In the first act, brisk sallies, (miss or hit,)
With volleys of small shot, or snip-snap wit,
Attack, and gall the trenches of the pit.
The next-the fire continues, but at length
Grows less, and slackens like a bridegroom's
strength.
[abound;
The third-feints, mines, and countermines,
Your critic engineers, safe under ground,
Blow up our works, and all our art confound.
The fourth-brings on most action, and 'tis
sharp,
Fresh foes crowd on, at your remissness carp, And desp'rate, though unskill'd, insult our counterscarp.
Then comes the last; the gen'ral storm is near,
The poet-governor now quakes for fear;
Runs wildly up and down, forgets to huff,
And would give all he's plunder'd-to get off.
So-Don, and Monsieur-Bluff, before the
siege,
Were quickly tam'd-at Venlo, and at Liege:
'Twas Viva Spagnia! Viva France! before;
Now, Quartier, Monsieur! Quartier! Ah,
Senor!
But what your resolution can withstand?
You master all, and awe the sea and land.
In war—your valor makes the strong submit;
Your judgment humbles all attempts in wit.
What play, what fort, what beauty, can endure
All fierce assaults, and always be secure?
Then grant 'em gen'rous terms who dare to
write,
Since now-that seems as desp'rate as to fight. If we must yield-yet, ere the day be fix'd, Let us hold out the third, and, if we may, the sixth.
§ 15. Prologue to the Busybody.
CENTLIVRE. THOUGH modern prophets were expos'd of late,
The author could not prophesy his fate :
If with such scenes an audience had been fir'd,
The poet must have really been inspir'd.
But these, alas! are melancholy days
For modern prophets, and for modern plays.
Yet since prophetic lies please fools of fashion,
And women are so fond of agitation;
To men of sense I'll prophesy anew,
And tell you wondrous things that will prove
Undaunted colonels will to camps repair, Assur'd there'll be no skirmishes this year; On our own terms will flow the wish'd-for peace,
All wars, except 'twixt man and wife, shall
The Grand Monarque may wish his son a throne,
But hardly will advance to lose his own.
This season most things bear a smiling face;
But play'rs in summer have a dismal case,
Since your appearance only is our act of grace.
Court-ladies will to country seats be gone,
My lord can't all the year live great in town:
VOL VI. Nos. 97 & 98.
Where, wanting operas, basset, and a play, They'll sigh, and stitch a gown to pass the time away.
Gay city-wives at Tunbridge will appear, Whose husbands long have wished for an heir; Where many a courtier may their wants relieve,
But by the waters only they conceive. The Fleet-street sempstress, toast of Temple sparks, [clerks, That runs spruce neckcloths for attorneys' At Cuper's gardens will her hours regale, Sing Fair Dorinda, and drink bottled ale. At all assemblies rakes are up and down, And gamesters, when they think they are not known.
Should I denounce our author's fate to-day, To cry down prophecies, you'd damn the play; Yet whims like these have sometimes made you laugh,
'Tis tattling all like Isaac Bickerstaff. Since war and places claim the bards that write, Be kind, and bear a woman's treat to-night; Let your indulgence all her fears allay, And none but woman-haters damn this play § 16. Prologue to the Man's Bewitch'd. 1710. CENTLIVRE.
OUR female author trembling stands within, Her fear arises from another's sin : One of her sex has so abus'd the town, That on her score she dreads your angry
Though, I dare say, poor soul, she never writ
Lampoon, or satire, on the box or pit;
A harmless, hum'rous play is her extent of wit.
Though Bickerstaff's vast genius may engage,
And lash the vice and follies of the age;
Why should the tender Delia tax the nation,
Stickle and make a noise for reformation,
Who always gave a loose herself to inclination?
Scandal and satire's thrown aside to-day,
And humor's the sole business of our play.
Beaux may dress on, to catch the ladies' hearts,
And good assurance pass for mighty parts:
The cits may bring their spouses without fear;
We show no wife that's poaching for an heir,
Nor teach the use of fine gauze handkerchier.
Cowards may huff, and talk of mighty wonders,
And jilts set up-for twenty-thousand-pound-
Our author, even though she knows full well,
Is so good-natur'd, she forbears to tell,
What colonels, lately, have found out the
knack
To muster madam, still, by Ned or Jack;
To keep their pleasures up, a frugal way,
They give her subaltern's subsistence for her
In short, whate'er your darling vices are, They pass untouch'd in this night's bill of fare. But if all this can't your good-nature wake, Though here and there a scene should fail to take,
Yet spare her for the Busybody's sake
$17 Epilogue to the same. Spoken by Mrs.
