$130. Prologue to the Bankrupt.

FOOTE.

FOR wit's keen fatire, and this laughing ftage,
What theme fo fruitful as a Bankrupt Age?
For not confin'd to commerce is the curfe,
The head is near as empty as the purfe;
Equally funk, our credit and our wit,
Nor is the fage more folvent than the cit;
All thefe---but foft, ere thus abroad we roam,
Were it not prudent first to look at home?
You, gentle Sirs, have given me credit long,
And took my word for many an idle fong;
But if, exhaufted, I give notes to-day---
For wit and humour, which I cannot pay,
I must turn bankrupt too, and hop away.
Unlefs, indeed, I modifhly apply
For leave to fell my works by lottery.
Tho' few will favour, where's no cash to free'em,
Poor hopes, that way to part with my mufcum:

And fell by auction all my stock in trade;
His placid features, and imploring eye,
May tempt perhaps the tardy town to buy;
His winning manner, and his foft addrefs,
To other fales of mine have given fuccefs;
But after all, my ever honour'd friends,
On you alone my fate this night depends;
I've fought fome battles, gain'd fome vift'ries here,
And little thought a culprit to appear
Before this houie; but if refolv'd you go
To find me guilty, or to make me so,
To grant me neither wit, nor tafte, nor fenfe,
Vain were my plea, and ufclefs my defence.
But ftill, I will not steal, I will not beg,
Tho' I've a pafsport in this wooden leg;
But to my cot contentedly retire,
And few my cabbage by my only fire.
Mean time, great Sirs, my fentence yet un--
known,

E'en as your juftice be your candour shown,
And when you touch my honour, don't forget

(For faith our author might have call'd it one).
I wonder who the devil he thought to please!
Is this a time of day for things like thefe!
Good fenfe and honeft fatire now offend;
We're grown too wife to learn, too proud to mend,
And fo divinely rapt in fongs and tunes,
The next wife age will all be---fidlers fans.
And did he think plain truth would favour find?
Ah, 'fis a fign he little knows mankind!
To pleafe, he ought to have a fong or dance,
The tune from Italy, the caper France:
Thefe, thefe might charm---But hope to do't
with fenfe,

Alas! alas! how vain is the pretence!

But, tho' we told him---'faith, 'twill never do--Pho! never fear, he cried, tho' grave, 'tis new: The whim perhaps may pleafe, if not the wit, And, tho' they don't approve, they may permit. If neither this nor that will intercede,

Submiffive bend, and thus for pardon plead.

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Ye gen'rous few! to you our author fues, "His fit effay with candour to excufe; "'T has faults, he owns, but if they are but fall, "He hopes your kind applaufe will hide them all."

No Better fure on him at once to call,
With---"Sir, if frighten'd thus, why write at all?
We're not reduc'd yet to a trembling pen!
Zounds! bards will crowd us foon, like---gentle-
men."

Something like this, I heard a friend once fav, Who wish'd (poor foul!) to hear a new-launch'd play:

Box'd fnug at first, completely to his mind,
With only one grave auditor behind,
Ere the third act had struggled to its end,
In reel'd three critics, each the author's friend---
On praise determin'd---wit confirm'd by wine:
Each And! and If! was chafte---correct---damn'd
finc.

To tafte fo mark'd my friend of courfe gave way; But fqueez'd, thump'd, kick'd---ftill liften'd to the play;

Till by repeated plaudits grown fo fore,
Nor fieth nor blood could bear one comment more.
Such boift'rous friends they furcly cannot need,
Who wish by merit only to fucceed.
To-night we offer to the public view
A character, you'll own perhaps is new:
From Doctor's Commons we the model draw;
A promifing eleve of civil law;

And civil fure that law which can provide
Or (should need be) releafe you from a bride.
Thrice blefs'd the manfion, where, in fpite of ills,
Alive or dead you still can have your wills.
Much could I offer in our author's caufe;
Nay, prove his first great object---your applaufe;
But, left dull friendship should his genius

ANDREWS.

