And, while she's traversing her scanty room, Cries" Lord, my lord, what can I do at home ?"

In short, there's girls enough for all the fellows,
The ranting, whining, starting, and the jealous,
The Hotspurs, Romeos, Hamlets, and Othellos.
O! little do these silly people know
What dreadful trials actors undergo.
Myself, who most in harmony delight,
Am scolding here from morning until night.
Then take advice by me, ye giddy things,
Ye royal milliners, ye apron'd kings!
Young men, beware, and shun our slippery
Study arithmetic, and burn your plays; [ways,
And you, ye girls, let not our tinsel train
Enchant your eyes, and turn your madd'ning
brain:

Be timely wise; for, O! be sure of this:-
A shop, with virtue, is the height of bliss.

$53. Epilogue to the Reprisal. 1757. Spo

ken by Miss MACKLIN.

AYE-now I can with pleasure look around, Safe as I am, thank Heaven, on English ground. In a dark dungeon to be stow'd away, 'Midst roaring, thund'ring, danger, and dismay; Expos'd to fire and water, sword and bulletMight damp the heart of any virgin pullet. I dread to think what might have come to pass, Had not the British lion quell'd the Gallic ass. By Champignon a wretched victim led To cloister'd cell, or more detested bed, My days in pray'r and fasting I had spent ; As nun, or wife, alike a penitent. His gallantry, so confident and eager, Had prov'd a mess of delicate soup-meagre. To bootless longings I had fell a martyr; But Heaven be prais'd, the Frenchman caught a Tartar.

Yet soft-our author's fate you must decree; Shall he come safe to port, or sink at sea? Your sentence, sweet or bitter, soft or sore, Floats his frail bark, or runs it bump ashoreYe wits above, restrain your awful thunder; In his first cruize 'twere pity he should founder. [To the gallery. Safe from your shot, he fears no other foe, No gulf but that which horrid yawns below. [To the Pit. The bravest chiefs, e'en Hannibal and Cato, Have here been tam'd with-pippin and potatoe. Our bard embarks in a more Christian cause, He claims not mercy, but he claims applause, His pen against the hostile French is drawn, Who damus him is no Antigallican. Indulg'd with fav'ring gales and smiling skies, Hereafter he may board a richer prize. But if this welkin angry clouds deform,

storm;

[Looking round the house. And hollow groans portend th' approaching [To the gallery Should the descending show'rs of hail redouble, And these rough billows hiss, and boil, and bubble, [To the pit. He'll launch no more on such fell seas of trouble.

§ 54. Prologue to the Author. 1757. FOOTE.
SEVERE their task, who, in this critic age,
With fresh materials furnish out the stage!
Not that our fathers drain'd the comic store;
Fresh characters spring up as heretofore.
Nature with novelty does still abound;
On ev'ry side fresh follies may be found.
But then the taste of every guest to hit,
To please at once the gallery, box, and pit,
Requires, at least, no common share of wit.

Those who adorn the orb of higher life, Demand the lively rake or modish wife; Whilst they who in a lower circle move, Yawn at their wit, and slumber at their love. If light low mirth employs the comic scene, Such mirth as drives from vulgar minds the spleen,

The polish'd critic damns the wretched stuff, And cries Twill please the gall'ries well enough."

Such jarring judgements who can reconcile? Since fops will frown, where humble traders smile.

To dash the poet's ineffectual claim, And quench his thirst for universal fame, The Grecian fabulist in moral lay Has thus address'd the writers of his day: Once on a time, a son and sire, we're told, The stripling tender, and the father old, Purchas'd a jack-ass at a country fair, To ease their limbs, and hawk about their ware; But as the sluggish animal was weak, They fear'd, if both should mount, his back would break:

66

Up gets the boy, the father leads the ass,
And through the gazing crowd attempts to pass;
Forth from the throng the greybeards hobble out,
And hail the cavalcade with feeble shout.
"This the respect to rev'rend age you show,
And this the duty you to parents owe?
He beats the hoof, and you are set astride:
Sirrah! get down, and let your father ride."
As Grecian lads are seldom void of grace,
The decent duteous youth resign'd his place.
Then a fresh murmur through the rabble ran,
Boys, girls, wives, widows all attack the man.
Sure never was brute beast so 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."
[claim'd:
Old Dapple next the clown's compassion
"Tis wonderment them boobies ben'tasham'd!
Two at a time upon the poor dumb beast!
They might as well have carried him, at least."
The pair, still pliant to the partial voice,
Dismount, and bear the ass-Then what a noise!
Huzzas, loud laughs, low gibe, and bitter joke,
From the yet silent sire, these words provoke:
Proceed, my boy, nor heed their farther call;
Vain his attempts, who strives to please them all."
$55. Prologue to the Trip to Paris. Spoken
by Mr. SHUTER, at one of his Benefits.

