So-be but kind, and countenance the cheat.
I'll in, and fay to Hal-I've done the feat.

JOHNSON.

$39. Prologue to Irene, 1749.
YE glitt'ring train! whom lace and velvet blefs,
Sufpend the foft folicitudes of drefs;
From grov'ling business and superfluous care,
Ye fons of Avarice! a moment fpare;
Vot'ries of Fame, and worshippers of Pow'r!
Difmifs the pleafing phantoms for an hour.
Our daring Bard, with fpirit unconfin'd,
Spreads wide the mighty moral of mankind.
Learn here how Heaven fupports the virtuous mind,
Daring, tho' calm; and vig'rous, tho' refign'd.
Learn here what anguish racks the guilty breaft,
In pow'r dependent, in fuccefs depreft.
Learn here that peace from innocence muft flow;
All elfe is empty found, and idle fhow.

If truths like these with pleafing language join;
Ennobled, yet unchang'd, if Nature fhine:
If no wild draught depart from Reason's rules,
Nor gods his heroes, nor his lovers fools:
Intriguing wits! his artlefs plot forgive;
And Ipare him, beauties! tho' his lovers live.

Be this at leaft his praife, be this his pride;
To force applause no modern arts are tried.
Should partial cat-calls all his hopes confound,
He bids no trumpet quell the fatal found :
Should welcome fleep relieve the weary wit,
He rolls not thunders o'er the drowfy it;
No fnares to captivate the judgment spreads;
Nor bribes your eyes to prejudice your heads.
Unmov'd tho witlings fneer, and rivals rail;
Studious to please, yet not afham'd to fail,
He fcorns the meek addrefs, the fuppliant ftrain,
With merit needlefs, and without it vain.
In Reafon, Nature, Truth, he dares to truft:
Ye fops, be filent; and, ye wits, be juft.

$40. Prologue to Comus, for the Benefit of
ton's Grand-daughter; 1750. Spoken by Mr.
Garrick.
JOHNSON.

The flighted arts futurity fhall truft,
And rifing ages hatten to be juft.

At length our mighty bard's victorious lays Fill the loud voice of univerfal praife;

And baffled fpite, with hopelets anguifh dumb,

Yields to renown the centuries to come;
With ardent hafte each candidate of fame
Ambitious catches at his tow ring name;
He fees, and pitying fees, vain wealth befłow
Thofe pageant honours which he fcorn'd below,
While crowds aloft the laureat buft behold,
Or trace his form on circulating gold.
Unknown, unheeded, long his offspring lay,
And want hung threat'ning o'er her flow decay.
What tho' fhe thine with no Miltonian fire,
No fav'ring mufe her morning dreams inspire,
Her youth laborious, and her blamelefs age;
Yet fofter claims the melting heart engage,

The patient fuffeier, and the faithful wife.
Thus grac'd with humble virtue's native charms,
Her grandfire leaves her in Britannia's arms;
Secure with peace, with competence to dwell, }
While tutelary nations guard her cell.
Yours is the charge, ye fair, ye wife, ye brave !
'Tis yours to crown defert-beyond the grave.]

Hers the mild merits of domeftic life,

$41. Occafional Prologue, spoken by Mr. Gar
rick, at the opening of Drury-Lane Thrase,
September 5, 1750.

AS heroes, ftates, and kingdoms, rife and fall;
So (with the mighty to compare the ima.)
Thro' int'reft, whim, or, if
We feel commotions in our mimic state:
you pleafe, thro' fate,
The fock and buskin fly from stage to stage;
A year's alliance is with us-an age!
Andwhere 'sthewonder all furprife muft ccafe,
When we reflect how int'reft, or caprice,
Mil-Strengthen'd with new allies, our foes prepare;
Makes real kings break articles of peace.
Cry, havoc! and let lip the dogs of war."
To thake our fouls, the papers of the day
Drew forth the adverse pow'r in dread array;
A pow'r, might ftrike the boldeft with difmay:
Yet, fearlets ftill, we take the ficid with fpirit,.
Arm'd cap a pie in felf-fufficient merit.
Our ladies too, with fouls and tongues untam'd,
Fire up like Britons when the battle 's nam`d:
Each female heart pants for the glorious ftrife,
From Hamlet's mother + to the cobler's
Some few there are, whom paltry paffions guide,
Defert each day, and fly from fide to fide:
Others, like Swifs, love fighting as their trade;
For, beat or beating, they must all be paid.

