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Watch'd ev'ry look, and number'd ev'ry figh,
And gently, as he liv'd, the faw him dic.
Wild with her griefs, the join'd the mournful
throng,

With fullen found as the hearfe mov'd along:
Thro' the dim vaulted ailes the led the way,
And gave to genius paft his kindred clay;
Heard the laft requiem o'er his relics coid,
And with her tears bedew'd the hallow'd mould.
In faithful verie, there, near the lonely cell,
The fair recording epitaph may tell,
That he who now lies mould 'ring into duft,
Was good, was upright, generous, and juft;
By talents form'd to grace the poet's lays;
By virtue form'd to dignify his days.

§ 117.

Epilogue intended to be Spoken by Mr. Shuter, in the Character of a Schoolmaster, with a Rod in bis Hand.

WHEN vice and folly are a nation's bane,

When poets write, and parfons preach invain,
When fatire's fting and moral precepts fail,
Then threats and rougher methods must prevail.
Behold a fchoolmafter---Ticklebreech by name,
Who comes a headftrong people to reclaim;
To lafh thofe foibles now fo common grown,
And once more place fair Virtue on her throne.
This magic rod, tho' nought but fimple wood,
With wonders ftrange to mention is endued.
If to that part
of man we all deride
"Tis rightly handled, and with kill applied,
'Twill make a lawyer honest 'gainst his will,
The doctor fave the patient he would kill;
The ftatefman too, that Atlas of the ftate,
Who toils, and fweats, and bends beneath the
weight

Of places, penfions, finecures, and fees,
At the firft ftroke will find immediate ease:
With joy he'll caft the pond'rous load afide,
And at the helm take honour for his guide;
Reliere the indigent without a bribe,
And fpurn at fycophants, that fawning tribe.
The modern Bobadil, who in taverns boasts
The feats he did when on proud Gallia's coafts,
How twenty Frenchmen at a time he flew,
"Twenty more---kill 'em; twenty more---kill
"them too!"

When in the field his looks his fears betray,
And his own thadow makes him run away;
But if the force of this fame twig he feels,
His courage ftraight will leave his friendly heels,
Mount to his heart, his martial bofom warm,
And, like brave Pruffia, the whole world alarm.
Next, to the male-coquet I mean to speak,
Whofe head, and heart, and nerves alike are weak;
Who, like that curious mafk which fop feigns
The fox admir'd, yet mourn'd the want of brains;
Who plies his glafs, and grinning cries, "Si

"Peter,

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This wand, if once it touch the coxcomb's tail,
I do affure him, ne'er was known to fail;
He'll own its charms furpafs his fals and drops,
For into men it changes fools and fops;
Makes 'em look wife, fay little, and do more;
All which, I'm fure, they never did before.

In good queen Bets's happy golden reign,
The British fair their virtues did maintain;
But, fhame to tell, how, dreadful the reflection!
The fex is now fo bad to want correction-
But hold, methinks from vonder box I hear
My Lady Dainty thus exprefs her fear:
"Lard! fure the Bithy fellow does not mean
"To turn us up; he won't be fo obfcene:
"I'll go this inftant, and afk Mr. Rich,
"How he dares fuffer this rude Ticklebreech---"
Ladies, be calm, this needlefs rage fufpend,
And take good counfel as from friend to friend:
If you would thun acquaintance with the birch,
Shun cards on fabbath-day, and go to church;
This vicious appetite no longer feed,
Be virtuous all, be British dames indeed.

And now, my pupils, what you've learnt this
night

Go teach to others, and you'll then do right;
Be you to them the fame indulgent tutor,
And come next year to fee your friend Ned Shuter.

§ 118. Prologue to Mahomet.

To point what lengths credulity has run, What counfels fhaken, and what states undone;

What hellish fury wings th' enthufiaft's rage,
And makes the troubled earth one tragic stage;
What blafphemies impofture dares advance,
And build what terrors on weak ignorance;
How fraud alone rage to religion binds,
And makes a pandemonium of our minds;
Our Gallic bard, fir'd with thefe glorious views,
Firft to this crufade led' the tragic mufe;
Her pow'r through France his charming numbers
bore,

But France was deaf---for all her priests were fore.

