Curs'd climate !---where, to cards, a lone-left | My old friend Smirk, indeed, may lend his aid, $130. Prologue to the Bankrupt. FOOTE. FOR wit's keen fatire, and this laughing ftage, And fell by auction all my stock in trade; E'en as your juftice be your candour shown, (For faith our author might have call'd it one). Alas! alas! how vain is the pretence! But, tho' we told him---'faith, 'twill never do--Pho! never fear, he cried, tho' grave, 'tis new: The whim perhaps may pleafe, if not the wit, And, tho' they don't approve, they may permit. If neither this nor that will intercede, Submiffive bend, and thus for pardon plead. 66 Ye gen'rous few! to you our author fues, "His fit effay with candour to excufe; "'T has faults, he owns, but if they are but fall, "He hopes your kind applaufe will hide them all." No Better fure on him at once to call, Something like this, I heard a friend once fav, Who wish'd (poor foul!) to hear a new-launch'd play: Box'd fnug at first, completely to his mind, To tafte fo mark'd my friend of courfe gave way; But fqueez'd, thump'd, kick'd---ftill liften'd to the play; Till by repeated plaudits grown fo fore, And civil fure that law which can provide ANDREWS. $133. Epilogue to the fume. Content the husband, and fecure the lover; Our timid bard, who dreads the critic ire, And thinks my little tongue can never tire, Would have me re-affume the wig and gown, To plead his goofe-quill caufe before the town. "Lord! Sir," fays I, fome better counsel bring; "For females in a wig are not the thing. "Your bearded Barrifter, if fmartly made, is "A furer advocate among the ladies." "Madam," he cried, "or perriwig'd, or bare, So you but talk, I never need defpair." Suppofe, ye fair, as I'm fo fmooth a prater, I take a line more confonant to nature; Give up the vain attempt your hearts to warm, And 'gainst the men with female weapon arm. Oft have the wits, unmindful whom they vex, Expos'd the foibles of the fofter fex; Laugh'd at their drefs, their well-fhap'd cork, their feathers, Now don't be frighten'd---poor eccentric elves! Sweet image of mama in ev'ry feature, "He 'as fpoil'd my hair, and dirtied all my Stocking." 66 Such was the imart our grandmamas would praife, One thing in nature like a modern beau; The memory of renown'd Sixteen String Jack; Eternal boots, and collar you'd fuppofe Cut in kind contact with his buck fhip's nofe. Thus trimly deck'd, each night among the doxies He ftorms the lobby, and aflails the boxes; With gait and manner---fomething in this way, Proves his rare tafte, and defcants on the play--"Here, box-keeper! why don't the rafcal come? "Halloo---Tom Gerkin! can you give us room? "What's this?---The farce---Macbeth---an ope"ra---O! "Came out laft feafon---Stupid stuff---damn'd "low: "Zounds, let's be off!"---" Z-ds, be a little "calmer!" "Who's that---the Jordan "---" No, you fool--"R. Palmer." Thus fome are found, by ev'ry act revealing Perfect indifference to fenfe and feeling. To fuch our play not fucs---but you, ye fair, Ye wife, whom nature form'd with happier care, Whofe tender bofoms, tho' by paffions rent, Feel the foft virtues in their full extent, Cherish our author's plan, which aims to prove, Life's beft exertions fpring from virtuous love. $134. Verfes to the Memory of Mr. GARRICK. Spoken as a Monody, by Mrs. YATES, at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane. Their fteady bloom, unchanging in all weathers; Can we perfift to bid our forrows flow Or with quaint fmiles difils the plaintive ftrain,, His fame requires we act a tend rer part: The grac'd refpe&t that claim'd him to the last, So much are Garrick's prae---fo much his due, Amid the arts which feck ingenuous fame, Our toil attempts the most precarious claim To him, whofe mimic pencil wins the prize, Obedient fame immortal wreaths fupplies: Whate'er of wonder Reynolds now may raife, Raphael till boafts cotemporal y praife: Each dazzling light and gaudier bloom fubdued, With undiminish'd awe his works are view'd: E'en beauty's portrait wears a fefter prime, Touch'd by the tender hand of mellowing time. The patient fculptor owns an humbler part, A ruder toil, and more mechanic art: Content with flow and timorous ftroke to trace The ling'ring line, and mould the tardy grace: But once achiev'd, tho' barb 'rous wreck o'erthrow The facred fane, and lay its glories low, Yet hall the fculptur'd ruin rife to-day, Grac'd by defect, and worthipp'd in decay; Th`enduring record bears the artift's name, Demands his honours, and afferts his fame. Superior hopes the poet's bofom fire, O proud diftinction of the facred lyre! Wide as th' infpiring Phœbus darts his ray, Diffufive fplendor gilds his votary's lay. Whether the fong heroic woes rehearse, With Epic grandeur, and the pomp of verfe; Or, fondly gay, with unambitious goile Attempt no prize but fav'ring beauty's fmile; Or bear dejected to the lonely grove The foft defpair of unprevailing love; Whate'er the theme, tho' ev'ry age and clime Congenial paffions meet the according rhyme; The pride of glory, pity's figh fincere, Youth's earlicit bluth, and beauty's virgin tear. Such is their meed---their honours thus fecure, Whofe arts yield objects, and whose works endure. The actor only fhrinks from time's award; Feeble tradition is his memory's guard; By whofe faint breath his merits muf abz, Unvouch'd by proof, to fubftance unalid Even matchlefs Garrick's art, to heaven regit, No fix'd effect, no model leaves behind. The grace of action, the adapted mien, Faithful as nature to the vaned icene; Th' expretive glance, whofe fubtle cocimentda Entranc'd attention, and a mute applauk; Gefture that marks, with force and feeling fragen A fense in filence, and a wili in thought, Harmonious fpeech, whofe pure and liquid en Gives verfe a mulic fearce confefs'd in ons; As light from gems affumes a brighter ray, And, cloth'd with orient nucs, tranfcends tieda Paffion's wild break, and frown that awes the And ev'ry charm of gentle eloquence, All perishable !---like th electric fire But itrike the frame, and, as they firike, expat. Incenfe too pure a bodied flame to bear, Its fragrance charms the fenfe, and blends #T air. Where then, while funk in cold decay he, And pale eclipfe for ever veils thofe cres! Where is the bieft memorial that eatures Our Garrick's fame---whofe is the truf-s yours. And, O! by ev'ry charm his art effa'd To footh your cares! by ev'ry grief allay'd! By the hith'd wonder which his accents dres By his laft parting tear, repaid by you! By all thote thoughts, which many a diff: " What more is due from fanctifying time, To cheerful wit, and many a favour'd rhy O'er his grac'd urn fhail bloom, a deathlefs writt Whofe bloffom'd fweets fhall deck the make neath. For thefe, when fculpture's votive toil fhallar FIN I S. |