WHENE'ER the brave, the gen'rous, and
the just,

Whene'er the patriot sinks to silent dust,
The tragic muse attends the mournful hearse,
And pays her tribute of immortal verse.
Inspir'd by noble deeds, she seeks the plain,
In honor's cause where mighty chiefs are slain;
And bathes with tears the sod that wraps the
And bids the turf lie lightly on his head. [dead,
Nor thus content, she opens death's cold
womb,

And bursts the cerements of the awful tomb,
To cast him up again-to bid him live,
And to the scene his form and presence give,
Thus once-fam'd Essex at her voice appears,
Emerging from the sacred dust of years.

Nordeem it much, that we retrace, to-night,
A tale to which you 've listen'd with delight.
How oft, of yore, to learned Athens' eyes
Did new Electras and new Phædras rise!
In France, how many Theban monarchs groan
For Laius' blood, and incest not their own!
When there new Iphigenias raise the sigh,
Fresh drops of pity gush from ev'ry eye.
On the same theme though rival wits appear,
The heart still finds the sympathetic tear.

If there soft Pity pour her plenteous store, For fabled kings, and empires now no more; Much more should you, from freedom's glorious plan,

Who still inherit all the rights of man;

Much more should you with kindred sorrows glow

For your own chiefs, your own domestic woe; Much more a British story should impart The warmest feelings to each British heart.

$61. Prologue to the School for Lovers. 1762. Written and spoken by Mr. GARRICK. SUCCESS makes people vain-the maxim's We all confess it, and not over-new. [rue,

Shall thrust his saucy flambeau in your face. Not so our bard-though twice your kind applause

Has, on this fickle spot, espous'd his cause;
He owns with gratitude th' obliging debt;
Has twice been favor'd, and is modest yet.
Your giant wits, like those of old, may climb
Olympus-high, and step o'er space and time;
May stride, with seven-league boots, from
shore to shore,

And, nobly by transgressing, charm ye more. Alas! our author dares not laugh at schoolsPlain sense confines his humbler muse to rules: Heshifts no scene-But here I stopt him short— "Not change your scenes?" said I—" I'm sorry for 't :

My constant friends above, around, below, Have English tastes, and love both change and show :

Without such aid even Shakspeare would be flat,
Our crowded pantomimes are proofs of that.
What eager transport starts from ev'ry eye,
When pulleys rattle, and our genii fly!
When tin cascades, like falling waters, gleam,
Or through the canvas bursts the real stream;
While thirsty Islington laments, in vain,
Half her New-river roll'd to Drury-lane!
Lord, sir!" said I," for gallery, boxes, pit,
I'll back my Harlequin against your wit."
Yet still the author, anxious for his play,
Shook his wise head-" What will the critics
say?"

"As usual, sir-abuse you all they can !"
"And what the ladies?"-" He's a charming

AN old trite proverb let me quoteAs is your cloth, so cut your coat. To suit our author, and his farce, Short let me be, for wit is scarce ; Nor would I show it, had I any : The reasons why are strong and many. Should I have wit, the piece has none; A flash in pan with empty gun, The piece is sure to be undone. A tavern with a gaudy sign,

Whose bush is better than the wine, May cheat you once--Will that device, Neat as imported, cheat you twice?

BAYES.

'Tis wrong to raise your expectations:
Poets, be dull in dedications!
Dulness in these to wit prefer-
But there indeed, you seldom err.
In prologues, prefaces, be flat!
A silver button spoils your hat.
A threadbare coat might jokes escape,
Did not the blockheads lace the cape.
A case in point to this before ye;
Allow me, pray, to tell a story.

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 smacking lip-
"Here, bring this boil'd and roasted, pray-"
Enter potatoes, dress'd each way.
All star'd and rose, the house forsook,
And damn'd the dinner-kick'd the cook.
My landlord found, poor Patrick Kelly!
There was no joking with the belly.

These facts laid down, then thus I reason,
Wit in a prologue's out of season.
Yet still will you for jokes sit watching,
Like Cock-lane folks for Fanny's scratching.
And here my simile's so fit,
For prologues are but ghosts of wit;
Which mean to show their art and skill,
And scratch you to their author's will.
In short, for reasons great and small,
"Tis better to have none at all.
Prologues and ghosts!-a paltry trade-
So let 'em both at once be laid!
Say but the word—give your commands,
We'll tie our prologue-monger's hands:
Confine these culprits, bind 'em tight,
[Holding up his hands.
* Nor girl can scratch, nor fools can write.

§ 63. Epilogue to Elvira. 1763. GARRICK.

