So we, to former leagues of friendship true,
Have bid once more our peaceful homes adieu,
To aid Old Thomas, and to pleasure you.
Like errant damfels, boldly we engage,
Arm'd, as you fee, for the defenceless stage.
Time was when this good man no help did lack,
And fcorn'd that any fhe fhould hold his back;
But now, fo age and frailty have ordain'd,
By two at once he's forc'd to be fuitain'd,
You fee what failing nature brings man to;
And yet let none infult, for ought we know,
She may not wear fo well with fome of you.
Though old, yet find his strength is not clean past,
But true as fteel he 's metal to the laft.
If better he perform'd in days of yore,
Yet now he gives you all that's in his
What can the youngest of you all do more?
What he has been, though present praise be dumb,
Shall haply be a theme in times to come,
As now we talk of Rofcius, and of Rome.
Had you withheld your favours on this night,
Old Shakespeare's ghost had ris'n to do him right.
With indignation had you seen him frown
Upon a worthless, witless, tasteless town;
Griev'd and repining, you had heard him fay,
Why are the Mufe's labours caft away?
Why did I write what only he could play?
**Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Bracegirdle clasp him round
But fince, like friends to wit, thus throng'd you meets
Go on, and make the generous work compleat :
Be true to merit, and still own his cause,
Find fomething for him more than bare applause.
In just remembrance of your pleasures past,
Be kind, and give him a discharge at last ;
In peace and ease life's remnant let him wear,
And hang his confecrated Buskin * there.
EPILOGUE TO THE CRUEL GIFT.
A TRAGEDY. BY MRS. CENTLIVRE.
AS IT WAS ACTED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL IN DRURY-LANE, 1717.
ELL-'twas a narrow 'fcape my Lover made,
That Cup and Message-I was fore afraid—
Was that a Present for a new-made Widow,
All in her dismal dumps, like doleful Dido ?
When one peep'd in—and hop'd for fomething good,
There was-Oh! Gad! a nafty Heart and Blood †,
Pointing to the top of the stage.
This tragedy was founded upon the ftory of Segifmonda and Guifcardo, one of Boccace's novels; wherein the Heart of the Loyer is fent by the Father to his Daughter, as a prefent.
If the old man had fhewn himself a father,
His Bowl fhould have inclos'd a Cordial rather,
Something to chear me up amidst my trance,
L'Eau de Bardè-or comfortable Nants * !
He thought he paid it off with being smart,
And, to be witty, cry'd, he'd send the heart.
I could have told his gravity, moreover
Were I our fex's feciets to discover,
'Tis what we never look'd for in a Lover.
Let but the Bridegroom prudently provide
All other Matters fitting for a Bride,
So he make good the Jewels and the Jointure,
To mifs the Heart, does feldom disappoint her.
Faith, for the fashion Hearts of late are made in,
They are the vileft Baubles we can trade in.
Where are the tough brave Britons to be found,
With Hearts of Oak, fo much of old renown'd?
How many worthy gentlemen of late
Swore to be true to Mother-Church and State;
When their falfe Hearts were fecretly maintaining
Yon trim king Pepin, at Avignon reigning?
Shame on the canting crew of Soul-Insurers,
The Tyburn Tribe of fpeech-making Non-jurors;
Who, in new-fangled Terms, old Truths explaining,
Teach honeft Englishmen, damn'd Double-Meaning.
Oh! would you loft integrity restore
And boast that Faith your plain fore-fathers bore;
i. e. Citron-Water and good Brandy.
What furer pattern can you hope to find,
Than that dear pledge your Monarch left behind!
See how his Looks his honeft Heart explain,
And speak the bleffings of his future Reign !
In his each feature, truth and candour trace,
And read Plain-dealing written in his Face.
PROLOGUE TO THE NON-JUROR. A COMEDY. BY MR. CIBBER.
AS IT WAS ACTED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL IN DRURY-LANE, 1718.
SPOKEN BY MR. WILKS.
O-night, ye Whigs and Tories, both be fafe,
Not hope at one another's coft to laugh.
We mean to fouse old Satan and the Pope;
They've no relations here, nor friends, we hope.
A tool of theirs fupplies the comic stage
With just materials for fatiric rage :
Nor think our colours may too ftrongly paint
The ftiff Non-Juring Separation Saint.
Good-breeding ne'er commands us to be civil
To thofe who give the nation to the devil;
Who at our fureft, beft foundation ftrike,
And hate our monarch and our church alike;
Our church-which, aw'd with reverential fear,
Scarcely the Mufe prefumes to mention here.
*The prince of Wales then prefent.
Long may the these her worst of foes defy,
And lift her mitred head triumphant to the sky:
While theirs-----but fatire filently difdains
To name, what lives not, but in madmen's brains.
Like bawds, each lurking pastor feeks the dark,
And fears the juftice's enquiring clerk.
In close back-rooms his routed flocks he rallies,
And reigns the patriarch of blind lanes and allies :
There fafe, he lets his thundering cenfures fly,
Unchriftens, damns us, gives our laws the lye,
And excommunicates three ftories high.
Why, fince a land of liberty they hate,
Still will they linger in this free-born state ?
Here, every hour, fresh, hateful, objects rife,
Peace and profperity afflict their eyes;
With anguish, prince and people they furvey,
Their just obedience, and his righteous sway.
Ship off, ye flaves, and feek some paffive land,
Where tyrants after your own hearts command.
To your Tranfalpine mafter's rule refort,
And fill an empty abdicated court:
Turn your poffeffions here to ready rhino,
And buy ye lands and lordships at Urbino.
|