$133. Epilogue to the fume.
THE drama done, and all its int'reft over,

Content the husband, and fecure the lover; Our timid bard, who dreads the critic ire, And thinks my little tongue can never tire, Would have me re-affume the wig and gown, To plead his goofe-quill caufe before the town. "Lord! Sir," fays I, fome better counsel bring; "For females in a wig are not the thing. "Your bearded Barrifter, if fmartly made, is "A furer advocate among the ladies." "Madam," he cried, "or perriwig'd, or bare, So you but talk, I never need defpair." Suppofe, ye fair, as I'm fo fmooth a prater, I take a line more confonant to nature; Give up the vain attempt your hearts to warm, And 'gainst the men with female weapon arm.

Oft have the wits, unmindful whom they vex, Expos'd the foibles of the fofter fex; Laugh'd at their drefs, their well-fhap'd cork, their

feathers,

Now don't be frighten'd---poor eccentric elves!
I only fhew what moft you like---yourselves.
How! tremble at a woman! fhame betide!
Tho' I look fierce, like you---I'm all outfide:
Yet e'er 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 fome years ago.

Sweet image of mama in ev'ry feature,
The youth came forth, a meft delicious creature,
With full drefs'd fkirts, not quite unlike a hoop,
Hat under arm, fine button, and gilt loop---
Stiff frock, long fword ftill dangling in the way,
He fometimes ventur'd to a firit night play:
Tripp'd thro' the lobby, most completely curl'd;
Nor did a paw-paw thing for all the world.
Thus he difcours'd: “Sir Dilberry, ods fo,
"Dear, dear good lack! have you a place below?
"Den it, don't crow'd fo, fellow---O,how fhock-
"ing!

"He 'as fpoil'd my hair, and dirtied all my Stocking."

66

Such was the imart our grandmamas would praife,
Rather unlike the fmart of prefent days:
For I defy all history to fhew

One thing in nature like a modern beau;
Hat flouch'd, fhort ftick, knee-trappings, that
bring back

The memory of renown'd Sixteen String Jack; Eternal boots, and collar you'd fuppofe Cut in kind contact with his buck fhip's nofe. Thus trimly deck'd, each night among the doxies He ftorms the lobby, and aflails the boxes; With gait and manner---fomething in this way, Proves his rare tafte, and defcants on the play--"Here, box-keeper! why don't the rafcal come? "Halloo---Tom Gerkin! can you give us room? "What's this?---The farce---Macbeth---an ope"ra---O!

"Came out laft feafon---Stupid stuff---damn'd

"low:

"Zounds, let's be off!"---" Z-ds, be a little "calmer!"

"Who's that---the Jordan "---" No, you fool--"R. Palmer."

Thus fome are found, by ev'ry act revealing Perfect indifference to fenfe and feeling. To fuch our play not fucs---but you, ye fair, Ye wife, whom nature form'd with happier care, Whofe tender bofoms, tho' by paffions rent, Feel the foft virtues in their full extent, Cherish our author's plan, which aims to prove, Life's beft exertions fpring from virtuous love.

$134. Verfes to the Memory of Mr. GARRICK. Spoken as a Monody, by Mrs. YATES, at the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane.

Can we perfift to bid our forrows flow
For fabled fuff'rers and deiutive woe ?

Or with quaint fmiles difils the plaintive ftrain,,
Point the quick left--indulge the comic vein
Ere yet to buried Rofcius we affign
One kind regret---one tributary line!

His fame requires we act a tend rer part:
His memory claims the tear you gave his art!
The genral voice, the meed of mournful verfe,
The fplendid for ows that adorn'd his hearfe,
The throng that mourn'd as their dead fav'rite
pais d,

The grac'd refpe&t that claim'd him to the last,
Wald Shakipeare's image, from its hallow'd bafe,
Seem'd to prctcribe the grave, and point the place;,
Nor tcfe, nor all the fad regrets that flow
From fond fidelity's domeftic woe,

So much are Garrick's prae---fo much his due,
As on this fpot---one tear beflow d by voj.

