Elegant Extracts

In English thus: Truft not to looks, they'll§ 87. Prologue to Bon Ton; 1775- COLMAN.

cheat us:

Bounc'd not Sir Swagger lately, as he'd beat us:
And was not he, with all his frowns and airs,
By one, who feem'd all meeknefs, kick'd down
Mifs B---, all delicacy, nerve, and fear, [ftairs
Elop'd laft week, with a horfe grenadier!
And our advent'rer though fo mild and civil,
If you once roufe him, plays the very devil!
Indeed!” cries Madam, " Sir, I'm much your

"debtor;
"Ifhould be glad to know the young man better."
Twice our young hero, who for glory tow'rs,
In fields lefs dang 'rous tried his unknown pow'rs;
Like a young fwimmer, whom his fears command,
In fhallow ftreams first ventur'd from the land;
Till, bolder grown, the rougher wave he ftems,
Plunges from giddy heights into the Thames.
E'en now he starts to hear the torrent roar,
While his pale fates ftand frighted on the shore!
Soon will he leap the precipice---Your nod
Sinks him, or lifts him to a demi-god.

86. Prologue spoken by Mr. Yates, on opening a new Theatre, built for him by the Inhabitants of Birmingham. FOOTE.

FASHION in ev'ry thing bears fovereign sway,
And words and periwigs have both their day;
Each have their purlieus too, are modifh each,
In ftated diftricts, wigs as well as fpeech.
The Tyburn fcratch, thick club, and Temple tie;
The parfon's feather-top, frizz'd broad and high;
The coachman's cauliflow'r, built tiers on tiers;
Than great St. George's or St. James's ftyles
Differ not more from bags and brigadiers,
From the broad dialect of Broad St. Giles.
What is Bon Ton - O, damme !” cries a buck,
Half drunk-" ask me, my dear, and you're in
"luck:

"Bon Ton 's to fwear, break windows, beat the
"watch,
[catch.
"Pick up a wench, drink healths, and roar a
Keep it up! keep it up! damine, take your
fwing!
[thing !*
"Bon Ton is life, my boy; Bon Ton 's the
"Ah! I loves life, and all the joys it yields,"
Says Madam Fuffock, warm from Spitalfields.
Bon Ton 's the space 'twixt Saturday and

Monday,

And riding in a one-horse chair o' Sunday! 'Tis drinking tea, on fummer afternoons, "At Bagnigge Wells, with china and gilt spoots! 'Tis laying by our stuffs, red cloaks, and

pattens,

"To dance cortillions all in filks and fattins !"*
"Vulgar !"-cries Mifs-" Observe, in higher
"life,
[wife:
"The feather'd fpinster, and thrice-feather'd
"The Club's Bon Ton. Bon Ton's a conftant
"trade

FROM fiddling, fretting, Monfieur and Signor,
And all the dangers of the Italian thore;
From fqueaking monarchs and chromatic queens,
And Metaftafio's mix'd and mangled fcenes,
Where Fashion, and not Feeling, bears the fway,
Whilft Senfe and Nature coyly keep away,
I come.---All hail the confecrated earth *,
Whole bounteous bolom gave our Shakspeare birth!"
Gave that great master of the fcenic art
To feed the fancy, and correct the heart;
To check th' unruly paffions' wild career,
And draw from Pity's eve the tender tear;
Of Folly's fons t' explore the ample train,
The fot, the fop, the vicious, and the vain;
Hypocrify to drag from her difguife,

And Affectation hunt through ail her lyes:
Such was your bard. Who then can deem the stage,
The worthless fav'rite of an idle age?
Or judge that pleafure, with inftruction join'd,
Can foil the manners, or corrupt the mind?
Far other thoughts your generous breaft inspire,
Touch'd with a ipark of true Promethean fire:
Sure that the Arts with Commerce came to earth,
That the fame parents gave thofe fifters birth,
Cold creeping Prejudice you dar'd defpife,
And bade this Temple to the Mufes rife.
O that my tongue could utter all I feel!
Or that my pow'rs were equal to my zcal!
Plac'd by your favour, not by right divine,
Th' unworthy high-prieft of the facred nine,
No tainted incenie fhould pollute their fhrine,
Nor aught be offer'd to the public view,
But what was worthy them-and worthy you.

