Friends, lovers, heroes, patriots, to this stage
Shall come, from every land, from every age;
Old Time shall render, to your eyes and ears,
The truths and trophies of four thousand years;
Cato again shall abdicate his tomb,

And Brutus strike for Liberty and Rome!

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 mock-majesty to awe the stage,
The Hero shrinks into his native span
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, what, is that Othello?'

"Ha, ha, ha!"

"A good joke, damme-a rare hulking fellow!"

VOL. III.

Thus, on defects, I dare to build a name ;
And imperfection gives me up to fame.
O, could my Stature with your Bounty rise,
And swelling Gratitude extend my size !
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 judgment, to your justice due;
Blame not the vanity you kindly raise,

Sprung from your smiles, and heighten'd by your praise!

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,
I sigh for thee, as for my natal land.

Or East, or West, howe'er the region lies, A country takes its name from social ties ; The Heart alone appoints its favourite place, And I'm a native by your special Grace.

Then take the warmest wishes of my mindAs your own favours, great and unconfined, May peace and smiling pleasure, hand in hand, Walk the wide limits of your plenteous land! May Gallia curse the day of William's might, And Chesterfield return to bless your sight!

GEORGE ALEXANDER STEVENS.

1784.

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.

T

SONG.

THE WORMS.

Tune,

When Strephon to Chloe 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 sneer;

"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

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 great?

"Insane ostentations, who brag of their births, "Yet are but machines, mix'd of aggregate earths.

66

They distinctions demand-with distinctions

meet,

"When we throw by the rich folks, as not fit to

eat.