On English ground the makes a firmer stand, And hopes to fuffer by no hoftile hand. No clergy here ufurp the free-born mind, Ordain'd to teach, and not enflave mankind; Religion here bids Perfecution cease, Without, all order, and within, all peace; Truth guards her happy pale with watchful care, And frauds, tho' pious, find no entrance there. Religion, to be facred, must be free; Men will fufpect---where bigots keep the key. Hooded and train'd like hawks th' enthufiafts fly, And the priest's victims in their pounces die. Like whelps born blind, by mother-church they're bred,

:}

Nor wake to fight, to know themselves mifled:
Murder's the game---and to the fport unpreft,
Proud of the fin, and in the duty bleft,
The layman's but the blood-hound of the priest.
Whoe er thou art, that dar'ft fuch themes advance,
To prieft-rid Spain repair, or flavifh France;

hh

For

For Judas' hire there do the devil's task,
And trick up flavery in religion's mask.
England, fill fee, no furer means requires
To fik their fottish fouls, and damp their martial

tires.

Britons, thefe numbers to yourselves you owe; Voltaire hath ftrength to fhoot in Shakspeare's

bow:

Fame led him at his Hippocrene to drink,
And taught to write with nature, as to think:
With English freedom, English wit he knew,
And from the inexhaufted itream profufely drew.
Cherish the noble bard yourfelves have made,
Nor let the frauds of France fteal all our trade.
Now of each prize the winner has the wearing,
E'en fend our English ftage a-privatcering:
With your commiflion, we'll our fails unfold,
And from their loads of diofs import fome gold.

$119. Prologue to the Jealous Wife.

LLOYD.

THE Jealous Wife! a comedy! poor man!
A charming fubject! but a wretched plan.
His skittish wit, o'erleaping the due bound,
Commits flat trefpafs upen tragic ground.
Quarrels, upbraidings, jealoufies, and spleen,
Grow too familiar in the comic fcene.
Tinge but the language with heroic chime,
'Tis paffion, pathos, character, fublime!
What round big words had fwell'd the pompous
fcene,

A king the husband, and the wife a queen!
Then might diftraction rend her graceful hair,
See fightlefs forms, and feream, and gape, and itare.
Drawcanfir Death had rag'd without controul,
Here the drawn dagger, there the poifon'd bowl.
What eyes had ftream'd at all the whining woe!
What hands had thunder'd at each Hub! and Ob!
But peace! The gentle prologue custom fends,
Like drum and ferjeant, to beat up for friends.
At vice and folly, cach a lawful game,
Our author flies, but with no partial aim.
He read the manners, open as they lie
In nature's volume to the gen'ral eye.

120. Prologue to Runnamede.
BEFORE the records of renown were kept,
The race of fame by rival chiefs was run,
theatres for dying heroes wept,
Ages of glory in long order roll`d,
The world by former Alexanders won:
New empires rifing on the wreck of old:
Wonders were wrought by nature in her prime,
Nor was the ancient world a wilderness of time.
Yet loft to fame is virtue's orient reign,
Dark night defcended o'er the human day,
The patriot liv'd, the hero died in vain.
And wiped the glory of the world away:
Whirl'd round the gulf, the acts of time were tol,
Then in the vaft abyfs for ever lost.

Virtue from fame disjoin'd began to plain
Her voice afcended to almighty Jove;
Her votaries few and unfrequented fane.
He fent the Mufes from the throne above.

The bard arofe; and full of heavenly fire,
With hand immortal touch'd th'immortal lyre;
Heroic deeds in ftrains heroic fung,

All earth refounded, all heaven's arches rung:
The world applaud what they approv'd before,
Virtue and fame took fep'rate paths no more.

Hence to the bard, interpreter of heaven,
The chronicle of fame by Jove is given;
His eye the volume of the past explores,
His hand unfolds the everlasting doors;
In Minos' majefty he lifts the head,
Judge of the world, and fov'reign of the dead;
On nations and on kings in fentence fits,
Dooms to perdition, or to heaven admits;
Dethrones the tyrant tho' in triumph hurl'd,
Calls up the hero from th' eternal world,
Surrounds his head with wreaths that ever bloom,
And vows the verfe that triumphs o'er the romb

While here the Mufes warbled from the farine,
Oft have you liften'd to the voice divine.
A namelefs youth beheld with noble rage,
One fubject, ftill a ftranger to the ftage;
A name that's music to the British ear!
A name that's worthipp'd in the British sphere,
Fair Liberty! the goddefs of the ifle,
Who bleffes England with a guardian fmile.
Britons! a fcene of glory draws to-night!
The fathers of the land arife to fight;

Books too he read, nor blush'd to ufe their The legislators and the chiefs of old,

ftore--

He does but what his betters did before.
Shakipeare has done it, and the Grecian stage
Caught truth of character from Homer's page.
If in his fcenes an honeft skill is shown,
And borrowing little, much appears his own;
If what a matter's happy pencil dreav
He brings more forward in dramatic view;
To your decifion he fubmits his caufe,
Secure of candour, anxious for applaufe.