LADIES and gentlemen-'tis so ill-bredWe have no epilogue, because I'm dead; For he, our bard, with phrensy-rolling eye, Swears you shan't laugh, when he has made you cry:

At which I gave his sleeve a gentle pull, Suppose they should not cry, and should be dull; In such a case, 'twould surely do no harm; A little lively nonsense taken warm, On critic stomachs delicate and queasy, 'Twill even make a heavy meal sit easy. The town hates epilogues-It is not true, I answer'd that for you-and you-and you[To Pit, Boxes, and First Gallery. They call for epilogues and hornpipes too. [To the upper Gallery. Madam, the critics say to you they're civil, Here, if they have 'em not, they 'Il play the devil

Out of this house, sir: and to you alone, They'll smile, cry Bravo! Charming !-Here

they groan;

A single critic will not frown, look big, Harmless and pliant as a single twig:

I speak of foreign ladies, not our own.
Will you permit, good sirs, these gloomy folk
To give all tragedy without one joke?
They gravely tell us, Tragedy's design'd
To purge the passions, purify the mind:
Towhich I say, to strike those block heads dumb,
With physic always give a sugar-plum.
I love these sugar-plums in prose or rhymes:
No one is merrier than myself sometimes;
Yet I, poor I, with tears and constant moan,
Am melted down almost to skin and bone:
This night, in sighs and sobs I drew my breath;
Love, marriage, treason, prison, poison, death,
Were scarce sufficient to complete my fate;
Two children were thrown in to make up
weight.

With all these suff'rings, is it not provoking,
To be denied at last a little joking? [break'em:
If they will make new laws, for mirth's sake
Roar out for epilogues, and let me speak 'em.

§ 64. Mr. Foote's Address to the Public, after a Prosecution against him for a Libel. 1764. FOOTE.

HUSH! let me search before I speak aloudIs no informer skulking in the crowd, With art laconic noting all that's said, Malice at heart, indictments in his head; Prepar'd to level all the legal war, And rouse the clamorous legions of the bar? Is there none such ?-Not one :-then, entre

nous,

I will a tale unfold, though strange, yet true; The application must be made by you.

At Athens once, fair queen of arms and arts, There dwelt a citizen of moderate parts* ; Precise his manner, and demure his looks, His mind unletter'd, though he dealt in books; Amorous, though old; though dull, lov'd re partee;

And penn'd a paragraph most daintily:
He aim'd at purity in all he said,
And never once omitted eth or ed;
In hath, and doth, was rarely known to fail,
Himself the hero of each little tale;
With wits and lords this man was much de
lighted,
[knighted.
And once (it has been said) was near being
One Aristophanes (a wicked wit,
Who never heeded grace in what he writ)

* George Faulkner, bookseller.

Had mark'd the manners of this Grecian sage,
And, thinking him a subject for the stage,
Had from the lumber cull'd, with curious care,
His voice, his looks, his gesture, gait, and air,
His affectation, consequence, and mien,
And boldly launch'd him on the comic scene.
Loud peals of plaudits through the circle ran,
All felt the satire, for all knew the man.

Then Peter-Petros was his classic name,
Fearing the loss of dignity and fame,
To a grave lawyer in a hurry flies,
Opens his purse, and begs his best advice.
The fee secur'd, the lawyer strokes his band,
"The case 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 mummer know
A Grecian constable took up the poet, [it."
Restrain'd the sallies of his laughing muse,
Call'd harmless humour scandalous abuse:
The bard appeal'd from this severe decree,
Th' indulgent public set the pris'ner free:
Greece was to him what Dublin is to me.

Preserve the Richmond!- Give her, boys,

three cheers! [Three huzzas behind. Queen Mab, our Shakspeare says, and I believe him, [him: In sleep haunts each vain mortal, to deceive As in her hazel-nut she lightly trips, By turns, o'er eyes, ears, fingers, nose, and lips, Each quicken'd sense such sweet enchantment seizes,

We hear, see, smell, taste, touch-whate'er she pleases. [see, Look round this house, and various proofs you'll Strong glaring proofs, that Mab has been with

But, crack! she went, before that I could ask it; She in her stage-I, Falstaff, in the basket: She wav'd her wand, then burst in fits of laughter,

To see me rolling, bounding, tumbling after:
And I laugh'd too-Could you of laughing fail,
To see a minnow towing of a whale?
At last we rested on a hill hard by,
With a sweet vale to feast the glutton eye-
"I'll show you more," she said, “to charm
and move us;"
[drove us :
And to the gardens, quick as thought, she
Then pointing to the shade-" There, there
they are,

Of this most happy isle the happiest pair!"
O, may those virtuous raptures never cease,
Nor public cares disturb their private peace;
She sigh'd-and like the lightning was she seen
To drive her chariot o'er this fav'rite green;
Straight to this spot-where she infus'd such
things

Might turn the heads of twenty playhouse kings.
But fear dispersing all my golden dream,
And I just entering on this fairy-scheme;
With wild surprise, I cast my eyes about,
Delusion ends and now I wake to doubt:

O, may the dream be realis'd by you!
Your smiles or frowns can make this false or

true.

