O! for his powers, thofe feelings to impart,
Which rous'd to action every drooping heart.
Now, while the angry trumpet founds alarms,
And all the nation cries-to arms, to arms!
Then would his native ftrength each Briton know,
And fcorn the threats of an invading foe:
Hatching and feeding every civil broil,
France looks with envy on our happy foil;
When mifchief's on the wing, fhe cries for war,
Infults diftrefs, and braves her conqueror.
But Shakespeare fung,-and well this land he knew,
O! hear his voice- That nought fhall make us rue,
If England to itself do rest but true.
PROLOGUE to the new Comedy of THE FATHERS,
Written by Mr. GARRICK, and poken by Mr. KING.
HEN from the world departs a fon of fame,
His deeds or works embalm his precious name;
Yet not content, the public call for art,
To refcue from the tomb his mortal part;
Demand the painter's and the fculptor's hand,
To fpread his mimic form throughout the land;
A form, perhaps, which, living, was neglected,
And, when it could not feel refpect, refpected:
This night no buft or picture claims your praife,
Our claim's fuperior, we his fpirit raise;
From Time's dark ftorehoufe bring a long-loft play,
And drag it from oblivion into day.
But who's the author?-Need I name the wit,
Whom Nature prompted as his genius writ?
Truth fmil'd on Fancy for cach well-wrought ftory,
Where characters live, act, and stand before ye :
Suppofe thefe characters, various as they are,
The knave, the fool, the worthy, wife, and fair,
For and against the author pleading at your bar.
First pleads Tom Jones-grateful his heart and warm;
Brave, gen'rous Britons-fhield this play from harm:
My best friend wrote it; fhould it not fucceed,
Tho' with my Sophy bleft,-my heart will bleed.-
Then from his face he wipes the manly tear ;-
Courage, my mafter, Partridge cries, don't fear;
Should Envy's ferpents hifs, or Malice frown,
Tho' I'm a coward, zounds! I'll knock 'em down.
Next, fweet Sophia comes,--fhe cannot speak-
Her wishes for the play o'erfpread her cheek;
In ev'ry look her fentiments you read ;
And more than eloquence her blushes plead.
Now Blifil bows-with fmiles his falfe heart gilding,
He was my foe-I beg you'll damn this FIELDING;
Right, Thwackum roars-no mercy, Sirs, I pray,
Scourge the dead author thro' his orphan play.
What, words!(cries Parfon Adams) fie, fie, difown 'em ;
Good Lord! de mortuis nil nifi bonum:
If fuch are Christian teachers, who'll revere 'em
And thus they preach, the devil alone should hear 'em,
Now Slipflop enters- tho' this feriv'ning vagrant,
'Salted my virtue, which was ever flagrant;
Yet, like black Thello, I'd bear fcorns and whips,
Slip into poverty to the very hips
T'exult this play-may it decrease in favour;
And be its fame immoraliz'd for ever!
'Squire Western, reeling, with October mellow,
Tall' yo!-Boys!-Yoax-Critics! hunt the fellow!
Damn 'em, thefe wits are varmint not worth breeding,
What good e'er came of writing and of reading?
Next comes, brimful of spite and politics,
His Siler Weflern-and thus deeply speaks:
Wits are arm'd pow'rs-like France attack the foe;
Negociate 'till they fleep-then ftrike the blow!
Allworthy, laft, pleads to your noblest passions-
Ye gen'rous leaders of the taste and fashions;
Departed genius left his orphan play
To your kind care-what the dead wills obey:
O then refpect the FATHER'S fond bequest,
And make his widow fmile, his fpirit reft.
EPILOGUE to the fame,
Written by Mr. GARRICK, and Spoken by Mifs YOUNG.
ROLOGUES and Epilogues to speak the phrafe
Which fuits the warlike fpirit of thefe days-
Are cannon charg'd, or should be charg'd with wit,
Which, pointed well, each rifing folly hit,
By a late Gen'ral who commanded here,
And fought our bloodless battles many a year!
'Mongft other favours were conferr'd on me,
He made me Captain of artillery!
At various follics many guns I fir'd,
Hit 'em point-blank, and thought the foe retir'd
But vainly thought-for to my great furprize,
They now are rank and file before my eyes!
Nay to retreat may even me oblige ;-
The works of folly ftand the longest siege !
With what brisk firing, and what thunder-claps,
Did I attack thofe high-built caftles-caps!
But tow'ring ftill, they fwell in lofty state,
Nor strike one ribbon to capitulate ;-
Whilft beaux behind, thus peeping, and thus bent,
Are the befieg'd, behind the battlement:
But you are conquerors, ladies, have no dread,
Henceforth in peace enjoy the Cloud capp'd head!
We fcorn to ape the French, their tricks give o'er,
Nor at your rigging fire one cannon more!
And now, ye Bucks, and Bucklings of the
Tho' caps are clear, hats fhall feel my rage;
The high-cock'd, half-cock'd, Quaker, and the flouch,
Have at ye all! I'll hit you, tho' ye crouch.