64

FOOTE.

IN former times there liv'd one Aristotle, Who, as the song says, lov'd, like me, his bottle.

To Alexander Magnus he was tutor (A'n't you surpris'd to hear the learned Shuter?) But let that rest-a new tale I'll advance, A tale ?-no; truth, mun-I'm just come from France. [ter; From Paris I came; why I went there, no matI'm glad that once more I'm on this side the

.water.

'Twas to win a large wager that hurried me over; But I wish'd to be off when I came down to Dover ;

my

To swallow sea-water the doctors will tell ye, But the sight of such water at once fill'd belly; [sea, They who choose it for physic may drink of the But only to think on 't is physic for me.

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

Such babbling and squabbling, fore and aft, through the packet;

The passengers bawling, the sailors yoho-ing, The ship along dashing, the winds aloft blowing; Some sick, and some swearing, some singing, some shrieking,

trod before.

We madeCalais soon, and were soon set on shore, And I trod on French ground, where I ne'er [Yo, yo-ho. The scene was quite chang'd; 'twas no more, With Damme Jack, yes, boy-or Damme Tom, no! [plaisance; 'Twas quite t'other thing, mun, 'twas all comWith cringes and scrapes we were welcom'd

to France:

Ah, Monseer Angloy—they cried—be on ven nu,
Tres umble servant, Sir, we glad to see you.
I ne'er met such figures before in my rambles,
They flock'd round my carcase like flies in the

shambles:

To be crowded amongst them at first I was loth, For fear they should seize me, and souse me for broth.

At last though, they call'd me my Lor Angleterre, (Lord, had you then seen but my strut and my

stare!)

Wee, wee, I cried, wee then-and put on a sword;
So at once Neddy Shuter turn'd into a lord.
I expected at France all the world and his wife,
But I never was balk'd so before in my life:
I should see wonders there, I was told by
Monseer;

[queer;

§ 56. Epilogue to the Minor. 1760. NEAR the mad mansions of Moorfields I'H bawl;

Shut up your shops, and listen to my call.
Friends, fathers, mothers, sisters, sons, and all,
With labor, toil, all second means, dispense,
Prick up your ears; a story now I'll tell,
And live a rent-charge upon Providence.

knew the mother and her daughter well:
Which once a widow and her child befell;
Poor, it is true, they were, but never wanted,
One fatal day the matron's truth was tried,
For whatsoe'er they ask'd was always granted.
She wanted meat and drink, and faintly cried.
Child Mother, you cry!—

Mother. O child! I've got no bread.
Child. What matters that? Why, Provi-

dence an't dead!

[say; For there came in at noon, that very day, With reason good the child this truth might A better sure a table ne'er was put on. Bread, greens, potatoes, and a leg of mutton, But we ne'er had a rashier for the coals. Ay, that might be, ye cry, with those poor souls: And d'ye, deserve it? How d'ye spend your Let's go see Foote; O, Foote's a precious limb! In pastimes, prodigality, and plays! [days? Old Nick will soon a foot-ball make of him! Think you to meet with side-boxes above, For foremost rows in side-boxes you shove: Where giggling girls and powder'd fops may sit? And crowd the house for Satan's benefit.No, you will all be cramm'd into the pit, Drop, to atone, your money at the door, O! what, you snivel?-Well, do so no moreAnd if I please-I'll give it to the poor.

much queerer;

to me.

Each one was a talker, but no one a hearer. I soon had enough of their pallovousee; Its a fine phrase to some folks, but nonsense [show, All folks there are dress'd in a toyshop-like A hodge-podging habit 'twixt fiddler and beau; Such hats, and such heads too, such coats and such skirts[shirts. They sold me some ruffles-but I found the

GARRICK.