Of rout, fefling, ball, and mafquerade! [new;
Tis plays and puppet-fhows---'tis fomething
"'Tis fofing thousands every night at !!
"Nature it thwarts, and contradicts all reafon;
'Tis ftiff French stays, and fruit when out of
"feafon !

"A rofe, when half-a-guinea is the price;
A fet of bays fcarce bigger than ix mice:
To vifit friends---you never wish to sce;
Marriage 'twixt those who never can agree.
Old dowagers, drefs'd, painted, patch'd and
"curl'd-

This is Bon Ton, and this we call the world!* True," fays my Lord, "and thou, my only fon, "Whate'er your faults, ne'er fin againft Bon

"Ton!

"Who toils for learning at a public school,
"And digs for Greek and Latin, is a fool.
"French, French, my boy, 's the thing! jafes!

"prate, chatter!

"Trim be the mode, whipt-fyllabub the matter!
"Walk like a Frenchman; for, on English pegs,
"Moves native awkwardness with two left legs.
"Of courtly friendship form a treacherous
league,
["intrigue;
Seduce men's daughters, with their wives

Shakspeare was born in Warwickshire.

"In fightly femicircles round your nails, "Keep your teeth clean-- and grin, if small"talk fails:

}

"But never laugh, whatever jeft prevails: Nothing but nonfenfe e'er gave laughter birth, "That vulgar way the vulgar shew their mirth. "Laughter's a rude convulfion, fenfe that juftles, "Disturbs the cockles, and diftorts the mufcles. "Hearts may be black, but all should wear clean "faces;

"The graces, boy! The graces, graces, graces!" Such is Bon Ton! and walk this city through,

In building, fcribbling, fighting, and virtu,
And various other fhapes, 'twill rife to view.
To-night our Bayes, with bold but carelefs
tints,

Hits off a sketch or two, like Darly's prints. Should connoiffeurs allow his rough draughts ftrike 'em,

'Twill be Bon Ton to fee 'em, and to like 'em.

§ 88. Prologue to the Rivals ; 1775. SHERIDAN. Enter Serjeant at Law, and Attorney following, and giving a Paper.

--a vile cramp hand! I

Serj. WHAT's here ?cannot fee Without my fpectacles. Att. He means his fee. Nay, Mr. Serjeant, good Sir, try again. [Gives money. Serj. The fcrawl improves---[more] O come, 'tis pretty plain.

Hey! how's this?---Dibble!---fure it cannot be A poet's brief a poet---and a fee!

Att. Yea, Sir! tho' you, without reward, I know,

Would gladly plead the mufes caufe.--Seri. So, fo! Att. And if the fee offends, your wrath fhould

fall

On me.---Serj. Dear Dibble, no offence at all. Att. Some fons of Phoebus in the Courts we

meet--

Serj. And fifty fons of Phoebus in the Fleet! Att. Nor pleads he worse, who with a decent fprig

Of bays adorns his legal waste of wig.

Serj. Full-bottom'd heroes thus on figns unfurl A leaf of laurel in a grove of cur!! Yet tell your client that, in adverse days, This wig is warmer than a bush of bays. Att. Do you then, Sir, my client's place fupply, Profufe of robe, and prodigal of tyeDo you, with all thofe blushing pow'rs of face, And wonted bafhful hefitating grace, Rife in the court, and flourish on the cafe.

}

[Exit. Serj. For practice then fuppofe---this brief will fhew it

Me, Serjeant Woodward---counsel for the poet. Us'd to the ground---I know 'tis hard to deal With this dread Court, from whence there's no

appeal;

No tricking here to blunt the edge of law,
Or, damn'd in equity---efcape by flaw:
But judgment given---your fentence must remain;
No writ of error lies---to Drury-lane!

Yet when fo kind you feem, 'tis paft difpute
We gain fome favour, if not costs of fuit.
No fpleen is here! I fee no hoarded fury;
I think I never fac'd a milder jury! [portation,
Sad elfe our plight1---where frowns are tranf-
A hifs the gallows---and a groan damnation ↓
But fuch the public candour, without fear
My client waves all right of challenge here.
No newfman from our feffion is difmifs'd,
Nor wit nor critic we fcratch off the lift;
His faults can never hurt another's eafe,
His crime at worft---a bad attempt to please:
Thus, all refpecting he appeals to all,
And by the general voice will stand or fall.