But if, all rude, his artlefs fcents deface
The fimple beauties which he meant to grace;
If, an invader upon others land,

He fpoil and plunder with a robber's hand,
Do juftice on him---as on fools before---
And give to blockheads past one block head more.

The roll of patriots and the barons bold,
Who greatly girded with the fword and shield,
At ftoried Runnamede's immortal field,
Did the grand charter of your freedom draw,
And found the base of liberty on law.

Our author, trembling for his virgin mufe,
Hopes in the fav'rite theme a fond excule.
If while the tale the theatre commands,
Your hearts applaud him, he'll acquit your hands;
Proud on his country's caufe to build his name,
And add the patriot's to the pect's fame.

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So, when the poet's dark horizon clears,
Arrav'd in fmiles the Epilogue appears.
She of that houfe the lively emblem ftill,
Whole brilliant speakers fiart what themes they
will;

Still varying topics for her fportive rhymes,
From all the follies of thefe fruitful times;
Uncheck'd by forms, with flippant hand may cull,
Prologues, like peers, by privilege are dull.
In folemn ftrain addrefs th' affembled pit,
The legal judges of dramatic wit,
Confining ftill, with dignified decorum,
Their obfervations---to the play before 'em.

Now when each bachelor a helpmate lacks,
(That sweet exemption from a double tax)
When laws are fram'd with a benignant plan
Of light'ning burdens on the married man,
And Hymen adds one folid comfort more,
To all thofe comforts he conferr'd before;
To fmooth the rough laborious road to fame,
Our bard has chofen---an alluring name.
As wealth in wedlock oft is known to hide
The imperfections of a homely bride,
This tempting title, he perhaps expects,
May heighten beautics---and conceal defects:
Thus Sixty's wrinkles, view'd through Fortune's
glafs,

The roly dimples of Sixteen furpass :

The modern fuitor grafps his fair one's hand,
O'erlooks her person, and adores---her land;
Leers on her houfes with an ogling eye,
O'er her rich acres heaves an am'rous figh,
His heart-felt pangs through groves of---timber

vents,

And runs diftracted for---her three per cents
Will thus the poet's mimic Heiress find
The bridegroom critic to her failings blind,
Who claims, alas! his nicer tafte to hit,
The lady's portion paid in fterling wit?
On your decrees, to fix her future fate,
Depends our Heirefs for her whole eftate:
Rich in your fmiles, fhe charms th'admiring town;
A very bankrupt, should you chance to frown:
O may a verdict given in your applaufe
Pronounce the profp'rous iffue of her cause,
Confirm the name an anxious parent gave her,
And prove her Heiress of---the public favour!

$122. Prologue to the Ambitious Step-Mother.

IF

RowE.

F dying lovers yet deferve a tear, If a fad ftory of a maid's defpair Yet move compaffion in the pitying fair; This day the poet does his arts employ, The foft accefes of your fouls to try. Nor let the ftoic boaft his mind unmov'd; The brute philofopher, who ne'er has prov'd The joy of loving and of being lov'd; Who fcorns his human nature to confefs, And, ftriving to be more than man, is less. Nor let the men the weeping fair accuse, Those kind protectors of the tragic muse,

}

Whofe tears did moving Otway's labours crown, And made the poor Monimia's grief their own: Thofe tears their art, not weaknefs, has confest,

Their grief approv'd the nicenefs of their tafte, And they wept moft, because they judg'd the beft.

"}

O could this age's writers hope to find
An audience to compaffion thus inclin'd,
The ftage would need no farce, nor fong, nor dance,
Norcapering Monfieur brought from active France;
Clinch, and his organ-pipe, his dogs and bear,
To native Barnet might again repair,
Or breathe with captain Otter Bankside air:
Majeftic tragedy fhould once again
In purple pomp adorn the fwelling feene.
Her fearch fhould ranfack all the ancient ftore,"
The fortunes of their loves and arms explore,
Such as might grieve you, but should please you

more.