Oldfield. 1710. CENTLIVRE.
[A Porter delivers a letter, just as
she is going to speak.]
But if I find 'mongst all one gen'rous heart,
That. deaf to stories, takes the stage's part; That thinks that purse deserves to keep the plays,
[eras Whose fortune's bound for the support of op
WHAT's this? a billet-doux from hands un- That thinks our constitution here is justly
known? "Tis new to send it thus 'fore all the town: But since the poor man's so agog, I'll read it out, by way of epilogue.
Permit a wretch to let you know,
That he's no more in statu quo;
My ruin from this night commences,
Unless your smiles refund my senses;
For, with one thrust of Cupid's dart,
You've whipp'd your slave quite through
the heart;
Therefore, I beg you, cast your eye
O'er boxes, pit, and gallery,
In pity of my pains and doubt,
And try if you can't find me out.
Poor soul! he seems indeed in dismal plight;
Let's see it can't be, sure, from th' upper
flight,
[write
No, no-that's plain-for-none of them can
Nor can I think it from the middle fell,
For I'm afraid as few of them can spell;
Beside, their haggling passions never gain
Beyond the passage-walking nymphs of Drury-
[plex'd ;.
And now no more with lawyers' brawls per-
He, I declare, shall my whole heart receive;
And (what's more strange) I'll love him while
I live.
18. Prologue to Lady Jane Grey. 1715.
RowE.
TO-NIGHT the noblest subject swells our
A heroine, a martyr, and a queen;
And, though the poet dares not boast his art,
The very theme shall something great impart,
To warm the gen'rous soul, and touch the ten-
der heart.
To you,
fair judges, we the cause submit ;
Your eyes shall tell us how the tale is writ.
If your soft pity waits upon our woe,
If silent tears for suff'ring virtue flow;
Your grief the muses' labor shall confess,
The lively passions, and the just distress.
O! could our author's pencil justly paint,
Such as she was in life, the beauteous saint;
Boldly your strict attention might we claim,
And bid you mark and copy out the dame.
[rovers, No wand'ring glance one wanton thought con-
fess'd;
And then the pit's more stock'd with rakes and
Than any of these senseless, whining lovers. No guilty wish inflam'd her spotless breast:
The backs o' th' boxes too seem mostly lin'dThe only love that warm'd her blooming youth,
With souls whose passion's to themselves con- Was husband, England, liberty, and truth.
fin'd.
[sparks, For these she fell; while, with too weak a
In short, I can't perceive, 'mongst all your hand,
The wretch distinguish'd by these bloody She strove to save a blind, ungrateful land.
[mands, sir, But thus the secret laws of fate ordain,
William's great hand was doom'd to break that
But since the town has heard your kind com-
The town shall e'en be witness of my answer.
First, then, beware you prove no spark in red,
With empty purse and regimental head;
That thinks no woman can refuse t'engage in't,
While love's advanc'd with offer'd bills on
agent;
That swears he'll settle from his joys com-
mencing,
And make the babe, the day he's born, an en-
sign.
Nor could I bear a titled beau, that steals
From fasting spouse her matrimonial meals;
That modish sends next morn to her apartment
A civil how d'ye-far, alas! from th' heart
Then powder'd for th' ensuing day's delights,
Bows through his crowd of duns, and drives to
White's.
Nor could I like the wretch that all night plays,
And only takes his rest on winning days;
Then sets up, from a lucky hit, his rattler;
Then's trac'd from his orig'nal-in the Tatler.
To tell you all that are my fix'd aversion,
Would tire the tongue of malice or aspersion :
When one peep'd in-and hop'd for something | A doctor comes, with formal wig and face,
good,
There was-O gad!-a nasty heart and blood.*
If the old man had show'd himself a father,
His bowl should have enclos'd a cordial rather;
Something to cheer me up amidst my trance,
L'eau de Barbade-or comfortable Nantz.t
He thought he paid it off with being smart,
And, to be witty, cried, he'd send the heart.
I could have told his gravity, moreover,
Were I our sex's secrets to discover,
'Tis what we never look for in a lover.
Let but the bridegroom prudently provide
All other matters fitting for a bride,
First feels your pulse, then thinks, and knows
"Your fever's slight, not dangerous, I assure
Keep warm, and repetatur haustus, sir, will
cure you."