$ 89. Epilogue to the fame ; 1775. SHERIDAN. LADIES, for you---I heard our poet fay,

He'd try to coax fome moral from his play: One moral's plain,' cried I, without more fuss; Man's focial happiness all refts on us:

Love gilds the fcene, and women guide the plot.
Thro' all the drama, whether damn'd or not,
From ev'ry rank obedience is our due :
D'ye doubt ?---the world's great stage shall
prove it true.'

The cit, well skill'd to fhun domeftic ftrife, Will fup abroad; but firft---he 'll ask his wife. John Trot, his friend, for once will do the fame; But then---he 'll just fep home to tell his dame. The furly fquire at noon refolves to rule, And half the day---Zounds! Madam is a fool! Convinc'd at night, the vanquifh'd victor fays, Ah, Kate! you women have fuch coaxing ways! The jolly toper chides each tardy blade, Till reeling Bacchus calls on love for aid: Then with each toaft he fees fair bumpers fwim, And kiffes Chloe on the fparkling brim !

Nay, I have heard that ftatefmen, great andwife, Will fometimes counsel with a lady's eyes; The fervile fuitors watch her various face, She fmiles preferment---or the frowns difgrace,

Curtfies a penfion here---there nods a place.

Nor with lefs awe, in fcenes of humbler life, Is view'd the mistress, or is beard the wife. The pooreft peafant of the poorest soil, The child of poverty, and heir to toil, Early from radiant love's impartial light, Steals one fmall fpark to cheer his world of night; Dear spark! that oft, thro' winter's chilling woes, Is all the warmth his little cottage knows!

The wand'ring tar---who not for years has
prefs'd

The widow'd partner of his day of rest,
On the cold deck, far from her arms remov'd,
Still hums the ditty which his Susan lov'd :
And while around the cadence rude is blown,
The boatfwain whiftles in a softer tone.

The foldier, fairly proud of wounds and toil, Pants for the triumph of his Nancy's fmile;

But

But ere the battle, fhould he lift her cries,
The lover trembles---and the hero dies!
That heart, by war and honour fteel'd to fear,
Droops an a figh, and fickens at a tear!

But ye more cautious---ye nice-judging few,
Who give to beauty only beauty's due,
Tho' friends to Love---ye view with deep regret
Our conquefts marr'd, and triumphs incomplete,
Till polish'd wit more lafting charms difclofe,
And judgment fix the darts which beauty throws.
In female breafts did fenfe and merit rule,
The lover's mind would afk no other school;
Sham'd into fenfe---the fcholars of our eyes,
Our beaux from gallantry would foon be wife;
Would gladly light, their homage to improve,
The lamp of knowledge at the torch of love!

§ 90. Epilogue to Edward and Eleonora; 1775. SHERIDAN. YE wedded critics, who have mark'd our tale, How fay you? does our plot in nature fail? May we not boast that many a modern wife Woud lofe her own to fave a husband's life? Would gladly die-----O monftrous and ill-bred! There's not a husband here but shakes his head! But you, my gall'ry friends+---come, what fay you? [too! Your wives are with you---fhake their noddles Above there---hey, lads ‡ ↑ You ́ll not treat us fo--

You fide with us?--They grin, and grumble, No! Yet hold---tho' thefe plain folks traduce their doxies,

Sure we have Eleonoras in the boxes!

Inhuman beaux !---why that ill-natur'd fneer? What, then, you think there's no fuch ideot here ?

There are, no doubt, tho' rare to find, I know, Who could lofe hufbands, yet furvive the blow; Two years a wife---view Lefbia, fobbing, crying; Her chair is waiting---but my Lord is dying: Preparing for the worst, fhe tells her maid To countermand her points, and new brocade; "For, O! if I should lose the best of men, "Heaven knows when I fhall fee the Club again. "So, Lappet, fhould he die while I am out, "You'll fend for me at Lady Bafto's rout; "The doctor faid he might hold out till three, "But I ha'n't fpirits for the Coterie !"

