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Trembling amidft his triomphs, fhouts, and drums, Would give up all his vict'rics, falte or true, Offering it. To gain one greater conqueft---that of you. "Lord!" cricsa buxom widow, boud and trong," "He's quite a boy! To play that part is wreng. "Madam, he's fix feet high, and cannot ce "too young.

No flowing robe and trumpet me adorn;
I wear a jacket, and I wind a horn.
Pipe, fong, and paftoral, for five months pat,
Puff'd well by me, have been the gen'ral tafte.
Now Mary bone thines forth to gaping crowds;
Now Highgate glitters from her hill of clouds;
St. George's Fields, with tafte and fashion ftruck,
Difplay Arcadia at the Dog and Duck :
And Drury Miffes here, "in tawdry pride,
"Are there Paftoras by the fountain fide."
To frowly bow'rs they reel through midnight
damps,

With Fauns half drunk, and Dryads breaking
lamps.

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"He looks fo modeft, hardly fpeaks a word: "Can he with proper spirit draw his fword ?

A face fo fimooth, where neither rage nor pride is "Fits not the hero."---Fronti nulla futes.--In English thus: Truft not to looks, they'l

chent us:

Bounc'd not Sir Swagger lately, as he'd beat us*
And was not he, with all his frowns and airs,
By one, who feem'd all meeknet, kick'd dava
Mifs B---, all delicacy, nerve, and fear, [fair.?
Elop'd last week with a horfe grenadier!
And our advent ver, though fo mild and civil,
If you once route him, plays the very devil!
"Indeed!" cries Madam," Sir, I'm much your
"debtor;

Both far and near did this new whimfy run;
One night it frisk'd, forfcoth, at lilingon.
And now, as for the public bound to cater,
Our manager must have his fate champêtre.
How is the weather?---Pretty clear and bright.
[Looking about."

A ftorm's the detil on champêtre night!
Left it fhould fall to fpoil the author's fcenes,
I'll catch this gleam, to tell you what he means:
He means a fhow as brilliant as Cox's,
Laugh for the pit, and may be at the boxes;
Song, chorus, frolic, dance, and rural play,
The merry-making of a wedding day.
Whofe is the piece ---'Tis all furmife, fuggef-

tion--

Is't his, or hers, or yours. Sir? That's the queftion.
The parent, bathful, whimsical, or poor,
Left it a puling infant at the door ;

'Twas laid on flow'rs, and wrapp'd in fancied
cloaks,

And on the breaft was written---Maid o' th' Oaks.
The actors crowded round---the girls carefs'd.
it:
[blefs'd it;
Lord! the fweet pretty babe !---they prais'dand
The mafter peep'd, fmil'd, took it in, and
drefs'd it.

Whate'er its birth, protect it from the curfe
Of being finothe.'d by a parish nurfe :

I should be glad to know the young man better.”
Twice our young hero, who for glory towers,
In fields lefs dang'rous tried his unknown pow'r»;
Like a young fwimmer, whom his fears command,
In thallow ftreams firft ventur'd from the land;
Till, bolder grown, the rougher wave he ftoms,
Plunges from giddy heights into the Thames.
E'en now he ftarts to hear the torrent rear,
While his pale fates stand frighted on the thore'
Soon will he leap the precipice---Your nod
Sinks him, or lifts him to a demi-god.

§ 86. Prelogue Spoken by Mr. Yates, on 67117
a new Theatre, built for bim ly toe Lizak-
tants of Birmingham.
FOOTE.
FROM ddling, fretting, Monfieur and Signer,
And all the dangers of the Italian thore;
From fqueaking monarchs, and chromatic queas,
And Metaftafio's mix'd and mangled fcens,
Where Fafhion, and not feeling, bears the fway,
Whilft Senfe and Nature coyly keep away,
I come.---All hail the confecrated earth,
Whole bounteous bofom gave our Shahspearebirth!

Shakspeare was born in Warwickshire,

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Gave that great master of the scenic art
To feed the fancy, and correct the heart;
To check th' unruly paflions' wild career,
And draw from Pity's eye the tender tear;
Of Folly's fons t'explore the ample train,
The fot, the fop, the vicious, and the vain;
Hypocrify to drag from her disguise,
And Affectation hunt through all her lyes:
Such was your bard. Who then can deem theftage,
The worthlefs fav'iite of an idle age?

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A fet of bays fcarce bigger than fix mice: "To vifit friends---you never with to fee;

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Marriage 'twixt thofe who never can agree. "Old dowagers, drefs'd, painted, patch'd, and "curl'd

"This is Bon Ton, and this we call the world!"
"Truc," fays my Lord, "and thou, my only ion,
"Whate'er your faults, ne'er fin against Bon
"Ton!

Or judge that pleasure, with instruction join'd,
Can foil the manners, or corrupt the mind?
Far other thoughts your generous breaft infpire,
Touch'd with a spark of true Promethean fire :
Sure that the Arts with Commerce came to earth," And digs for Greek and Latin, is a fool.

That the fame parents gave thofe fifters birth,
Cold creeping Prejudice you dar'd defpife,
And bade this Temple to the Mufes rife.
O that my tongue could utter all I feel!
Or that my pow'rs were equal to my zeal!
Plac'd by your favour, not by right divine,
Th' unworthy high-prieft of the facred nine,
No tainted incente fhould pollute their fhrine,
Nor aught be offer'd to the public view,
But what was worthy them---and worthy you.

