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UNIPZICITY

CARVA

PROLOGUE.

Spoken, at the opening of the new house,

by Mr. BETTERTON.

The husbandman in vain renews his toil
To cultivate each year a hungry soil;
And fondly hopes for rich and generous fruit,
When what should feed the tree devours the root;
Th' unladen boughs, he sees, bode certain dearth,
Unless transplanted to more kindly earth.
So the poor husbands of the stage, who found ·
Their labours lost upon ungrateful ground,
This last and only remedy have proved,
And hope new fruit from ancient stocks removed.
Well may they hope, when you so kindly aid,
Well plant a soil which you so rich have made.
As Nature gave the world to man's first age,
So from your bounty, we receive this stage;
The freedom man was born to, you've restored,
And to our world such plenty you afford,
It seems like Eden, fruitful of its own accord.
But since in Paradise frail Alesh gave way,
And when but two were made, both went astray;
Forbear your wonder, and the fault forgive,
If in our larger family we grieve
One falling Adam and one tempted Eve.
We who remain would gratefully repay
What our endeavours can, and bring this day
The first-fruit offering of a virgin play.
We hope there's something that may please each taste,
And though of homely fare we make the feast,
Yet you will find variety at least.

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There's humour, which for cheerful friends we got,
And for the thinking party there's a plot.
We've something, too, to gratify ill-nature,
(If there be any here), and that is satire.
Though satire scarce dares grin, 'tis grown so mild
Or only shows its teeth, as if it smiled.
As asses thistles, poets mumble wit,
And dare not bite for fear of being bit:
They hold their pens, as swords are held by fools,
And are afraid to use their own edge-tools.
Since the Plain-Dealer's scenes of manly rage,
Not one has dared to lash this crying age.
This time, the poet owns the bold essay,
Yet hopes there's no ill-manners in his play ;
And he declares, by me, he has designed
Affront to none, but frankly speaks his mind.
And should th' ensuing scenes not chance to hit,
He offers but this one excuse, 'twas writ
Before your late encouragement of wit.

EPILOGUE.

Spoken, at the opening of the new house,

by Mrs. BRACEGIRDLE.

SURE Providence at first designed this place
To be the player's refuge in distress;
For still in every storm they all run hither,
As to a shed that shields 'em from the weather.
But thinking of this change which last befel us,
It's like what I have heard our poets tell us :
For when behind our scenes their suits are pleading,
To help their love, sometimes they show their reading;

REESE LIDRiit EPILOGUE And, wanting ready cash to pay for hearts, They top their learning on us, and their parts. Once of philosophers they told us stories, Whom, as I think, they called-Py- Pythagories, I'm sure 'tis some such Latin name they give 'em, And we, who know no better, must believe 'em. Now to these men, say they, such souls were given, That after death ne'er went to hell nor heaven, But lived, I know not how, in beasts; and then When many years were past, in men again. Methinks, we players resemble such a soul, That does from bodies, we from houses stroll. Thus Aristotle's soul, of old that was, May now be damned to animate an ass, Or in this very house, for ought we know, Is doing painful penance in some beau; And thus our audience, which did once resort To shining theatres to see our sport, Now find us tossed into a tennis-court. These walls but t'other day were filled with noise Of roaring gamesters and your dam’me boys; Then bounding balls and rackets they encompast, And now they're filled with jests, and flights, and

bombast! I vow, I don't much like this transmigration, Strolling from place to place by circulation; Grant heaven, we don't return to our first station ! I know not what these think, but for my part I can't reflect without an aching heart, How we should end in our original, a cart. But we can't fear, since you're so good to save us, That you have only set us up, to leave us. Thus from the past we hope for future grace, I beg itAnd some here know I have a begging face. Then pray continue this your

kind behaviour, For a clear stage won't do, without your

favour.

OF THE

UITIVDECITY

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

MEN.

SIR SAMPSON LEGEND, father to Valentine and Ben, Mr. Underhill. - VALENTINE, fallen under his father's displeasure by his expensive way of living, in love with Mr. Betterton.

Mr.
Angelica,
SCANDAL, his friend, a free speaker,

Mr. Smith.
Tartle, a half-witted beau, vain of his amours

, yet }Mr. Bowman. valuing himself for secrecy, Ben, Sir Sampson's younger son, half home pred } Mr. Dogget.

, FORESIGHT, an illiterate old fellow, peevish and positive, superstitious, and pretending to

Mr. Sanford. understand astrology, palmistry, physiognomy,

omens, dreams, etc; uncle to Angelica,. - JEREMY, servant to Valentine,

Mr. Bowen, TRAPLAND, a scrivener,

Mr. Triffusis. BUCKRAM, a lawyer,

Mr. Freeman.

.

.

V WOMEN.

a }

ANGELICA, ņiece to Foresight, of a considerable

Mrs. Bracegirdle. fortune in her own hands, Mrs. FORESIGHT, second wife to Foresight,

Mrs. Bowman. MRS. Frail, sister to -Mrs. Foresight, a woman of

| Mrs. Barry. the town,

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Miss
Powe, daughter to Foresight by a former wife

, } Mrs. Aylif.

a silly, NURSE to Miss, JENNY,

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A STEWARD, OFFICERS, SAILORS, AND SEVERAL SERVANTS.

The Scene in London.

14

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VAL. Jeremy
JERE. Sir?
VAL. Here, take away. I'll walk a turn and digest what I

have read. JERE. You'll grow devilish fat upon this paper diet. [Aside,

and taking away the books.] ] VAL. And d’ye hear, go you to breakfast. There's a page

doubled down in Epictetus, that is a feast for an emperor. JERE. Was Epictetus a real cook, or did he only write receipts ? VAL. Read, read, sirrah, and refine your appetite; learn to live

upon instruction ; feast your mind and mortify your flesh; read, and take your nourishment in at your eyes; shut up your mouth, and chew the cud of understanding. So Epictetus

advises. JERE. O Lord! I have heard much of him, when I waited

upon a gentleman at Cambridge. Pray what was that

Epictetus? VAL. A very rich man.-Not worth a groat. JERE. Humph, and so he has made a very fine feast, where

there is nothing to be eaten?

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