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Friends, lovers, heroes, patriots, to this stage
PROLOGUE' TO OTHELLO,
Spoken in Dublin, by Mr. Garrick. . My Term expired with this concluding play, I've cast the Buskin and the Sock away.. No more to kindle with poetick rage, .. Nor in nock-majesty to awe the stage, The Hero shrinks into his native span en This little sketch and miniature of Man! ! “Where's Garrick?" says the Beau; and as I pass, To mark the noted insect-takes his glass. Placed in yon box, to publish my disaster, “ Mamma" cries Miss, “who is that little Master?' “ Zounds!" says the Captain, whạt, is that
Othello? “ Ha, ha, ha!" — “ A good joke, danime—a sare hulking fellow!".
Thus, on defects, I dare to build a name ;
What ample measure would that change impart, · When every limb should answer to my heart >
Great are the favours which my soul avows; Great are the thanks with which your servant
bows! My faults are debtors to your generous sense — Quick to observe, yet gracious to dispense! And should I but presume that something, too, Is to your jndgment, to your justice due ; Blame not the vanity you kindly raise, Sprung from your smiles, and heighten'd by your
Hail, generous Isle ! though neighbouring to the
Pole, Thy warmth is in the virtues of the soul ! Though clouds, above, may intercept the light; Below, thy Sun of Beauty cheers our sight!
Where'er my distant fortunes may command,
Or East, or West, howe'er the region lies,
Then take the warmest wishes of my mind
GEORGE ALEXANDER STEVENS.
A professional wit, who has often set the town and the
table in a roar. His songs are well known, and many of them have wit to recommend them, more than falls to the share of songs in general; but their author has taken great liberties both with language and decency, in most of them.
Tune, • When Strephon to Chlor made love his pretence.'
Keep your distance, quoth King, who in lead
coffin lay, As beside him they lower'd, a shroudless old Clay,
The mendicant carcase replied with a sheer; “Mister Monarch, be still, we are all equal here.
« Life's miseries long I was forced to abide, " By the Seasons sore pelted, sore pelted by
pride : “And tho'clad in ermine, yet you've been dis
trest, “ Both our cares now are over, --- so let us both
A committee of worms, manor lords of the grave, Overheard 'em, and wonder'd to hear the dead
rave. Quoth the Chairman, “Dare mortals presume thus
to prate, “ When even we maggots don't think ourselves
“ Insane ostentations, who brag of their births, “ Yet' are but machines, mix'd of aggregate
earths. " They distinctions demandwith distinctions
meet, or When we throw by the rich folks, as not fit to