Though fuch infult me, calmly fhall I fit,
And grin at folly, as I laugh at wit.

With juft fo much religion in my heart,
As will, I truft, fecure my deathlefs part;
With pure contentment ever in my fight,
That makes the weight of poverty feem light;
With two fuch friends, ye grave ones, tell me why,
Tell me, in fober fadnefs, thall I cry?

QUIN'S Soliloquy, on fecing Duke Humphry at St. Alban's.

A

Plague on Egypt's art, I fay!

Embalm the dead! on fenfeless clay
Rich wines and fpices wafte!

Like fturgeon, or like brawn, fhall I
Bound in a precious pickle lie,
Which I can never taste?

Let me embalm this flesh of mine,
With turtle fat and Bourdeaux wine,
And fpoil th' Egyptian trade!
Than Humphry's duke more happy I-
Embalin'd alive, old Quin fhall die
A mummy ready made.

D. G.

A PROLOGUE written by David Garrick, efq; and Spoken by Mr. Love, on opening the New heatre on Richmond-Green.

HE fhip now launch'd, with neceffaries ftor'd,

a on board,

All ready, tight and trim, from head to poop,
And by Commion made a Royal Sloop,

May heav'n from tempefts, rocks, and privateers,
Preferve The RICHMOND!-Give her, boys, three chears.
[Three buzzas behind.

Queen MAB, our Shakespeare fays (and I believe him)
In fleep haunts each vain mortal to deceive him,
As in her hazle nut fhe lightly trips,

By turns o'er eyes, ears, fingers, nofe, and lips,
Each quicken'd fenfe fuch fweet enchantment feizes,
We hear, fee, fmell, tafte, touch-whate'er the pleases.
Look round this houfe, and various proofs you'll fee,
Strong glaring proofs that MAB has been with me.

She

She caught me napping-knew where I was vain,
And tickled every fibre of my brain :
Deep in my mufing (deep as I was able)
Methought I faw her driving tow'rds my table,
She whisk'd her chariot o'er my books and fhelves,
And at my ftandish ftop'd her tiny elves:
What are you fcribbling there?quick, let me fee!
Pob!-leave this nonfenfe, and along with me!
I grinning bow'd-Bright Star of Lilliput,
Shall I not crown you in your hazle nut?

She fmil'd, and fhewing me a large-fiz'd hamper,
Get into this, my friend, and then we'll fcamper;
I for this frolic wanting quick digeftion,
Sent to my tongue, poft-hafte, another question;
But crack fhe went, before that I could atk it,
She in her ftage-I Falstaff, in the basket;
She way'd her wand, then burft in fits of laughter,
To fee me rolling, bounding, tumbling after;
And I laugh'd too -Could you of laughing fail,
To fee a minnow towing of a whale?

At last we refted on a hill hard by,

With a fweet vale to feast the glutton eye:
I'll fhew you more, the faid, to charm and move us,
And to the Gardens, quick as thought, the drove us ;
Then pointing to the Shade-There, there they are;
Of this moft happy fle, the happiest pair!

Oh! may thofe virtuous raptures never cease,
Nor public cares difturb their private peace!
She figh'd-and like the lightning was the feen
To drive her chariot o'er this fav'rite Green ;
Strait to this spot-where the infus'd fuch things,
Might turn the heads of twenty Playhouse Kings;
But fear difperfing all my golden dream,
And I just entering on this Fairy-fcheme;
With wild furprife I caft my eyes about,
Delufion ends and now I wake to doubt:
O may the dream be realiz'd by you!
Your fmiles can make this vifion falfe, or true.

EPILOGUE, Spoken at the Royal Theatre in Drury-Lane, April 30, 1765, by Mifs Hopkins, a Child of fix years old, at the Benefit of Mr. Hopkins, Prompter, and Mrs. Hopkins.

Enter, Speaking to Mr. Hopkins at the Stage Door.

N

AY-but I muft, I muft, indeed, papa!-
Pray, let me go!-what fignifies mamma!-

Coming forwards, curtfies.

Your fervant, gentlemen! your fervant, ladies!
Papa's the prompter-but to a my trade is;
And tho' my fize is fmall, my years but few,
I'll warrant, he fhall find I know my cue.

Females of ev'ry age have leave to tattle:
Why may not I then, like my elders, prattle?
Mamma indeed cries, "Hufh, you little elf!
"Pr'ythee be filent!-I'll talk all myself."
-But let her know, my tongue as her's is nimble,
And I had rather ufe it than my thimble;
Had rather goffip, fpeak a part, or wheedle,
Than darn, or wound my fingers with a needle.
A fempftreis? No. A princefs let me be,
In all the pomp and ftate of tragedy!

A princefs, with a page, and tweeping train,
A bowl, a dagger, and a lover flain!

Oh, how I'll rant! how loud I'll be! and glibber,
Than Yates, or Pritchard, Bellamy, or Cibber!
If for the bufkin you object my fize,
Why Garrick's little-but has piercing eyes;
And fo have I-But I'm too young, you'll fay;
Ah, Sirs! I fhall grow older ev'ry day:
And they that now my faint endeavours fpare,
Mifs in her Teens fhall thank them for their care.

PROLOGUE Spoken to Much Ado about Nothing, acted by command of his Majefty, by Mr. Garrick.

W

ITH doubt,-joy-apprehenfion-almoft dumb,

Once more to face this awful court, I come;

Left Benedict should fuffer by my fear,

Before He enters, I myself am here.

I'm

I'm told (what flatt'ry to my heart) that you*
Have with'd to fee me, nay have press'd it too.
Alas! 'twill prove another Much ado.

I, like a boy who long has truant play'd,
No leffon got, no exercises made,

On bloody Monday take my fearful fland,
And often eye the birchen-fcepter'd hand.
'Tis twice twelve years fince firft the stage I trod,
Enjoy'd your fimiles, and felt the critic's rod;
A very nine-pin I, my stage-life through,
Knock'd down by wits, fet up again by you.
In four-and-twenty years the fpirits cool,
Is it not long enough to play the fool?
To prove it is, permit me to repeat

What late I heard in paffing through the ftreet:
A youth of parts, with ladies by his fide,
Thus cock'd his glafs, and through it thot my pride:
'Tis he, by Jove! grown quite a clumfy fellow;
He's fit for nothing-but a Punchin llo!

"O yes, for comic scenes, Sir John-no further;
He's much too fat-for battles, rapes, and murder!"
Worn in the fervice, you my faults will fpare,
And make allowance for the wear and tear.

The Chelfea penfioner, who, rich in scars,
Fights o'er in prattle all his former wars;
Though paft the fervice, may the young ones teach,
To march-prefent-to fire--and mount the breach.
Should the drum beat to arms, at firft he'll grieve
For wooden leg-loft eye-and armless fleeve;
Then cocks his hat, looks fierce, and fwells his cheft:
1 is for my King, and, zounds, I'll do my best!