YE patriot crowds who burn for England's fame,
Ye nymphs whofe bofoms beat at Milton's

name,

Whofe gen'rous zeal, unbought by flatt'ring
rhymes,

Shames the mean penfions of Auguftan times;
Immortal patrons of fucceeding days,
Attend this prelude of perpetual praise;

Let wit, condemn'd the feeble war to wage
With clofe malevolence, or public rage;
Let ftudy, worn with virtue's fruitless lore,
Behold this Theatre, and grieve no more.
This night, diftinguifh'd by your files, fhall tell,
That never Britain can in vain excel;

wife.'

Sacred to Shakipeare was this fpot defign'd, To pierce the heart, and humanize the mind.

In which papers was this paragraph: "We hear that Mr. Quin, Mrs. Cibber, Mr. Barry, Mr. Macklin, and Mrs. Woffington, are engaged at Covent-Garden theatre for the enfuing feafon."-On the part of Drury. Lane theatre it was notified, "That two celebrated actors from Dublin were engaged to perform there, alía Mifs Bellamy, and a new actress, Signor Faufon, the comic dancer, and his wife, and a gentleman to fing, wha had not been on any stage."

+ Mrs. Pritchard,

+ Mrs. Clive,

But

$42. Occafional Prologue, Spoken at Covent-Garden | Each to his mafter with his tale retreated,

§ 43. Epilogue Spoken by Mrs. Clive, on the tw§
occafional Prologues at Covent-Garden and Drury
Lane, 1750.

[Enters baflily, as if speaking to one
who would oppofe her.

I'LL do't, by heaven I will!-Pray get you gone:
What! all these janglings, and I not make one!

A child, faid to be but four years of age, had been introduced on the ftage of Drury-lane theatre, to play a tune on that inftrument,

Blowing his cat-call.
384

Damn'd! Surely, friend-don't hope for our Be not deceiv'd; I here declare on oath,

compliance;

Zounds, Sir-a fecond play's downright defiance.
Though once, poor rogue, we pitied your con-
dition,

Here's the true recipe-for repetition.
Well, Sir, fays he, e'en as you pleafe; fo then
I'll never trouble you with plays again.
But, hark ye, poet!-won't you though, fays I,
'Pon honour-Then we'll damn you, let me die.
Shan't we, my bucks? Let's take him at his word.
Damn him, or, by my foul, he 'll write a third.
The man wants money, I fuppofe-but, mind ye,
Tell him-you've left your charity behind ye.
A pretty plea, his wants to our regard!

As if we bloods had bowels for a bard!
Befides, what men of fpirit, now-a days,
Come to give fober judgments of new plays?
It argues fome good-nature to be quiet-
Good-nature!--Aye-but then we lose a riot.
The fcribbling fool may beg and make a fufs,
'Tis death to him-What then-'Tis fport to

BEFORE this court I Peter Puff appear,

A Briton born, and bred an auctioneer !
Who, for my felf, and eke a hundred others,
My useful, honeft, learned, bawling brothers,
With much humility and fear implore yc,
To lay our prefent defperate cafe before ye.→
'Tis faid, this night, a certain wag intends
To laugh at us, our calling, and our friends:
If lords and ladies, and fuch dainty folks,
Are cur'd of auction-hunting by his jokes;
Should this odd doctrine fpread throughout the
Before you buy, be fure to understand; [land,
O, think on us, what various ills will flow,
When great ones purchafe only what they know!
Why laugh at afte? It is a harmless fashion,
And quite fubdues each detrimental paffion :
The fair-ones' hearts will ne'er incline to man,
While thus they rage for-china and japan.
The virtuofo too, and connoiffeur,
Are ever decent, delicate, and pure;
The smallest hair their loofer thoughts might hold.
Just warm when fingle, and when married-cold.
Their blood, at fight of beauty, gently flows;
Their Venus must be old, and want a nofe!
No am'rous paffion with deep knowledge thrives;
'Tis the complaint, indeed, of all our wives!
"Tis faid viriú to fuch a height is grown,
All artifs are encourag'd-but our own,