Amid the arts which feck ingenuous fame, Our toil attempts the most precarious claim To him, whofe mimic pencil wins the prize, Obedient fame immortal wreaths fupplies: Whate'er of wonder Reynolds now may raife, Raphael till boafts cotemporal y praife: Each dazzling light and gaudier bloom fubdued, With undiminish'd awe his works are view'd: E'en beauty's portrait wears a fefter prime, Touch'd by the tender hand of mellowing time. The patient fculptor owns an humbler part, A ruder toil, and more mechanic art: Content with flow and timorous ftroke to trace The ling'ring line, and mould the tardy grace: But once achiev'd, tho' barb 'rous wreck o'erthrow The facred fane, and lay its glories low, Yet hall the fculptur'd ruin rife to-day, Grac'd by defect, and worthipp'd in decay; Th`enduring record bears the artift's name, Demands his honours, and afferts his fame. Superior hopes the poet's bofom fire, O proud diftinction of the facred lyre! Wide as th' infpiring Phœbus darts his ray, Diffufive fplendor gilds his votary's lay. Whether the fong heroic woes rehearse, With Epic grandeur, and the pomp of verfe; Or, fondly gay, with unambitious goile Attempt no prize but fav'ring beauty's fmile; Or bear dejected to the lonely grove The foft defpair of unprevailing love; Whate'er the theme, tho' ev'ry age and clime Congenial paffions meet the according rhyme; The pride of glory, pity's figh fincere, Youth's earlicit bluth, and beauty's virgin tear.

Such is their meed---their honours thus fecure, Whofe arts yield objects, and whose works endure. The actor only fhrinks from time's award; Feeble tradition is his memory's guard;

By whofe faint breath his merits muf abz, Unvouch'd by proof, to fubftance unalid Even matchlefs Garrick's art, to heaven regit, No fix'd effect, no model leaves behind.

The grace of action, the adapted mien, Faithful as nature to the vaned icene; Th' expretive glance, whofe fubtle cocimentda Entranc'd attention, and a mute applauk; Gefture that marks, with force and feeling fragen A fense in filence, and a wili in thought, Harmonious fpeech, whofe pure and liquid en Gives verfe a mulic fearce confefs'd in ons; As light from gems affumes a brighter ray, And, cloth'd with orient nucs, tranfcends tieda Paffion's wild break, and frown that awes the And ev'ry charm of gentle eloquence, All perishable !---like th electric fire But itrike the frame, and, as they firike, expat. Incenfe too pure a bodied flame to bear, Its fragrance charms the fenfe, and blends #T air.

Where then, while funk in cold decay he, And pale eclipfe for ever veils thofe cres! Where is the bieft memorial that eatures Our Garrick's fame---whofe is the truf-s yours.

And, O! by ev'ry charm his art effa'd To footh your cares! by ev'ry grief allay'd! By the hith'd wonder which his accents dres By his laft parting tear, repaid by you!

By all thote thoughts, which many a diff: "
Shall mark his memory with a fad deligie'
Still in your hearts dear record bear his nut,
Cherish the keen regret that lifts his fame;
To you it is bequeath'd, affert the truft,
And to his worth---'tis all you can---be jef

What more is due from fanctifying time, To cheerful wit, and many a favour'd rhy O'er his grac'd urn fhail bloom, a deathlefs writt Whofe bloffom'd fweets fhall deck the make neath.

For thefe, when fculpture's votive toil fhallar
The due memorial of a lofs fo dear,
O lovelieft mourner, gentic muse! be thine
The pleafing woc to guard the laurell'd fro
As Fancy, oft by fuperftition led
To roam the manfions of the fainted dead,
Has view'd, by fhadowy eve's unfaithful gloca
A weeping cherub on a martyr's tomb;
So thou, fweet Mofe, hang o'er his fculptur dhe
With patient woe, that loves the ling ring
With thoughts that mourn, nor yet defire rela
With meek regret, and fond enduring grief;
With looks that fpeak---he never shall return
Chilling thy tender bofom, clafp his urn;
And with loft fighs difperfe th irrev'rend det,
Which time may strew upon his facred but,