fubfide '
My anger, thank my ftars! all role froni pride!
Pride fhould belong to us alone of fashion;
And let the mob take love, that vulgar pallion-
Love, pity, tenderness, are only made
For poets, Abigails, and folks in trade.
[you. Some cits about their feelings make a fufs,
And fome are better bred-who live with us.
How low lord Falbridge is!-He takes a wife,
To love, and cherish, and be fix'd for life!
Thinks marriage is a comfortable state,
No pleafure like a vartuous téte à tête!
Do our lords juftice, for I would not wrong 'em,
There are not many fuch poor fouls among 'em.
Our turtles from the town will fly with fpeed,
And I'll foretel the vulgar life they'll lead.
With loveandeafe grown fat,they face all weather,
And, farmers both, trudge arm in arm together:

Spatter. Humbly to ferve the tuneful nine in
L. Alton. I renounce fuch things;
Not Phoebus now, but vengeance, fweeps the
ftrings:

My mind is difcord all!—I scorn, deteft
All human kind-you more than all the reft.
Spatter. I humbly thank you, Ma'am-but
weigh the matter.
[Spatter
L. Alon. I won't hear reafon! and I hate you,
Myfelf, and ev'ry thing.
Sputter. That I deny;

Now