Ladies, be calm, this needlefs rage fufpend,
And take good counfel as from friend to friend:
If you would fhun 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.

With your commiffion, we 'll our fails unfold,
And from their loads of drofs import some gold.

$119. Prologue to the Jealous Wife.

LLOYD.

And now, my pupils, what you 've learnt this THE Jealous Wife! a comedy! poor man!

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 Manomet.

TO point what lengths credulity has run,

What counfels thaken, and what ftates un-
done;

What helith fury wings th' enthufiaft's rage,
And makes the troubled earth one tragic ftage;
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 these glorious views,
First to this crufade led the tragic mufe;
Her pow'r through France his charming numbers
bore,

But France was deaf-for all her priefts were fore.
On English ground the makes a firmer ftand,
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, muft be free;
Men will fufpect-where bigots keep the key.
Hooded and train'd like hawks th' enthufiafts fly,
And the pricft'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, pict.

Whoe'er thou art, that dar'it fuch theines advance,
To prieft-rid Spain repair, or flavish France;
For Judas' hire there do the devil's task,
And trick up flavery in religion's malk.
England, ftill free, no furer means requires
To fink their fottish fouls, and damp their martial
fires.

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 ftream profufely drew.
Cherish the noble bard yourselves have made,
Nor let the frauds of France fteal all our trade:
Now of each prize the winner has the wearing,
Een fend our English ftage a-privateering:

A charming fubje&t! but a wretched plan. His skittish wit, o'ericaping the due bound, Commits flat trefpafs upon tragic ground. Quarrels, upbraidings, jealoufies, and spleen,

Grow too familiar in the comic fcene.

I inge but the language with heroic chime,
'Tis paflion, pathos, character, fublime!
What round big words had fwell'd the pompous
icene,

A king the hufband, and the wife a queen!
Then might diftraction rend her graceful hair,
See fightless forms, and feream, and gape, and stare.
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 sends,
Like drum and ferjeant, to beat up for friends.
At vice and folly, each 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.
Books too he read, nor blufh'd to use their
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 fkill is fhown,
And, borrowing little, much appears his own;
If what a master's happy pencil drew
He brings more forward in dramatic view;
To your decifion he submits his caufe,
Secure of candour, anxious for applause.

But if, all rude, his artlefs fcenes 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 paft one blockhead more.

§ 120. Prologue 10 Runnamede. BEFORE the records of renown were kept,

Or theatres for dying heroes wept,
The race of fame by rival chiefs was run,
The world by former Alexanders won:
Ages of glory in long order roll'd,
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;
The patriot liv'd, the hero died in vain.
Dark night defcended o'er the human day,
And wiped the glory of the world away:
Whirl'd round the gulf, the acts of time were toft,
Then in the vast abyfs for ever loft.

Virtue from fame disjoin'd began to plain
Her votaries few and unfrequented fane.

Her

Her voice afcended to almighty Jove;
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'iate 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 tomb.
While here the Mufes warbled from the thrine,
Oft have you liften'd to the voice divine.
A nameless youth beheld, with noble rage,
One fubject ftill a ftranger to the stage;
A name that 's mufic to the Britifa car!
A name that's worshipp'd in the British fphere,
Fair Liberty! the goddess of the ille,
Who bleffes England with a guardian fmile.
Britons! a fcene of glory draws to-night!
The fathers of the land arife to fight;
The legiflators and the chiefs of old,
The roll of patriots and the barons bold,
Who greatly girded with the fword and fhield,
At ftoried Runnamede's immortal field,
Did the grand charter of your freedom draw,
And found the bafe of liberty on law.

Our author, trembling for his virgin muse,
Hopes in the fav rite theme a fond excufe.
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 poet's fame.

121. Prologue to the Heiress. FirZPATRICK AS fprightly fun-beams gild the face of day,

When low'ring tempefts calmly glide away,
So, when the poet's dark horizon clears,
Array'd in fimiles the Epilogue appears.
She, of that houfe the lively emblem ftill,
Whofe brilliant fpeakers ftart what themes they
will;

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 chofeu-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 rofy dimples of Sixteen furpafs:
The modern fuitor grafps his fair-one's hand,
'erlooks her perion, 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, the charms th'admiting town;
A very bankrupt, thould you chance to frown:
may a verdict given in your applaufe
Pronounce the profp'rous iffue of her caufe,
Confirm the name an anxious parent gave her,
And prove her Heiefs of-the public favour!

0

$122. Prologue to the Ambitious Step-mother. ROWE.

IF dying lovers yet deferve a tears

If a fad ftory of a maid's defpair
Yet move compallion in the pitying fair;
This day the poet does his arts employ,
The foft acceffes 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 corns his human nature to confefs,
And, ftriving to be more than man, is lefs.
Nor lct the men the weeping fair accute,
Thofe kind protectors of the tragic mufe,
Whole teas did moving Otway's labours crown,
And made the poor Monimia's grief their own:
Thofe tears their art, not weakness, has confeft,
Their grief approv'd the nicer efs of their tafte,
And they weptinoft, be caufe they judg'd the best
O could this age's writers hope to find
An audience to companion thus inclin'd,
Thettage would need no farce. nor fong, nor dance,
cull-Nor capering 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 should once again
In purple pomp adorn the fwelling fcene 1
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

Still varying topics for her fportive rhymes,
From ail the follies of thefe fruitful times;
Un heck'd by forms,wi hflippant hand may
Prologus, like pecs by privilege are dull-
In folemn ftram 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 fweet exemption from a double tax)
When laws are fram'd with a benignant plan
Of light'ning burdens on the married man,

more.

What

What Shakspeare durft not, thisbold age fhould do,§ 124. Prologue to the Tender Hafband, or the

§ 129. Epilogue to Zara. HERE, take a furfeit, firs, of being jealous, And fhun the pains that plague thofe Turkish fellows :

Where love and death join hands, their darts confounding,

Save us, good heaven! from this new way of wounding!

Curs'd climate-where, to cards, a lone-left

Has only one of her black guards to fummon!
Sighs, and fits mop'd, with her tame beat to

And that cold treat is all the game the plays at !
For-fhould the once fome abler hand be trying,
Poignard's the word! and the firft deal is-
dying!

in

'Slife fhould the bloody whim get ground Britain, Where woman's freedom has fuch heights to fit

Daggers, provok'd, would bring on defolation,
And murder'd belles un-people half the nation!
Fain would I hope this play to move com-
paffion-

And live to hunt fufpicion out of fashion.-
Four motives ftrongly recommend, to lovers,
Hate of this weaknefs, that our scene difcovers:
First then-A woman will or won't-depend

If the will do 't, the will-and there 's an end on't. But, if the won't-fince fafe and found your truft is,

Fear is affront, and jealoufy injuftice.

For-not to feel your fuff'rings, is the fame
As not to fuffer-All the diff 'rence-name.
Thirdly-The jealous husband wrongs his
honour;

No wife goes lame, without fome hurt upon her:
And the malicious world will still be guefling,
Who oft dines out diflikes her own cook's drefling.

Fourthly, and laftly to conclude my lecture,
If you would fix th' inconftant 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
feeming,

Grow really fuch-to merit your efteeming.

Next-He who bids his dear do what the pleases, Blunts wedlock's edge, and all its torture cafes:(For'faith our author might have call'd it one).