[ing;
Around the bed, next day, his friends are cry-
The patient dies; the doctor's paid for lying.
The poet, willing to secure the pit,
Gives out his play has humor, taste, and wit:
The cause comes on, and, while the judges try,
Each groan and cat-call gives the bard the lie.
Now let us ask, pray, what the ladies do:
They too will fib a little, entre nous.
"Lord!" says the prude, (her face behind her
fan,)
So he make good the jewels and the jointure,
To miss the heart does seldom disappoint her.
'Faith, for the fashion hearts of late are made in,"
They are the vilest baubles we can trade in.
Where are the tough, brave Britons to be found,
With hearts of oak, so much of old renown'd?
How many worthy gentlemen of late
Swore to be true to mother-church and state;
When their false hearts were secretly main-
taining
Yon trim king Pepin, at Avignon reigning?
Shame on the canting crew of soul-ensurers,
That Tyburn tribe of speech-making nonjurors,
Who, in new-fangled terms, old truths explain-
ing,
[meaning!
How can our sex have any joy in man?
As for my part, the best could ne'er deceive me;
And were the race extinct, 'twould never
grieve me !
Their sight is odious, but their touch, O gad!
The thought of that's enough to drive one
mad."
Thus rails at men the squeamish Lady Dainty, Yet weds, at fifty-five, a rake of twenty. In short, a beau's intrigues, a lover's sighs, The courtier's promise, the rich widow's cries, And patriot's zeal, are seldom more than lies. Sometimes you'll see a man belie his nation, Teach honest Englishmen damn'd double- Nor to his country show the least relation. O! would you lost integrity restore, And boast that faith your plain forefathers bore; What surer pattern can you hope to find Than that dear pledget your monarch left behind?
See how his looks his honest heart explain,
And speak the blessings of his future reign!
In his each feature truth and candor trace,
And read plain-dealing written in his face.
§ 20. Epilogue to the Lying Valet. 1740.
GARRICK.
THAT I'm a lying rogue you all agree; [see,
And yet, look round the world, and you shall
That many more, my betters, lie as fast as me.
Against this vice we all are ever railing,
And yet, so tempting is it, so prevailing,
You'll find but few without this useful failing.
Lady or Abigail, my lord or Will,
The lie goes round, and the ball's never still.
My lies were harmless, told to show my parts,
And not like those when tongues belie their
For instance, now————
A cleanly Dutchman, or a Frenchman grave,
A sober German, or a Spaniard brave,
An Englishman a coward or a slave.
Mine, though a fibbing, was an honest art;
I serv'd my master, play'd a faithful part:
Rank me not, therefore, 'mongst the lying crew,
For, though my tongue was false, my heart
21. Epilogue to Agamemnon. THOMSON.
OUR bard, to modern epilogue a foe, [woe;
Thinks such mean mirth but deadens gen'rous
Dispels in idle air the moral sigh,
And wipes the tender tear from pity's eye:
No more with social warmth the bosom burns;
But all th' unfeeling, selfish man returns.
Thus he began and you approv'd the strain,
Till the next couplet sunk to light and vain.
You check'd him there-to you, to reason, just,
He owns he triumph'd in your kind disgust.
Charm'd by your frown, by your displeasure
He hails the rising virtue of your taste.
Wide will its influence spread, as soon as
Truth, to be lov'd, need only to be shown.
Confirm it, once, the fashion to be good,
(Since fashion leads the fool,and awes the rude,)
No petulance shall wound the public ear;
No hand applaud what honor shuns to hear;
No painful blush the modest cheek shall stain;
The worthy breast shall heave with no disdain.
Chastis'd to decency, the British stage
Shall oft invite the fair, invite the sage :
Both shall attend, well pleas'd, well pleas'd de-Ah! let not Censure term our fate our choice,
The stage but echoes back the public voice;
The drama's laws the drama's patrons give,
For we, that live to please, must please to live.
Then prompt no more the follies you decry,
As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die;
'Tis yours this night to bid the reign commence
Of rescued Nature, and reviving Sense;
To chase the charms of sound, the pomp of
show,
WHEN Learning's triumph o'er her barb'-
[rose;
First rear'd the stage, immortal Shakspeare
Each change of many-color'd life he drew,
Exhausted worlds, and then imagin'd new:
Existence saw him spurn her bounded reign,
And panting Time toil'd after him in vain :
His powerful strokes presiding Truth impress'd,§
And unresisted Passion storm'd the breast.
