The raw unpractis'd author could with ease
A young and inexperienc'd audience please;
No single character had e'er been shown,
But the whole herd of fops were all their own:
Rich in originals, they set to view,

In ev'ry piece, a coxcomb that was new.

fool:

But now our British theatre can boast Drolls of all kinds, a vast unthinking host! Fruitful of folly and of vice, it shows [beaux; Cuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps, and Rough country-knights are found of ev'ry shire, Of every fashion gentle fops appear; And punks of diff'rent characters we meet, As frequent on the stage as in the street : Our modern wits are forc'd to pick and cull, And here and there, by chance, glean up a Long ere they find the necessary spark, They search the town and beat about the Park: To all his most frequented haunts resort, Oft dog him to the ring, and oft to court, As love of pleasure or of place invites ;[White's. And sometimes catch him taking snuff at Howe'er, to do you right, the present age Breeds very hopeful monsters for the stage; That scorn the paths their dull forefathers trod, And won't be blockheads in the common road. Do but survey this crowded house to-night:

Here's still encouragement for those that write.

Our author, to divert his friends to-day, Stocks with variety of fools his play; And, that there may be something gay and new, Two ladies-errant has expos'd to view: The first a damsel travell'd in romance; The other more refin'd, she comes from France. Rescue, like courteous knights, the nymph from danger; [stranger. And kindly treat, like well-bred men, the

-$118. Epilogue to the same. STEELE. BRITONS, who constant war, with factious For liberty, against each other wage, [rage, From foreign insults save this English stage. * Asgill.

No more th' Italian squalling tribe admit,
In tongues unknown; 'tis popery in wit.
The songs (themselves confess) from Rome
they bring,

And 'tis high-mass, for aught you know, they sing.

Husbands, take care, the danger may come nigher,

The women say their eunuch is a friar.

But is it not a serious ill to see

Europe's great arbiters so mean can be;
Passive, with an affected joy to sit,
Suspend their native taste of manly wit;
Neglect their comic humour, tragic rage,
For known defects of nature and of age?
Arise! for shame! ye conqu'ring Britons, ria!
Such unadorn'd effeminacy despise;
Admire (if you will dote on foreign wit)
Not what Italians sing, but Romans writ.
So shall less works, such as to-night's slight play,
At your command, with justice die away;
Till then forgive your writers, that can't bear
You should such very tramontanes appear,
The nations, which contemn you, to revere.

Let Anna's soul be known for all its charms;
As fam'd for lib'ral sciences as arms:
Let those derision meet, who would advance
Manners, or speech, from Italy or France.
Let them learn you, who would your favour
find,

And English be the language of mankind.

§119. Epilogue to the Gamester.

CENTLIVRI As one condemn'd, and ready to become, For his offences past, a pendulum, Then, like the swan, expires in a song; Does, ere he dies, bespeak the learned throng, So I (tho' doubtful long which knot to choose, Condemn'd, good people, as you see, for life, Whether the hangman's, or the marriage noose), To play that tedious, juggling game, a wife, Have but one word of good advice to say, Before the doleful cart draws quite away.

You roaring boys, who know the midnight

cares

Who labour hard to bring your ruin on,
Of rattling tats, ye sons of hopes and fears;
And diligently toil to be undone;

You're fortune's sporting footballs at the best,
Suppose then fortune only rules the dice,
Few are his jovs, and small the gamester's rest:
And on the square you play; yet who, that's
Would to the credit of a faithless main
wise,
Trust his good dad's hard-gotten hoarded gain?
But then such vultures round a table wait,
And hov'ring watch the bubble's sickly state;
The young fond gambler, covetous of more,
Like Esop's dog, loses his certain store;
Then the spunge, squeez'd by all, grows dry-

and now,
Completely wretched, turns a sharper too.
These fools, for want of bubbles, too, play fair,
And lose to one another on the square:

they glean,

Still spend on bullies, and grow poor again.
This itch for play has likewise fatal been,
And more than Cupid drawn the ladies in :
A thousand guineas for basset prevails,
A bait, when cash runs low, that seldom fails;
And when the fair-one can't the debt defray
In sterling coin, does sterling beauty pay.

In vain we labour to divert your care, Nor song nor dance can bribe your presence here,

You fly this place like an infectious air;
To yonder happy quarter of the town
You crowd, and your own fav'rite stage disown;
We're like old mistresses; you love the vice,
And hate us only 'cause we once did please.
Nor can we find how else 'tis we deserve,
Like Tantalus, 'midst plenty thus to starve.

I hear?

I see the Tragic Muse herself appear! [The black scene opens, and discovers a romantic sylvan landscape, from which Sigismunda, in the character of the Tragic Muse, advances slowly to music, and speaks the following lines:

Hence with your flippant epilogue, that tries To wipe the virtuous tears from British eyes; That dares my moral, tragic scene profane, With strains at best, unsuiting, light, and vain. Hence from the pure, unsullied beams, that play

In yon fair eyes, where virtue shines-Away! Britons, to you, from chaste Castalian groves, Where dwelt the tender, oft unhappy loves; Where shades of heroes roam, each mighty

name,

THOMSON.