I never yet fold goods of foreign growth:
Ne'er fent commiffions out to Greece or Rome;
My beft antiquities are made at home.
I've Romans, Greeks, Italians, near at hand,
True Britons all-and living in the Strand.
I ne'er for trinkets rack my pericranium ;
They furuish out my room from Herculaneum.
But hufh-

Should it be known that English are employ'd,
Our manufacture is at once deftroy'd;
No matter what our countrymen deserve,
They thrive as ancients, but as moderns starve—
If we fhould fall, to you it will be owing;
Farewel to arts-they are going, going, going!
The fatal hammer 's in your hand, O town!
Then fet us up-and knock the poet down.

$46. Prologue to Cato. A&ted in 1753 by the Scholars of the free Grammar School at Derby, for the Benefit of the Orphan of the late Ujter. Written by one of the Scholars, aged 16.

NO Garrick here majeftic treads the stage,

No Quin your whole attention to engage;
No practis'd actor here the fcene employs;
But a raw parcel of unskilful boys.
Shall we distigur'd in a fchool-boy fee
Cato's great foul in base epitome?
Can critics bear fuch flavery as this?
Would not even Cato join the critic's hifs ?
What fhall we fay, then? what excufes make?
Our credit and fuccefs lie both at stake.

As when fome peafant, who, to treat his lord,
Brings out his little flock, and decks his board
With what his ill-ftor'd cupboard will afford,
With awkward bows, and ill-plac'd ruftic airs,
To make excufes for his feaft prepares;
So we, with tremor mix'd with vaft delight,
View the bright audience which appears to-night,
And, confcious of its meannefs, hardly dare
To bid you welcome to our homely fare.

But would the ladies in our caufe appear,
One look would filence ev'ry critic here.
If you but smile, 'twill cheer our tim'rous hearts,
And give us courage to perform our parts.

To you, ye fair ones, then, we make address,
And beg protection for this night's fuccefs.
Look gently on our faults, and, where we fail,
Let pity to our tender youth prevail.

Our caufe is in your hands; and Cato, who
Difdain'd great Cæfar's yoke, fubmits to you.

[fight! "Dance at my time of life! Zounds, what a One was a youth born here, but flush from Rome;" Grown gentlemen ('tis advertis'd) do learn

Whofe chorus-thunder fets the foul on fire!
Inflam'd, aftonish'd, at those magic airs,
When Sampfon groans, and frantic Saul defpairs,
The pupil wrote-his work is now before ye,
And waits your stamp of infamy or glory!
Yet, ere his errors and his faults are known,
He fays, thofe faults, thofe errors, are his own;
If thro' the clouds appear fome glimm'ring rays,
They 're fparks he caught from his great mafter's
blaze!

Mrs. Graham, afterwards Mrs. Yates, then a new actrefs.

Though twelvepence feat you there, fo near the ceiling,

And, if you wull, fince now I am before ye,
For want of pro-leg, I'll relate my ftory.

I came from country here to try my fare,
And get a place among the rich and great:
But troth I'm fick o' th' journey I ha' ta'on;
I like it not-would I were whoame again!

For want of monsters, may be made a pye?
Rather than tarry here for bribe or gain,
I'll back to whoame and country fare again.