Then Jonson came, instructed from the
school,
To please in method, and invent by rule:
His studious patience, and laborious art,
By regular approach, assail'd the heart:
Cold Approbation gave the ling'ring bays;
For those who durst not censure scarce could
praise.
A mortal born, he met the gen'ral doom,
But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb.
The wits of Charles found easier ways to
fame,
[flame;
Nor wish'd for Jonson's art, nor Shakspeare's
Themselves they studied, as they felt they writ;
Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit.
Vice always found a sympathetic friend;
They pleas'd their age, but did not aim to
mend.
Yet bards like these aspir'd to lasting praise,
And proudly hop'd to pimp in future days:
Their cause was gen'ral, their supports were
strong,
For useful mirth and salutary woe;
Bid scenic Virtue form the rising age,
And Truth diffuse her radiance from the stage.
23. Epilogue to Shakspeare's First Part of
King Henry IV. Spoken by Mr. J. Y. in
the Character of Falstaff, 1748. Acted by
young Gentlemen at Mr. Newcome's School
at Hackney. HOADLEY.
[Push'd in upon the stage by Prince Henry.]
A PLAGUE upon all cowards, still I say—
Old Jack must bear the heat of all the day,
And be the master-fool beyond the play—
Amidst hot-blooded Hotspur's rebel strife,
By miracle of wit I sav'd my life;
And now stand foolishly expos'd again
To th' hissing bullets of the critic's brain.
Go to, old lad, 'tis time that thou wert wiser-
Thou art not fram'd for an epiloguizer.
There's Hal, now, or his nimble shadow,
Poins,
Straight in the back, and lissome in the loins,
Who wears his boot smooth as his mistress'
skin,
And shining as the glass she dresses in,
Can bow and cringe, fawn, flatter, cog, and
[long; Which honest Jack could never do-not I. Their slaves were willing, and their reign was Hal's heir-apparent face might stand it buff, Till Shame regain'd the post that Sense betray'd, And make (ha! ha! ha!) a saucy epilogue And Virtue call'd Oblivion to her aid. [fin'd, Then, crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as reFor years the power of Tragedy declin'd: From bard to bard the frigid caution crept, Till Declamation roar'd whilst Passion slept; Yet still did Virtue deign the stage to tread, Philosophy remain'd, though Nature fled. But, forc'd at length her ancient reign to quit, She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of Wit: Exulting Folly hail'd the joyful day,
And Pantomime and Song confirm'd her sway.
But who the coming changes can presage,
And mark the future periods of the stage?
Perhaps, if skill could distant times explore,
New Behns, new Durfeys, yet remain in store;
Perhaps, where Lear has rav'd, and Hamlet
died,
On flying cars new sorcerers may ride;
But I am old and stiff-nay, bashful grown,
For Shakspeare's humor is not now my own.
I feel myself a counterfeiting ass;
And if for sterling wit I give you brass,
It is his royal image makes it pass.
Fancy now works; and here I stand and stew
In mine own greasy fears, which set to view
Eleven buckram critics in each man of you;
Wights, who with no out-facings will be
shamm'd,
Nor into risibility be bamm'd,
Will, though she shake their sides, think Nature treason,
And see one damn'd-ere laugh without a [speed,
Then how shall one, not of the virtuous, Who merely has a wicked wit to plead—
Perhaps (for who can guess th' effects of Wit without measure, humor without rule,
Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may dance.
Hard is his lot, that, here by Fortune plac'd,
Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste;
With every meteor of caprice must play,
And chase the new-blown bubble of the day.
Unfetter'd laugh, and lawless ridicule ?
Faith! try him by his peers, a jury chosen-
The kingdom will, I think, scarce raise the
dozen.
So-be but kind, and countenance the cheat,
I'll in, and say to Hal, I've done the feat.
§ 24. Prologue to Irene. 1749. JOHNSON.
YE glitt'ring train! whom lace and velvet
bless,
Suspend the soft solicitudes of dress;
From grov'ling business and superfluous care,
Ye sons of Avarice! a moment spare:
Vot'ries of Fame, and worshippers of Power!
Dismiss the pleasing phantoms for an hour.
Our daring bard, with spirit unconfin'd,
Spreads wide the mighty moral of mankind.