§ 66. Prologue to Much ado about Nothing, acted by Command of their Majesties, 1765. Written and spoken by Mr. GARRICK, being his first Appearance after his Return from Italy.

WITH doubt, joy, apprehension, almost dumb,

To face this awful court, once more I come :
Lest Benedick should suffer by my fear,
Before he enters, I myself am here.
I'm told (what flattery to my heart!) that you
Have wish'd to see me; nay, have press'd it
Alas! 'twill prove another Much ado. [too :
I, like a boy who long has truant play'd,
No lessons got, no exercises made,
On bloody Monday takes his fearful stand,
And often eyes the birchen-sceptr'd hand.
'Tis twice twelve years since first the stage I
trod,

Enjoy'd your smiles, and felt the critic's rod :
A very nine-pin I, my stage life through;
Knock'd down by wits, set up again by you.
In four-and-twenty years the spirits cool;
Is it not long enough to play the fool?
To prove it is, permit me to repeat
What late I heard in passing thro' the street:
A youth of parts, with ladies by his side,
Thus cock'd his glass, and through it shot my
pride:

"Tis he, by Jove! grown quite a clumsy fellow,

He's fit for nothing-but a Punchinello !"
O yes, for comic scenes, Sir John-no further:
He's much too fat-for battles, rapes, and
murther!"

Worn in the service, you my faults will spare, And make allowance for the wear and tear. The Chelsea pensioner, who, rich in scars, Fights o'er, in prattle, all his former wars; Tho' past the service, may the young ones teach To march-present-to fire-and mount the breach. [grieve Should the drum beat to arms, at first he'll For wooden leg, lost eye, and armless sleeve; Then cocks his hat, looks fierce, and swells his chest: [best." "'Tis for my king; and, zounds! I'll do my

§ 67. Prologue to the Clandestine Marriage. 1766. GARRICK.

POETS and Painters, who from nature draw Their best and richest stores, have made this law,

That each should neighbourly assist his brother,
And steal with decency from one another.
To-night, your matchless Hogarth gives the
thought,

Which from the canvas to the stage is brought;
And who so fit to warm the poet's mind,
As he who pictur'd morals and mankind?
But not the same their characters and scenes;
Both labour for one end by diff'rent means;
Each, as it suits him, takes a sep'rate road,
Their one great object, marriage à-la-mode;
Where titles deign with cits to have and hold,
And change rich blood for more substantial
gold!

And honour'd trade from int'rest turns aside,
To hazard happiness for titled pride.
The painter dead, yet still he charms the eye;
While England lives, his fame can never die :
But he who struts his hour upon the stage,
Can scarce extend his fame for half an age;
Nor pen nor pencil can the actor save—
The art and artist share one common grave.
O let me drop one tributary tear,
[bier *!
On poor Jack Falstaff's grave and Juliet's
You to their worth must testimony give;
'Tis in your hearts alone their fame can live;
Still as the scenes of life will shift away,
The strong impressions of their art decay.
Your children cannot feel what you have known;
They'll boast of Quins and Cibbers of their own.
The greatest glory of our happy few,
Is to be felt, and be approv'd by you.

§ 68. Prologue to the Tailors. 1767.

GARRICK. THIS night we add some heroes to our store, Who never were as heroes seen before; No blust'ring Romans, Trojans, Greeks, shall rage;

[stage, No knights arm'd cap-à-pie, shall crowd our Nor shall our Henries, Edwards, take the field, Opposing sword to sword, and shield to shield: With other instruments our troop appears; Needles to thimbles shall, and shears to shears;

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

With parchment gorgets and in buckram arm'd,
Cold-blooded tailors are to heroes warm'd,
And slip-shod slide to war-No lions' glare,
No eye-balls flashing fire shall make you stare;
Each outside shall belie the stuff within:
A Roman spirit in each tailor's skin-
A tailor-legg'd Pompey, Cassius, shall you see,
And the ninth part of Brutus strut in me;
What though no swords we draw, no daggers
Yet can our warriors a quietus make [shake?
With a bare bodkin.-Now be dumb, ye railers,
And never, but in honour, call out tailors!
But these are heroes tragic, you will cry;
O, very tragic! and I'll tell you why-
Should female artists with the male combine,
And mantua-makers with the tailors join;
Should all, too proud to work, their trades give
o'er,

Not to be sooth'd again by six-pence more; What horrors would ensue !First you, ye beaux,

At once lose all existence 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 street:
Beauty is weak, and passion bold and strong-
O then-but modesty restrains my tongue.
May this night's bard a skilful tailor be,
And like a well-made coat his tragedy:
Though close, yet easy; decent, but not dull:
Short, but not scanty; without buckram, fall.