The folks below can't boast a better feeling.
No high-bred prud'ry in your region lurks.
You boldly laugh and cry, as nature works.
Says John to Tom (aye-there they fit together,
As honeft Britons as e'er trod on leather):
First, in the city I took up my station,
"Tween you and I, my friend, 'tis very vild, And got a place with one o' th' corporation;
Thatold Vergeenus fhould have ftruck his child; A round big mon-he ate a plaguy deal,
"I would have hang'd him for 't lad I been ruler; Zooks he'd have beat fave ploomien at a mea!!
"And duck'd that Apus too, by way of cooler." But long with him I could not make abode,
Some maiden-dames, who hold the middle floor,For, could you think 't he ate a great fea-toad!
[To the middle gallery. It came from Indies-'t was as big as me,
And fly from naughty man, at forty-four, He call'd it belly-patch, and cap-a-pec :
With turn'd-up eyes applaud Virginia's 'fcape, La! how I ftar'd!-I thought-who knows
And vow they'd do the fame to fhun a rape;
but I,
So very chatte, they live in conftant fears,
And apprehenfion ftrengthens with their years.
Ye bucks, who from the pit your terrors fend,
Yet love diftreffed damfels to befriend;
You think this tragic joke too far was carried,
And with, to fet all right, the maid had married
You'd rather fee (if to the fates had will'd)
Ten wives be kind, than one poor virgin kill'd.
May I approach unto the boxes, pray-
And there fearch out a judgment on the play?
In vain, alas! I fhould attempt to find it;
Fine ladies fee a play, but never mind it.
'Tis vulgar to be mov'd by acted paffion,
Or form opinions till they're fix'd by fashion.
Our author hopes this fickle goddefs Mode,
With us will make, at least, nine days abcde;
To prefent pleasure he contracts his view,
And leaves his future fame to time and you.

He must be there among you look about-
A weczen pale-fac'd mon-do find him out.

trade is,

I left toad-eater, then I ferv'd a lord, [word.
And there they promis'd!--but ne'er kept their
While 'mong the great this gcamming work the
[ladies.
They mind no more poor fervants—than their
A lady next, who lik'd a fmart young lad,
Hir'd me forthwith-but,troth, I thought her mad.
She turn'd the world top-down, as one may fay,
She chang'd the day to neet, the nect to day!
I was to theam'd with all her freakish ways,
She wore her gear fo fhort, fo low her stays—
Fine folks fhew all for nothing, now-a-days!

Now I'm the poet's mon-I find with wits
There's nothing faitain-nay, we eat by fits.
Our meals, indeed, are flender-what of that?
There are but three on 's-meafter, I, and cat.
Did you but fee us all, as I'm a finner,
You'd fcarcely fay which of the three is thinner.

My wages all depend on this night's piece;
But thould you find that all our fwans are geefe,
'Efeck, I'll truft no more to meafter's brain,
But pack up all, and whiftle whoame again.

$51. Epilogue to the fame; 1755. Spoken by
Mr. Woodward, in the Character of a fine
Gentleman.
GARRICK,

[Enter-Speaking without.

Pray, meafter, come, or all will fall to fheame;'PSIAW! damn your epilogue, and hold your

Call Mifter-hold-I must not tell his neame.

tongue

Shall we of rank be told what's right and wrong?

La! what a crowd is here! what noife and Had you ten epilogues, you thould not speak 'em, pother! Fine lads and laffes! one o' top o' t'other.

[Pointing to the rows of pit and gallery.
I could for ever here with wonder gaze;
I ne'er faw church fo full, in all my days!-
Your fervant, Sirs-What do you laugh for, eh
You donna take me fure for one o' the play?
You should not flout an honeft country lad-
You think me fool, and I think you half mad:
You're all as ftrange as I, and stranger too;
And, if you laugh at me, I'll laugh at you.

[Laughing I donna like your London tricks, not 1; [why: And, fince you've rais'd my blood, I'll tell you!

Tho' he had writ 'em all in linguum Grecum
I'll do't, by all the gods! (you must excufe me)
Tho' author, actors, audience, all abufe me!
[To the audience.
Behold a gentleman!-and that's enough!
Laugh if you pleafe-I'll take a pinch of fouff!
I come to tell you (let it not surprise you)
That I'm a wit-and worthy to advise you.
How could you fuffer that fame country booby,
That pro-log fpeaking favage, that great looby,
To talk his nonfenfe-give me leave to fay,
'Twas low! damn'd low! but fave the fellow's
Let the poor devil cat; allow him that, [play:
And give a meal to meafter, mon, and cat;

But