HITHER,in days of yore, from Spain or France, Came a dread sorceress, her name Romance: O'er Britain's isle her wayward spells she cast, And Common Sense in magic chain bound fast. In mad sublime did each fond lover woo, And in heroics ran each billet-doux : High deeds of chivalry their sole delight, Each fair a maid distress'd, each swain a knight.

Then might Statira Oroondates see
At tilts and tournaments, arm'd cap-a-pie.
She too, on milk-white palfrey, lance in hand,
A dwarf to guard her, prane'd about the land.
This fiend to quell, his sword Cervantes drew,
A trusty Spanish blade, Toledo true:
Her talismans and magic wand he hroke;
Knights, genii, castles, vanish'd into smoke.
But now, the dear delight of later years,
The younger sister of Romance appears :
Less solemn is her air, her drift the same,
And Novel her enchanting, charming name.
Romance might strike our grave forefathers'
pomp,

But Novel for our buck and lively romp!
Cassandra's folios now no longer read,
See two neat pocket-volumes in their stead!
And then, so sentimental is the style,
So chaste, yet so bewitching all the while!
Plot and elopement, passion, rape, and rapture,
The total sum of ev'ry dear-dear-chapter.

"Tis not alone the small-talk and the smart, 'Tis Novel most beguiles the female heart. Miss reads-she melts-she sighs-love steals upon her

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

§ 58. Prologue to All in the Wrong. 1761.

Written and spoken by Mr. FOOTE. TO-NIGHT, be it known to box, gall'ries, and pit,

Will be open the original warehouse of wit; The new manufacture, Foote and Co. undertakers,

owe

Play, opera, pantomime, farce-by the makers. We scorn, like our brethren, our fortunes to [Rowe: To Shakspeare and Southerne, to Otway and Though our judgement may err, yet our justice is shown, [own; For we promise to mangle no works but our And moreover, on this you may firmly rely, If we can't make you laugh, that we won't make you cry ;

For our monarch, who knew we were mirthloving souls,

Has lock'd up his lightning, his daggers, and bowls;

Resolv'd that in buskins no hero should stalk, He has shut us quite out of the tragedy-walk. No blood, no blank verse-in short we're un done,

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 sit still; If, blind to the beauties, or sick of the squall, A party shouldn't choose to catch cold at Vauxhall; [thick,

If at Sadler's sweet Wells the wine should be` The cheesecakes be sour, or Miss Wilkinson sick, [in June, If the fume of the pipe should prove pow'rful Or the tumblers be lame, or the bells out of tune; We hope you will call at our warehouse in

Drury:

Lye,

We've a curious assortment of goods, I assure Domestic and foreign, indeed all kind of wares, English cloth, Irish linens, and French pet-en

$59. Epilogue to the Liar, 1761; between
Miss Grantham and Old Wilding.
M. Gr. HOLD, Sir!

Our plot concluded, and strict justice done,
Let me be heard, as counsel for your son.
Acquit I can't, I mean to mitigate;
Proscribe all lying, what would be the fate
Of this and every other earthly state?
Consider, Sir, if once you cry it down,
You'll shut up every coffee-house in town;
The tribe of politicians will want food,
All Grub-street murderers of men and sense,
Even now half-famish'd-for the public good;

And every office of intelligence,
All would be bankrupts, the whole lying race,
And no Gazette to publish their disgrace.

O. Wild. Too mild a sentence! Must the

good and great

Patriots be wrong'd, that booksellers may eat? M. Gr. Your patience, Sir; yet hear another word: [sword; Turn to that hall where Justice wields her Think in what narrow limits you would draw, By this proscription, all the sons of law: For 'tis the fix'd determin'd rule of courts, (Viner will tell you-nay, even Coke's Reports) All pleaders may, when difficulties rise, To gain one truth expend a hundred lies. O. Wild. To curb this practice I am somewhat loth;

A lawyer has no credit but on oath. [show; M. Gr. Then to the softer sex some favor Leave us possession of our modest No!

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.

Nor deem 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. [true,

The veriest clown, who stumps along the streets, And doffs his hat to each grave cit he meets, Some twelve months hence, bedawb'd with livery lace,

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 quote— As 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. to you they're civil, not, they'll play the

Madam, the critics say Here, if they have 'em

devil

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:
To which 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. FOOTS.

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 repartee;

And pen'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.