And in that town a dog was found, As many dogs there be, Both mongrel, puppy, whelp, and hound, And curs of low degree. This dog and man at first were friends; The dog to gain his private ends, Around from all the neighbouring streets The wound it seemed both sore and sad, To every Christian eye; And while they swore the dog was mad They swore the man would die. But soon a wonder came to light, That showed the rogues they lied; The man recovered of the bite, The dog it was that died. A PROLOGUE, WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A Roman Knight whom Cæsar forced upon the Stage. PRESERVED BY MACROBIUS. * WHAT! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, * This translation was first printed in one of our Author's earliest works, "The Present State of Learning in Europe," 12mo. 1759; but was omitted in the second edition, which appeared in 1774. K PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE: A TRAGEDY. WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADDOCK, Esq. First acted at the Theatre Royal, Covent-Garden, 1772. SPOKEN BY MR. QUICK. In these bold times when learning's sons explore And quit for Venus many a brighter here; With Cythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden, To make an observation on the shore. Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost! [Upper Gallery. There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em [Pit. Here trees of stately size-and billing turtles in 'em— Here ill-conditioned oranges abound [Balconies. [Stage. And apples, bitter apples strew the ground: [Tasting them. The inhabitants are cannibals I fear: I heard a hissing-there are serpents here! O, there the people are-best keep my distance; Our captain (gentle natives) craves assistance; [her, Our ship's well stored-in yonder creek we've laid His honour is no mercenary trader. This is his first adventure, lend him aid, And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. What, no reply to promises so ample? EPILOGUE SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, In the character of Harlequin, at his benefit. HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense; I'd speak a word or two to ease my conscience. My pride forbids it ever should be said, My heels eclipsed the honours of my head; [Takes off his mask. How hast thou filled the scene with all thy brood, Aye, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating, 'Twas thus that Æsop's stag, a creature blameless, Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless, Once on the margin of a fountain stood, And cavilled at his image in the flood. [shanks, "The deuce confound," he cries, "these drumstick They never have my gratitude nor thanks; They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead! But for a head, yes, yes, 1 have a head. How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow! |