Now change the fcene---place madam in the
fever,

My lord for comfort at the Sçavoir Vivre;
His valet enters---thakes his meagre head---
Chapeau, what news?". "..." Ah! Sir, me lady

"dead!"

"The deuce !---'tis fudden, faith---but four days " fick !----

"Well, feven's the main---(poor Kate!)---ele "ven's a nick."

But hence reflections on a fenfeless train, Who, loft to real joy, should feel no pain;

* To the Pit.

'Mongft Britain's daughters ftill can Hymen's light Reveal the love which charm'd your hearts tonight;

Shew beauteous martyrs, who would each prefer, To die for him, who long has liv'd for ber; Domestic heroines, who with fondeft care Outsmile a husband's griefs, or claim a share; Search where the rankling evils moft abound, And heal with cherub-lip the poifon'd wound. Nay, fuch bright virtues in a royal mind Were not alone to Edward's days confin'd; Still, ftill they beam around Britannia's throne, And grace an Eleonora of our own.

$91. Prologue to Braganza. MURPHY. WHILE, in thefe days of fentiment and grace, Poor comedy in tears refigns her place, And, fmit with novels full of maxims crude, She that was frolic once now turns a prude; To her great end the tragic mufe afpires, At Athens born, and faithful to her fires. The comic fifter, in hysteric fit, You'd fwear has loft all memory of wit; Folly for her may now exult on high; Feather'd by ridicule, no arrows fly; But, if you are diftrefs'd, the 's fure to cry. She that could jig, and nick-name all heaven's

creatures,

With forrows not her own deforms her features;
With stale reflections keeps a conftant pother;
Greece gave her one face, and the makes another---
So very pious, and fo full of woe,
You well may bid her, "To a nunnery go.”

Not fo Melpomene; to nature true,
She holds her own great principle in view.
She, from the firft, when men her pow'r confefs'd,
When grief and terror feiz'd the tortur'd breaft,
She made, to ftrike her moral to the mind,
The ftage the great tribunal of mankind.

Hither the worthies of each clime the draws, Who founded states, or refcued dying laws; Who, in bafe times, a life of glory led, And for their country who have toil'd or bled, Hither they come---again they breathe, they live; And virtue's meed thro' every age receive.

Hither the murd'rer comes, with ghastly mien, And the fiend confcience hunts him o'er the fcene. None are exempted; all must re-appear, And even kings attend for judgment here; Here find the day, when they their pow'r abuse, Is a fcene furnish'd to the tragic mufe.

Such is her art; weaken'd perhaps at length, And, while the aims at beauty, lofing ftrength. Oh! when, refuming all her native rage, Shall her true energy alarm the stage?

This night a bard (our hopes may rife too high--

'Tis yours to judge, 'tis yours the cause to try)--This night a bard, as yet unknown to fame, Once more, we hope, will roufe a genuine flame,

His no French play---tame, polifh'd, dull by rule: Olympus fhakes!---that omen all fecures; Vigorous he comes, and warm from Shakipeare's May ev'ry joy you give be tenfold yours!

school.

Infpir'd by him, he fhews in glaring light
A nation ftruggling with tyrannic might;
Oppreffion rushing on with giant ftrides;
A deep confpiracy, which virtue guides;
Heroes, for freedom who dare ftrike the blow,
A tablature of honour, guilt, and woe.
If on his canvas nature's colours thine,

$93. Prologue to the Capuchin; 1776. Spoken
by Mr. Foote.
COLMAN.

CRITICS, whene'er I write, in ev'ry scene
Discover meanings that I never mean;
Whatever character I bring to view,

You'll praife the hand that trac'd the juft defign. I am the father of the child, 'tis true,

}

But ev'ry babe his christ'ning owes to you. "The comic poet's eye, with humorous air, § 92. Epilogue by Mr. Garrick, on quitting the Glancing from Watling-ftreet to GrosvenorStage, June 1776. GARRICK.