BOLD is the man, who in this nicer age Presumes to tread the chaste, corrected stage. Now, with gay tinsel arts we can no more Conceal the want of nature's sterling ore: Our spells are vanish'd, broke our magic wand, That us'd to waft you over sea and land: Before your light the fairy people fade; The demons fly-the ghost itself is laid. In vain of martial scenes the loud alarms; The mighty Prompter thund'ring out to arms, The playhouse posse clattering from afar, The close-wedg'd battle, and the din of war, Now e'en the Senate seldom we convene; The yawning fathers nod behind the scene. Your taste rejects the glitt'ring false sublime, To sigh in metaphor, and die in rhyme. High rant is tumbled from his gallery throne: Description, dreams-nay, similes are gone. What shall we then? to please you how devise,

Whose judgment sits not in your ears and eyes? Thrice happy could we catch great Shak

speare's art,

To trace the deep recesses of the heart;
His simple, plain sublime, to which is given
To strike the soul with darted flame from heaven;
Could we awake soft Otway's tender woe;
The pomp of verse, and golden lines of Rowe!
We to your hearts apply; let them attend :
Before their silent, candid bar we bend.
If warm'd they listen, 'tis our noblest praise:
If cold, they wither all the muse's bays.

§ 121. Epilogue to the same. THOMSON. CRAMM'D to the throat with wholesome moral stuff;

Alas! poor audience! you have had enough.
Was ever hapless heroine of a play
In such a piteous plight as ours to-day?
Was ever woman so by love betray'd?

In Greece, and Rome, I watch'd the public weal;

The purple tyrant trembled at my steel;
Nor did I less o'er private sorrows reign,
And mend the melting heart with softer pain.
On France and you then rose my bright'ning star
With social ray-The arts are ne'er at war.
O! as your fire and genius stronger blaze;
As yours are gen'rous freedom's bolder lays;
Let not the Gallic taste leave yours behind,
In decent manners and in life refin'd;
Banish the motley mode, to tag low verse,
The laughing ballad, to the mournful hearse.
When through five acts your hearts have learnt
to glow,

Touch'd with the sacred force of honest woe,
O keep the dear impression on your breast,
Nor idly lose it for a wretched jest!

sit on;

maid!

And murder'd belles unpeople half the nation!

passion

And live to hunt suspicion out of fashion.Four motives strongly recommend, to lovers, Hate of this weakness, that our scene discovers. First then-A woman will or won't-depend on't:

[on't.

If she will do't, she will-and there's an end But, if she won't-since safe and sound your trust is,

Fear is affront, and jealousy injustice.

Next, He who bids his dear do what she pleases,

Blunts wedlock's edge, and all its torture eases. For-not to feel your suff'rings, is the same As not to suffer-All the diff'rence-name. Thirdly-The jealous husband wrongs his honor;

No wife goes lame, without some hurt upon her: And the malicious world will still be guessing, Who oft dines out dislikes her own cook's dressing.

Fourthly, and lastly-to conclude my lecture, If you would fix th' inconstant wife-respect

her.

She who perceives her virtues over-rated,
Will fear to have th' account more justly stated:
And, borrowing from her pride the good wife's
seeming,

Grow really such-to merit your esteeming.

T

$123. Prologue to Mr. Andrews' Comedy of

Better Late than Never. DUKE OF LEEDS. CUSTOM Commands a prologue to each play, But custom hath not told us what to say: No form prescrib'd, 'tis difficult to find How to conciliate the public mind. The bashful bard-the modest muse's fears, So long have jingled in your patient ears, That now, perhaps, you'll scarce vouchsafe to To hear both their apology-and play. No: better sure on him at once to call, [all? With-"Sir, if frighten'd thus why write at We're not reduc'd yet to a trembling penZounds! bards will crowd us soon, like-gen

tlemen."

[stay

A promising eleve of civil law;
And civil sure that law which can provide,
Or, should need be, release you from, a bride.
Thrice bless'd the mansion, where, in spite of
ills,

Alive or dead, you still can have your wills.
Much could I offer in our author's cause,
Nay, prove his first great object-your ap-
plause;
[wrong,

But, lest dull friendship should his genius I'll stop-before the prologue grows too long, And, Better Late than Never, hold my tongue.

§ 124. Epilogue to the same. ANDREWS.

THE drama done, and all its int'rest over, Content the husband, and secure the lover, Our timid bard, who dreads the critic ire, And thinks my little tongue can never tire, Would have me re-assume the wig and gown, To plead his goose-quill cause before the town. Lord, Sir," says I, some better counsel For females in a wig are not the thing. [bring, Your bearded barrister, if smartly made, is A surer advocate among the ladies." Madam," he cried, or periwigg'd or bare, you but talk, I never need despair." Suppose, ye fair, as I'm so smooth a prater, I take a line so consonant to nature; Give up the vain attempt your hearts to warm, And 'gainst the men with female weapon arm.

66

So

Oft have the wits, unmindful whom they vex, Expos'd the foibles of the softer sex, Laugh'd at their dress, their well-shap'd cork, their feathers,

Their steady bloom, unchanging in all wea thers; [brown, Swore locks were grey, that seem'd a comely And, though all paid for, deem'd them not

their own.

Why not retort, avenge th' insulted fair, And show these men what wondrous things they are?

Now don't be frighten'd-poor eccentric elves! I only show what most you like-yourselves.

How! tremble at a woman? shame betide! Though I look fierce, like you—I'm all outside; Yet ere my efforts your attention call To that dear portrait which should hit you all, Let me delineate what was once a beau, The Band-box Billy of some years ago.

Sweet image of mamma in every feature, The youth came forth a most delicious creature, With full-dress'd skirts, not quite unlike a hoop, Hat under arm, fine button, and gilt loopStiff stock, long sword still dangling in the way, He sometimes ventur'd to a first-night play: Tripp'd through the lobby, most completely curl'd;

Nor did a paw-paw thing for all the world! Thus he discours'd: "Sir Dilberry, ods so, Dear, dear, good lack! have you a place below? Dem it, don't crowd so, fellow!-O, how shocking!

[ing." He's spoil'd my hair, and dirtied all my stock.