tions. You have the honour to be born, not only of the greatest, but of the best parents; of a gentleman generally beloved, and generally lamented; and of a lady adorned with all virtues that enter into the character of a good wife, an admirable friend, and a most indulgent mother. The natural advantages of your mind, have been cultivated by the most proher arts and manners of education. You have the care of many noble friends, and especially of an excellent uncle, to watch over you in the tenderness of Your youth. You set out amongst the first of manind, and I doubt not but your virtues will be equal o the dignity of your rank.

That I may live to see your Grace eminent for the ove of your country, for your service and duty to our prince, and, in convenient time, adorned with ll the honours that have ever been conferred upon our noble family: that you may be distinguished to osterity, as the bravest, greatest, and best man of the ge you live in, is the hearty wish and prayer of

My Lord,

Your Grace's most obedient, and

most faithful, humble servant,

N. ROWE.

JANE SHORE.

THIS Play is attractive upon various accounts-It presents a familiar picture of well-known events, treated with much delicacy and skill-and its moral use is also great, as exemplifying upon the fickleness| of high fortune, and the gloomy proof, that the friendship which courts the summer of prosperity is blighted by the winter of adversity.

But Rowe never suffered a stronger delusion of the mind than that, which whispered to him, that his Play bore a resemblance to the weightier pro ductions of SHAKSPERE. ROWE is not without his strength of sentiment-he can express an axiom of policy or morals nervously, and with considerable splendour; but the reflex picture of the mind, th labouring progression of thought, or the retrospectiv anguish of guilty compunction, are all beyond h grasp.-He is little accustomed to the inward searc after natural feeling, and the self-imposed state artificial being-He studied Books, rather than Mas in himself.

Yet there are tender and soothing passages in the Play-there is a well apposed succession of strikin

events, that interest as they are embellished facts, and have a merit that would make them interest even

if they were fictitious.

PROLOGUE.

To-night, if you have brought your good old taste,
We'll treat you with a downright English feast:

A tale, which told long since in homely wise,

Hath never fail'd of melting gentle eyes.

Let no nice sir despise our hapless dame,

Because recording ballads chaunt her name;
Those venerable ancient song-enditers
Soar'd many a pitch above our modern writers:
They caterwaul'd in no romantic ditty,
Sighing for Phillis's, or Chloe's pity.

And

Justly they drew the fair, and spoke her plain,
sung her by her christian name-'twas Jane.
Our numbers may be more refin'd than those,
But what we've gain'd in verse, we've lost in prose.
Their words no shuffling, double-meaning knew,
Their speech was homely, but their hearts were true.
In such an age, immortal Shakspere wrote,
By no quaint rules, nor hampering critics taught;
With rough majestic force he mov'd the heart,
And strength and nature made amends for art.
Our humble author does his steps pursue,
He owns he had the mighty bard in view ;
And in these scenes has made it more his care,
To rouze the passions, than to charm the ear.

Yet for those gentle beaux, who love the chime,
The ends of acts still jingle into rhime.
The ladies too, he hopes, will not complain,
Here are some subje&s for a softer strain,
A nymph forsaken, and a perjur'd swain.
What most he fears, is, lest the dames should frown,
The dames of wit and pleasure about town,
To see our picture drawn unlike their own.
But lest that error should provoke to fury
The hospitable hundreds of old Drury,
He bid me say, in our Jane Shore's defence,
She dole'd about the charitable pence,

Built hospitals, turn'd saint, and dy'd long since.
For her example, whatsoe'er we make it,
They have their choice to let alone or take it.
Tho' few, as I conceive, will think it meet, ̄
To weep so sorely, for a sin so sweet:
Or mourn and mortify the pleasant sense,
To rise in tragedy two ages hence.