A VETERAN fee! whofe laft act on the ftage
Entreats your fmiles for fickness and forage;
Their caufe I plead---plead it in heart and mind;
A fellow-feeling makes one wondrous kind:
Might we but hope your zeal would not be lefs,
When I am gone, to patronize diftrefs,

That hope obtain'd the with 'd-for end fecures,
To foothe their cares who oft have lighten'd

Shall they who govern fortune, cringe and court her,

[gore;

❝fquare,

"He bodies forth a light ideal train,
"And turns to fhape the phantoms of his brain :
"Meanwhile your fancy takes more partial aim,
"And gives to airy nothing place and name."
A limner once, in want of work, went down
To try his fortune in a country town:
The waggon, loaded with his goods, convey'd
To the fame pot his whole dead stock in trade,
Originals and copics-ready made.

}

To the new painter all the country came;
Lord, lady, doctor, lawyer, 'fquire, and dame,
The humble curate, and the curate's wife,
All afk a likenefs---taken from the life.
Behold the canvas on the cafel stand!
A pallet grac'd his thumb, and brushes fill'd his
hand:

}

But, ah! the painter's skill they little knew,
Nor by what curious rules of art he drew.
The waggon-load unpack'd, his ancient store
Furnish'd for each a face drawn long before,
God, dame, or hero, of the days of yore.
The Cafars, with a little alteration,
Were turn'd into the mayor and corporation
To reprefent the rector and the dean,
He added wigs and bands to Prince Eugene:
The ladies, blooming all, deriv'd their faces
From Charles the Second's beauties, and the Graces.
Thus done, and circled in a fplendid frame,
His works adorn'd each room, and spread his fame;
The countrymen of tafte admire and ftare:
My lady's leer Sir John's majestic air!
Mifs Dimple's languifh too!---extremely.
"like!

Thirft in their age, and call in vain for porter?
Like Belifarius, tax the pitying ftreet
With date obolum to all they meet?
Sha'n't I, who oft have drench'd my hands in
Stabb'd many, poifon'd fome, beheaded more;
Who numbers flew in battle on this plain---
Sha'n't I, the flayer, try to feed the flain ?
Brother to all, with equal love I view
The men who flew me, and the men I flew :
I muft, I will this happy project feize,
That thofe too old to die may live with eafe.
Suppofe the babes I fmother'd in the Tow'r,
By chance, or ficknefs, lofe their acting pow'r,
Shall they, once princes, worfe than all be ferv'd---"
In childhood murder'd, and, when murder'd,"
ftarv'd?

And in the ftyle and manner of Vandyke! "O, this new limner's pictures always ftrike! "Old, young; fat, lean; dark, fair; or big or little,

Matrons half ravish'd for your recreation,
age thould never want fome confolation.
Can I, young Hamlet once, to nature loft,
Behold, O horrible! my father's ghoft,
With grifly beard, pale cheek, ftalk up and down,"
And he, the Royal Dane, want half a crown?
Forbid it, ladies! gentlemen, forbid it!
Give joy to age, and let 'em fay---You did it.
To you, ye gods! I make my last appeal;
You have a right to judge, as well as feel;
Will your high wifdoms to our scheme incline,
That kings, queens, heroes, gods, and ghofts may
dine?

The very man, or woman, to a tittle!"
Foote and this limner in fome points agree,
And thus, good Sirs, you often deal by me.
When, by the royal licence and protection,
I fhew my fmall academy's collection,
The connoiffeur takes out his glafs to pry
Into each picture with a curious eye;
Turns topfy-turvy my whole compofition,
And makes mere portraits all my exhibition.

But ftill the copy's fo exact, you fay;
Alas! the fame thing happens ev'ry day!
How many a modifh well-drefs'd fop you meet,
Exactly fuits his fhape in Monmouth-street;
In Yorkshire warehouses and Cranbourn-alley,
'Tis wonderful how fhoes and feer will tally!
As honeft Crifpin understands his trade,
On the true human fcale his lafts are made,
The measure of each fex and age to hit,
And ev'ry fhoe, as if bespoke, will fit.
My warehouse thus, for nature's walks, fupplies
Shoes for all ranks, and lafts of ev'ry fize.

Sit ftill, and try them, Sirs; I long to pleafe ye
How well they fit! I hope you find them eafy:
If the fhoe pinches, fwear you cannot bear it :
But if well made-I with you health to wear it!

