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L I F E.

A COMEDY,

IN FIVE ACTS.

AS PERFORMED AT THE

THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT-GARDEN.

By FREDERICK REYNOLDS.

THE FIFTH EDITION.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY A. STRAHAN, PRINTERS-STREET ;
FOR T. N. LONGMAN AND O. REES, PATERNOSTER-ROW.

1801.

[Price Two Shillings.]

PROLOGUE,

WRITTEN BY A FRIEND.

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Nature's a worn-out coat-hor comic vein
Bards following bards have turn’d and turn’d again-
Can you expect it as bran new--as when
'Twas first cut out by Shakspeare and Old Ben ?
They had, in aid of their superior art,

The nap of novelty on every part.
Would we a braggart paint, absurd and vain,
We can but dress up Pistol o'er again ;
And change, like variations to old tunes,
His old Aash'd breeches into pantaloons :
Or would we restless jealousy attack,
Kitely's turn'd coat must fit a modern back.
Will you not therefore spare us, who, tho’ loch,
Must cut our coat according to our cloth.
Fall fifteen years has your responsive smile
And cheering roar repaid our author's toil.
Think what laborious pangs, what loss of reit
To furnish out an annual crop of jeft-
“ If jeft it can be call’d, which jest is none,”
Till your kind hands its dubious merits own.
But should, perchance, one year of dreary dearth
To dullness turn our aathor's wish'd for mirth;
Tho' now condemn'd by your impartial laws,
His grateful homage own your past applause.

DRAMATIS PERSONÆ.

Sir Harry Torpid,
Gabriel Lackbrain,
Primitive,
Marchmont,
Craftly,
Clifford,
Waiter,
William,
Jenkins,
Jonathan,
James,
Servant,

Messrs. Lewis.

Fawcet.
MUNDEN.
MURRAY.
EMERY.
FARLEY.
SIMMONS.
CURTIES.
ATKINS.
THOMPSON.
Аввот. .
Lee.

Mrs. Belford, Rosa Marchmont, Mrs. Decoy, Betty,

Miss CHAPMAN. Miss MURRAY. Mrs. Sr. LEDGER. Miss Cox.

SCENE-A Sea-Port Town, and the Neighbourhood.

L I F E.

ACT 1.

SCENE-Outside of Craftly's Library; View

of the Town, the Sea, &c.

Enter MARCHMONT (with a Manuscript in his

Hand) and Rosa.

Rosa. CHEER

up, cheer up, my father! surely this should be a day of joy.

March. It should; but 'twill not be; I have out-toild my strength.

Rofa. You have. For ten long years the produce of your pen has been our sole support; and for these fix months past the labour of the brain has been unceasing; night after night has been devoted to that one composition (pointing to the manuscript in MARCHMONT's hand). But now the book is finished, and yonder lives the gentleman who by the purchase of it will recompence you amply. Look, there's the library; will not that revive you, father?

March,

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