What Shakspeare durft not, this bold age should do,
And famous Greek and Latin beauties fhew:
Shakspeare, whofe genius to itself a law,
Could men in ev'ry height of nature draw,
And copied all but women that he faw.
Thofe ancient heroines your concern fhould move,
Their grief and anger much, but most their love;
For in the account of ev'ry age we find
The beft and faircft of that fex were kind,
To pity always, and to love inclin'd."
Affert, ye fair ones, who in judgment fit,
Your ancient empire over love and wit;
Reform your fenfe, and teach the men t'obey:
They'll leave their tumbling, if you lead the way.
Be but what thofe before to Otway were:
O were you but as kind! we know you are as fair.

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THE fpleen and vapours, and this doleful play,
Have mortified me to that height to-day,
That I am almoft in the mortal mind
To die indeed, and leave you all behind.
Know then, fince I refolve in peace to part,
I mean to leave to one alone my heart:
(Laft favours will admit of no partage,
I bar all fharing, but upon the stage)
To one who can with one alone be bleft,
The peaceful monarch of a fingle breaft:
To onc -But, oh! how hard 'twill be to find
That Phoenix in your fickle changing kind!
New loves, new interefts, and religions new,
Still your fantaftic appetites purfue.
Your fickly fancies loath what you poffefs,
And ev'ry reftlefs fool would change his place.
Some, weary of their peace and quiet grown,
Want to be hoifted up aloft, and shown;
Whilft from the envied height the wife get
fafely down.

We find your wav'ring temper to our coft,
Since all our pains and care to pleafe is loft.
Mufic in vain fupports with friendly aid
Her fifter Poetry's declining head:

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Muft Shakspeare, Fletcher, and laborious Ben
Be left for Scaramouch and Harlequin ?
Allow you are inconftant, yet 'tis ftrange,
For fenfe is ftill the fame, and ne'er can change.
Yet even in that you vary as the reft,
And ev'ry day new notions are profeft.
Nay, there's a wit has found, as I am told,
New ways to heaven, defpairing of the old :
He swears he'll spoil the clerk and fexton's trade,
Bells fhall no more be rung, nor graves be made:
The hearfe and fix no longer be in fashion,
Since all the faithful may expect translation.
What think you of the project? I'm for trying,
I'll lay afide thefe foolish thoughts of dying;
Preferve my youth and vigour for the stage,
And be tranflated in a good old age.

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rage,

For liberty against each other wage,
From foreign infuits fave this English ftage.
No more th' Italian fqualling tribe admit,
In tongues unknown; 'tis pop'ry in wit.
The fongs (themfelves confels) from Rome they
bring,

And 'tis high-mafs, for aught you know, they fing.
Husbands, take care, the danger may come nigher,
The women fay their eunuch is a friar.
But is it not a ferious ill to fec
Europe's great arbiters fo mean can be ;

§ 124. Prologue to the Tender Hufband, or the Paffive, with an affected joy to fit,

Accompli'd Fools.

IN the firft rife and infancy of farce,

ADDISON.

When fools were many, and when plays were
fcarce,

The raw unpractis'd authors could with ease
A young and unexperienc'd audience please:
No fingle character had e'er been shown,
But the whole herd of fops was all their own:
Rich in originals, they fet to view,
In ev'ry piece, a coxcomb that was new.

But now our British theatre can boaft
Drolls of all kinds, a vaft unthinking host!
Fruitful of foliy and of vice, it fhews
Cuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps, and
beaux;

Rough-country knights are found of ev'ry fhire,
Of ev'ry fashion gentle fops appear;
And punks of diffrent characters we meet,
As frequent on the ftage as in the pit:
Our modern wits are forc'd to pick and cull,
And here and there by chance glean up a fool :
Long ere they find the neceffary ipark,
They fearch the town and beat about the Park:
To all his most frequented haunts refort,
Oft dog him to the ring, and oft to cort;
As love of pleafure, or of place invites;
And fometimes catch him taking fnuff at White's.
Howe'er, to do you right, the prefent age
Breeds very hopeful monsters for the stage;
That fcorn the paths their dull forefathers trod,
And won't be blockheads in the common road.
Do but furvey this crowded houfe to-night:
-Here's ftill encouragement for thofe that

write.

Our author, to divert his friends to-day,
Stocks with variety of fools his play;
And, that there may be fomething gay and new,
Two ladies errant has expos'd to view:

Sufpend their native tafte of manly wit;
Neglect their comic humour, tragic rage,
For known defects of nature and of age?
Arife for thame, ye conqu'ring Britons, rife!
Such unadorn'd effeminacy defpife;
Admire (if you will dote on foreign wit)
Not what Italians fing, but Romans writ.
So fhall lefs works, fuch as to-night's flight play,
At your command with juftice die away;
Till then forgive your wiiters, that can't bear
You should fuch very Tramontanes appear,
The nations, which contemn you, to revere.