$69. Epilogue to the English Merchant. 1707. GARKICK.

Enter Lady Alton [Mrs. Abington] in a pas-
sion; Spatter Mr. King] following.
L. Alton. I'LL hear no more, thou wretch!
Spatter. Attend to reason!

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

treason!

Hear reason, 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? [you.

Spatter. Humbly to serve the tuneful nine in
L. Alton. I renounce such things; [strings:
Not Phoebus now, but vengeance, sweeps the
My mind is discord all! I scorn, detest
All human kind-you more than all the rest.
Spatter. I humbly thank you, Ma'am-but
weigh the matter. [you, Spatter!
L. Alton. I won't hear reason! and I hate
Myself, and ev'ry thing.

Spatter. That I deny;
You love a little mischief, so do I;
And mischief I have for you.

L. Alton. How? where? when?
Will you stab Falbridge?

Spatter. Yes, Ma'am-with my pen. L. Alton. Let loose, my Spatter, till to death you've stung 'em,

That green-eyed monster, jealousy, among 'em.

ding-day,

L. Alton. And there shall be payTake my purse, Spatter !

Spatter. In an honest way.

[Gives it him.

[Smiles and takes it. L. Alton. Should my lord beat youSpatter. Let them laugh that win. For all my bruises here's gold beater's skin; [Chinking the purse. L. Alton. Nay, should he kill you! Spatter. Ma'am?

L. Allon. My kindness meant To pay your merit with a monument! Spatter. Your kindness, lady, takes away my breath: [death. We'll stop, with your good leave, on this side L. Alton. Attack Amelia, both in verse and Your wit can make a nettle of a rose. [prose,

Spalter. A stinging-nettle for his lordship's

breast:

Lady Alton alone. Thus to the winds at once my cares I scatterO, 'tis a charming rascal, this same Spatter! His precious mischief makes the storm subside! My anger, thank my stars! all rose from pride; Pride should belong to us alone of fashion; And let the mob take love, that vulgar passion. Love, pity, tenderness, are only made For Poets, Abigails, and folks in trade. Some cits about their feelings make a fuss, And some 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 pleasure like a vartuous tête-à-tête ! Doour lords justice, for I would not wrong 'em, There are not many such poor souls among 'em. Our turtles from the town will fly with speed, And I'll foretell the vulgar life they'll lead. With love and ease grown fat, they face all weather, [ther: And, farmers both, trudge arm in arm togeNow view their stock, now in their nursery prattle,

For ever with their children or their cattle. Like the dull mill-horse in one round they keep; They walk, talk, fondle, dine, and fall asleep; "Their custom always in the afternoon-" He bright as Sol, and she the chaste full moon! Wak'd with her coffee, Madam first begins, She rubs her eyes, his lordship rubs his shins;

gay?"

$70. Epilogue to Zenobia. 1768. Spoken by Mrs. Abington. GARRICK.

[She peeps through the curtain. How do all, good folks?—In tears, for you

certain;

I'll only take a peep behind the curtain:
You're all so full of tragedy and sadness,
For me to come among you would be madness!
This is no time for giggling-when you've
leisure,

Call out for me, and I'll attend your pleasure;
As soldiers hurry at the beat of drum,
Beat but your hands, that instant I will come.
[She enters upon their clapping.
This is so good! to call me out so soon—
The Comic Muse by me entreats a boon;
She call'd for Pritchard, her first maid of,
honor,

And begg'd of her to take the task upon her;
But she, I am sure you'll all be sorry for't,
Resigns her place, and soon retires from court:
To bear this loss we courtiers make a shift,
When good folks leave us, worse may have a
lift.

The Comic Muse, whose ev'ry smile is grace,
And her stage sister, with her tragic face,
Have had a quarrel-each has writ a case;
And on their friends assembled now I wait,
To give you of their diff'rence a true state.
Melpomene complains, when she appears,
For five good acts, in all her pomp of tears,
To raise your souls, and with your raptures
wing 'em,
[wring 'em-

Nay, wet your handkerchiefs, that you may
Some flippant hussey, like myself, comes in ;
Crack goes her fan, and with a giggling grin,
Hey! Presto! pass!"-all topsy-turvy see,
For "ho, ho, ho!" is chang'd to "he, he, he!"
We own'd the fault, but 'tis a fault in vogue;
'Tis theirs who call and bawl for-Epilogue;
O, shame upon you!—for the time to come,
Know better, and go miserable home.
What says our comic goddess?With re-
proaches,

She vows her sister tragedy encroaches!