$94. Prologue to the Contract; 1776. Written and
intended to have been spoken by Mr. Foote.
THE Contract is it call'd:---I cannot fay
I much admire the title of his play:
Contracts, they tell me, have been fraught with
evil,

Since Fauftus fign'd his contract with---the Devil.
Yet, fpite of Satan, all men with to make 'em,
Tho' nineteen out of twenty love to break 'em.
Butchers and meal-men,brewers, agents, factors,.
Pimps, poets, place-men, managers and actors,
Bawds, bankrupts, booksellers, are all contrac-

tors;

All lye, and fwear, and cheat, t' increase their
ftore,

Then die, and go-where Fauftus went before.
While thus o'er all we fee th' infection fpread,
No wonder it should taint the marriage-bed:
Each wife forgets, each husband breaks his vow;
For what are contracts, what is wedlock, now
Garrick, who long was married-to the town,
At length, a fashionable hulband grown,
Forfakes his fpouse, bafe man! for, truth to tell,
She lov'd her own dear Davy wondrous well;
Though now he flights her, breaks from her by
force,

And nought will ferve him but a full divorce.
But, be the fault in women or in men,
Thanks to our laws! they all may---wed again:
Her faithlefs fav'rite gone, the lady's free
To choose another, and may finile---on me;
To the Lame Lover may refign her charms,
And, tho' a cripple, take me to her arms.
I'll promife to be conftant, kind, polite,
And pay my duty---ev'ry other night :
My dear lov'd rib I never will abandon,
But ftand by her, whilst I've one leg to ftand on!
I'll make a folemn contract, play or pay,
And hope we shall not part this many a day.

Our brother fcribbler too, I greatly fear,
Has made a foolish kind of contract here;
He promises, and ten to one you 're bit,
To furnish fable, fentiment, and wit:

But you're the House of Peers,and may reverse it.

$95. Prologue to the Spleen, or Iflington Spar
Spoken by Mr. King; 1776. GARRICK.
THOUGH prologues now as blackberries are
And, like them, maukifh too---nineteen in twenty;
plenty,
And prologue ! prologue! ftill your honours roar;
Yet you will have them when their date is o'er,
Till fome fuch difmal phiz as mine comes on---.
Ladies and gentlemen, indeed there's none;
The prologue, author, fpeaker---all are dead
and gone.

Thefe reafons have fome weight, and stop the rout;
You clap---1 fmile---and thus go cringing out:
While living, call me; for your pleasure ufe me:
Should I tip off---I hope you'll then excufe me.
Shall I a fcene, I lately heard, rehearse?
So much for Prologues---and now enter Farce:
Two female wits, with each a macaroni:
The place, the Park; the dramatis perfonæ,
"Pr'ythee, Lord Flimfey, what's this thing at
"Drury---
"This Spleen?"-

"'Tis low, damn'd low,
"Ma'am, I'll affure you."
"Ceftrat, my Lor !--- We now feel no fuch evil,
Never are haunted with a vapourish devil.
In pleature's round we whirl it from the brain:
"You rattle it away with, Seven 's the main !
"In upper life we have no fpleen or gall;
"And as for other life---it is no life at all."
He hopes that lower life may make you laugh.
What can I fay in our poor bard's behalf?
May not a trader, who fhall bufinefs drop,
Quitting at once his old-accuftom'd shop,
In fancy through a courfe of pleasures run,
Retiring to his feat at flington,

Be at his villa miferably dull?
And, of falfe dreams of happinets brim-full,

Would not he Iflington's fine air forego,
Could he again be chok'd in Butcher-row;
Supals'd by none---but that of clipping measure?
In thewing cloth renew his former pleasure,
The mafter of this thop, too, feeks repofe,
Selis off his ftock in trade, his verfe and profe,
His daggers, bufkins, thunder, lightning, and
old clothes

Will he in rural shades find ease and quiet?
O no! he'll figh for Drury, and seek peace in riot.
To low and middle life the 's now confin'd:
Nature of yore prevail'd thro' human kind;
'Twas there the choiceft dramatifts have fought

her,

'Twas there Moliere, there Jonfon, Shakspeare
caught her.

Then let our gleaning bard with safety come,
To pick up ftraws dropt from their harvest home.

* Alluding to Mr. Garrick's retiring from the Stage.

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