Let Anna's foil be known for all its charms;
As fam'd for lib'ral fciences as arms:
Let those derifion 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.

126. Epilogue to the Gamefer.
CENT LIVRE.
As
S one condemn'd, and ready to become,
For his offences paft, a pendulum,
Does, ere he dies, befpeak the learned throng,
Then, like the fwan, expires in a fong;
So I (though doubtful long which knot to choofe,
Whether the hangman's, or the marriage noo),
Condemn'd, good people, as you fee, for life,
To play that tedious, juggling game, a wife,
Have but one word of good advice to fay,
Before the doleful cart draws quite away.

You roaring boys, who know the midnight cars
Of rattling tatts, ye, fons of hopes and fears;
Who labour hard to bring your ruin on,
And diligently toil to be undone;
You're fortune's sporting footballs at the beft,
Few are his joys, and finall the gamefter's ret
* Afgilk

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Completely wretched turns a fharper too; Thefe fools, for want of bubbles too, play fair, And lofe to one another on the fquare; o whores the wealth from numerous culls they glean,

Still fpend on bullies, and grow poor again.

This itch for play has likewife fatal been, And more than Cupid drawn the ladies in: A thoufand guincas for baffet prevails,

A bait, when cafh runs low, that feldom fails; And when the fair one can't the debt defray In fterling coin, does fterling beauty pay.

In vain we labour to divert your care, Nor fong 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 ftage difown;
We're like old miftreffes, you love the vice,
And hate us only 'caufe we once did pleate.
Nor can we find how elfe 'tis we deferve,
Like Tantalus, 'midit plenty thus to starve.

§ 127. Prologue to Tancred and Sigifmunda. THOMSON.

BOLD

is the man, who in this nicer age Prefumes to tread the chafte, corrected stage. Now, with gay tintel arts we can no more Conceal the want of nature's fterling ore: Our spells are vanifh'd, broke our magic wand, That us'd to waft you over fea and land: Before your light the fairy people fade; The demons fly---the ghoft itself is laid. In vain of martial fcenes the loud alarms; The mighty Prompter thund'ring out to arms: The playhoufe poffe clattering from afar; The clofe wedg'd battle, and the din of war. Now even the Senate feldom we convene; The yawning fathers nod behind the scene. Your tafte rejects the glitt'ring falfe fublime, To figh in metaphor, and die in rhime. High rant is tumbled from his gallery throne: Defcription, dreamns-nay, fimilies are gone. What fhall we then? to please you how devise? Whole judgment fits not in your ears and eyes. Thrice happy! could we catch great Shakspeare's

art,

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stuff;

Alas! poor audience! you have had enough.
Was ever hapless heroine of a play
In fuch a piteous plight as ours to-day?
Match'd with two hufbands, and yet---die a maid.
Was ever woman fo by love betray'd?
But, blefs me!---hold---what founds are thefe I
hear?---

I fee the Tragic Mufe herself appear.

[The back scene opens, and discovers a ro mantic fylvan landscape, from which Sigif munda, in the character of the Tragic Mule, advances flowly to music, and speaks the following lines:

Hence with your flippant epilogue, that tries To wipe the virtuous tear from British eyes; That dares my moral, tragic fcene profane, With ftrains---at beft, unfuiting, light, and vain. Hence from the pure, unfullied beams, that play In yon fair eyes, where virtue fhines---Away!

Britens, to you, from chafte Caftalian groves, Where dwell the tender, oft unhappy loves; Where fhades of heroes roam, each mighty name, And court my aid, to rife again to fame: To you I come; to freedom's noblest feat; And in Britannia fix my laft retreat.

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

Nor did I lef's o'er private forrows reign,
The purple tyrant trembled at my steel;
And mend the melting heart with fofter pain.
On France and you then rofe my bright'ning ftar
With focial rayThe arts are ne'er at war.
O! as your fire and genius ftronger blaze;
As yours are gen'rous freedom's bolder lays;
Let not the Gallic tafte leave yours behind,
In decent manners and in life refin'd;
Banifh the motley mode, to tag low verfe,
The laughing ballad to the mournful hearfe.
When thro' five acts your hearts have learnt to

glow,

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

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