We read in history-one William Tell,
An honeft Swifs, with arrows fhot so well,
On his fon's head, he aim'd with so much care,
He'd hit an apple, and not touch one hair:
So I with fuch like fkill, but much less pain,
Will ftrike your hats off, and not touch your brain:
To curfe our head drefs! an't you pretty fellows!
Pray, who can fee thro' your broad-brimm'd umbrellas ?
That pent-house worn by flim Sir Dainty Dandle,
Seems to extinguish a poor farthing candle !-
We look his body through-But what fair she
Thro' the broad cloud that's round his head can fee?
Time was, when Britons to the boxes came,
Quite fpruce, and Chapeau bas! address'd each dame.
Now in flapp'd hats and dirty boots they come,
Look knowing thus-to every female dumb;
But roar out-Hey, Jack! fo, Will! you there, Tom?
Both fides have errors, that there's no concealing;
We'd lower our heads, had but men's hearts fome feeling.
Valence, my fpark, played off his modish airs,
But nature gave his wit to cope with their's;
Our fex have fome fmall faults won't bear defending,
And tho' near perfect, want a little mending;
Let Love ftep forth, and claim from both allegiance,
And bring back caps and hats to due obedience.
PROLOGUE and EPILOGUE to the New Comedy of the SLEEP WALKER.
(Tranflated from the French.)
Performed at the Seat of Lord CRAVEN, near Newbury, in Berkshire.
The Prologue and Epilogue are the Production of Lady CRaven.
PROLOGUE.
ROM the Green-room I've just escap'd to tell
What fad confufion and what tremours dwell
On each young Actor's face; by turns appear
Gleams of fweet hope, and pangs of anxious fear.
I come your pity and applause t' intreat,
And lay our weak endeavours at your feet.
We ne'er were taught to rant, to weep, to stare;
Or tread poetic ground with comic air;
So, if we deviate from dramatic rule,
Good folks, remember, we were ne'er at school.
One Actor, trembling, bites his nails and swears
He ne'er can get the better of his fears;
Another wipes his brow in mighty fufs,
And, like a tea-pot, ftands exactly thus:
Each to their different parts make fome objection,
All cling to me for knowledge or protection;
To me they truft, whofe knowledge is fo fmall;
To me, the greatest coward of them all.
Laft night, indeed, as thro' old Chaucer's grove,
In folitary mood, I chanc'd to rove;
A reverend form addrefs'd my lift'ning ear,
And thus advis'd me to fupprefs each fear:
Welcome, thrice welcome, to this beauteous fpot,
Fam'd Donington! this once my happy lot;
Chaucer, by name; I first attun'd the lyre,
And gave to British founds poetic fire:
The praise of Berkshire, erft the,woods among,
Infpir'd my lays, and cheer'd my tuneful fong;
Berkshire, whofe fcenes might roufe a Poet's thought,
Berkshire, with every pleafing beauty fraught,
Demands thy foft'ring hand, thy daily pray❜r,
And let the poor and aged be thy care;
Employ thy genius, and command each friend,
Turn mirth and pleasure to fome pious end.'
He ceas'd, the Poet's fhade diffolv'd in air,
His fage advice is deeply written here;
I joyfully obey-and this night's gain
Is to relieve the voice of want or pain;
Our Play alone is acted with this view,
Our Players happy if approv'd by you.
Your gracious fmiles will juftify the parts,
Which, as they please the mind, revive the hearts.
S all our audience quite awake, I wonder?
Methinks I fee one in that corner, yonder,
That droops his head; alas! as if to fay,
This is, I vow, a foporific play.
I thought 'twould be fo: our young Tranflator
Call'd me a crofs old grumbling woman-hater.
Becaufe I faid, dear Ma'am, 'twill never do,
Your plot, your fleeper, why 'tis very true,
Together with the actors, all are new:
But, then, new things but feldom fit with ease;
Stop here, fhe faid, why I am fure to please:
Then gave me fuch a look from her black eyes,
As might infpire a flatue with furprise.
Tell them, faid fhe, then tofs'd her little head,
We're dreamers all, both in and out of bed.
Look at our modern beau, who fleeps till noon,
Then yawns all day, as if got up too foon.
The fwain, who dreams of lilies and of roses,
Pines for thofe fweets o'er which a husband dofes;
The love fick maid is furely in a dream,
Whene'er male conftancy's her fav'rite theme.
See Politicians, deep! tremendous number!
O'er half-form'd projects, how demure they flumber!
To form, reform, reject, chufe, mend and make,
Thefe are the dreams of good men broad awake.
Behold our Minifters, who make a fuss,
When knotty points, affembled, they discuss:
Who talk of peace, of taxes, and starvation,
They only dream they can retrieve the nation.
One out of ten of each protefting Peer
Dreams, faintly dreams, he's what he wou'd appear.
Phyficians dream ill health they can controul,
And Quack's divine that they can fave the foul.
I dream, my neighbours, as myfelf I love,
I dream, this night's performance they approve;
Tell them this dream appears to me fo clever,
That, if it is not true,— -I'll fleep for ever,
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