Learn here how Heaven supports the virtuous
mind,
Daring, though calm; and vig'rous, though re-
sign'd.
[breast,
Learn here what anguish racks the guilty
In power dependent, in success depress'd,
Learn here that peace from innocence must
flow;
All else is empty sound, and idle show. [join;
But truths like these with pleasing language
Ennobled, yet unchang'd, if Nature shine:
If no wild draught depart from Reason's rules,
Nor gods his heroes, nor his lovers fools;
Intriguing wits! his artless plot forgive;
And spare him, beauties! though his lovers live.
Be this at least his praise, 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 sound;
Should welcome sleep relieve the weary wit,
He rolls not thunders o'er the drowsy pit;
No snares, to captivate the judgment, spreads;
Nor bribes your eyes to prejudice your heads.
Unmov'd, though witlings sneer, and rivals rail;
Studious to please, yet not asham'd to fail,
He scorns the meek address, the suppliant
With merit needless, and without it vain.
In Reason, Nature, Truth, he dares to trust;
Ye fops, be silent; and ye wits, be just.
$25. Prologue to Comus, for the Benefit of
Milton's Grand-daughter. 1750.
With ardent haste each candidate of fame
Ambitious catches at his tow'ring name;
He sees, and pitying sees, vain wealth bestow
Those pageant honors which he scorn'd below,
While crowds aloft the laureate bust behold,
Or trace his form on circulating gold.
Unknown, unheeded, long his offspring lay,
And want hang threat'ning o'er her slow decay
What though she shine with no Miltonian fire,
No fav'ring muse her morning dreams inspire:
Yet softer claims the melting heart engage,
Her youth laborious, and her blameless age;
Hers the mild merits of domestic life,
The patient sufferer, and the faithful wife.
Thus grac'd with humble virtue's native
charms,
Her Grandsire 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 wise, ye brave!
'Tis yours to crown desert-beyond the grave.
26. Occasional Prologue, spoken by Mr.
Garrick, at the opening of Drury-Lane The-
atre, September 5, 1750.
So, (with the mighty to compare the small,) Through int'rest, whim, or, if you please, through fate,
As heroes, states, and kingdoms, rise and fall;
The sock and buskin fly from stage to stage ;
And where's the wonder? all surprise must
A year's alliance is with us an age!
We feel commotions in our mimic state:
When we reflect how int'rest, or caprice,
Strengthen'd with new allies, our foes prepare;
Makes real kings break articles of peace.
Cry, Havock! and let slip the dogs of war." To shake our souls, the papers of the day* Drew forth the adverse power in dread array; A power, might strike the boldest with dismay : Yet, fearless still, we take the field with spirit, Our ladies too, with souls and tongues untam'd, Arm'd cap-a-pie in self-sufficient merit. Fire up like Britons when the battle's nam'd: YE patriot crowds who burn for England's Each female heart pants for the glorious strife, fame, [name, From Hamlet's mothert to the cobbler's wife. Ye nymphs whose bosoms beat at Milton's Some few there are, whom paltry passions Whose gen'rous zeal, unbought by flatt'ring
Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times;
Immortal patrons of succeeding days,
Attend this prelude of perpetual praise;
Let wit, condemn'd the feeble war to wage
With close malevolence, or public rage;
Let study, worn with virtue's fruitless lore,
Behold this theatre, and grieve no more. [tell
This night, distinguish'd by your smiles, shall
That never Briton can in vain excel;
The slighted arts futurity shall trust,
And rising ages hasten to be just.
At length our mighty bard's victorious lays
Fill the loud voice of universal praise;
And baffled spite, with hopeless anguish dumb,
Yields to renown the centuries to come;
Desert each day, and fly from side to side :
Others, like Swiss, love fighting as their trade;
For, beat or beating, they must all be paid.
Sacred to Shakspeare was this spot design'd,
To pierce the heart, and humanize the mind:
But, if an empty house, the actor's curse,
Shows us our Lears and Hamlets lose their force,
* In which papers was this paragraph: "We hear that Mr. Quin, Mrs. Cibber, Mr. Barry, Mr. Macklin, and Mrs. Woffington, are engaged at CoventGarden theatre for the ensuing season."-On the part of Drury-Lane theatre it was notified, "That two celebrated actors from Dublin were engaged to perform there, also Miss Bellamy, and a new actress, gentleman to sing, who had not been on any stage." Signor Fauson, the comic dancer, and his wife, and a Mrs. Clive.
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