$87. Prologue to Bon Ton; 1773. COLMAN.
FASHION in ev'ry thing bears fovereign fway,
And words and periwigs have both their day;
Each have their purlieus too, are modifh cach,
In ftated districts, wigs as well as fpeech.
The Tyburn feratch, thick club, and Temple tie;
The parfon's feather-top, frizz'd broad and high
The coachman's cauliflow'r, built tiers on tiers!
Differ not more from bags and brigadiers,
Than great St. George's or St. James's ftyles
From the broad dialect of Broad St. Giles.
What is Bon Ton --- O, damme !" cries a buck,
Half drunk---" afk me, my dear, and you're in

56

luck :

66

your

"Bon Ton's to fwear, break windows, beat the
"watch,
[catch.
"Pick up a wench, drink healths, and roar a
Keep it up! keep it up! damme, take
fwing!
[thing
"Bon Ton is life, my boy; Bon Ton's the
"Ah! I loves life, and all the joys it vields."
Says Madam Fuffock, warm from Spitalfields.
Bon Ton's the space 'twixt Saturday and
Monday,

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"And riding in a one-horfe chair o' Sunday!
'Tis drinking tea, on fummer afternoons,
"At Bagnigge Wells, with china and gilt fpoons!
"Tis laying by our stuffs, red cloaks, and
66 pattens,

"To dance cowtillons all in filks and fattins !"
"Vulgar!"---cries Mifs---" Obferve, in higher
life,
[wife:
The feather'd fpinfter, and thrice-feather'd
"The club's Bon Ton. Bon Ton's a conftant
"trade

"Of rout, feftino, ball, and mafquerade! [new;
'Tis plays and puppet-fhows---'tis fomething
'Tis lofing thousands every night at lu!

"Who toils for learning at a public fchool,

"French, French, my boy, 's the thing! jaz!

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prate, chatter!

"Trim be the mode, whipt-fyllabub the matter! "Walk like a Frenchman; for, on Argith pegs, "Moves native aukwardnets with two left legs. "Of courtly friendship form a treacherous league,

66

"Seduce men's daughters, with their wives intrigue;

"In fightly femicircles round your nails,

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Keep your teeth clean---and grin, if fmall-
"talk fails:

"But never laugh, whatever jet prevails:
"Nothing but nonfenfe e'er gave laughter bath,
"That vulgar way the vulgar fhew their mirth.
"Laughter's a rude convultion, fenfe that juttles,
Daturbs the cockles, and diftorts the mufcies.
"Hearts may be black, but all thould wear clean
"faces;

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"The graces, boy! The graces, graces, graces!" Such is Bon Ton! and walk this city

through,

In building, fcribbling, fighting, and virtu,
And various other fhapes, 'twill rife to view.
To-night our Bayes, with bold but carclefs
tints,

Hits of a sketch or two, like Darly's prints.
Should connoiffeurs allow his rough draughts
ftrike 'em,

Twill be Bon Ton to fee 'em, and to like 'em.

$88. Prologue to the Rivals; 1775. SHERIDAN,
Enter Serjeant at Lary, and Attorney following,
and giving a Paper.
Serj. WHAT's here ---a vile cramp hand! I

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Att. Some fons of Phoebus in the Courts we

meet--

Seri. And fifty fons of Phoebus in the Fleet! Att. Nor pleads he wore, who with a decent fprig

Of bays adorns his legal wafte of wig.

Seri. Full-bottom'd herocs thus on figus unfurl A leaf of laurel in a grove of curl! Yet tell your client that, in adverfe davs, This wig is warmer than a bush of bays. Alt. Do you then, Sir, my client's place fupply, Profufe of robe, and prodigal of tyeDo you, with all thofe blushing pow'rs of face, And wonted bafhful hefitating grace, Rife in the court, and flourish on the cafe.

[Exit.

Serj. For practice then fuppofe---this brief will fhew it-

Me, Sericant Woodward---counfel for the poct.
Us'd to the ground---I know 'tis hard to deal
With this dread Court, from whence there's no
appeal;

No tricking here to blunt the edge of law,
Or, damn'd in equity---etcape by fiaw :
But judgment given---your jentence muft remain;
No writ of error lies---to Drury-lane!

Yet when fo kind you feem, 'tis paft difpute
We gain fome favour, if not costs of fuit.
No pleen is here! I see no hoarded fury ;
I think I never fac'd a milder jury! [portation,
Sad elfe our plight !---where trowns are tranf-
A hifs the gallows---and a grean damnation!
But fuch the public candour, without fear
My client waves all right of challenge here.
No newfman from our feflion is difini's'd,
Nor wit nor critic we fcratch off the lift;
His faults can never hurt another's eafe,
His crime at worst---a bad attempt to pleafe:
Thus, all respecting, he appeals to all,
And by the general voice will stand or fall.

Nay, I have heard that statefinen, great and wife, Will Jometimes counsel with a lady's eyes; The fervile fuitors watch her various face, She fmiles preferment---or the frowns dif

grace,

Curthies a penfion here---there nods a place.

Nor with lefs awe, in fcenes of humbler life, Is view'd the mistress, or is beard the wife. The pooreft pealant of the pooreft foil, The child of poverty, and heir to toil, Early from radiant love's impartial light Steals one fmall fpark to cheer his world of night, Dear spark! that oft, thro' winter's chilling wous, Is all the warmth his little cottage knows!

The wand'ring tar---who not for years hat
prefs'd

The widow'd partner of his day of rest,
On the cold deck, far from her arms remor'd,
Still hums the ditty which his Sutan lov`d:
And while around the cadence rude is bow♫,
The boatswain whittles in a fofter tone.

The foldier, fairly proud of wounds and tuil,
Pants for the triumph of his Nancy's fimile;
But ere the battle, thould he lift her cries,
The lover trembles---and the hero dies!
That heart, by war and honour steel'd to fear,
Droops on a figh, and fickens at a tear'

But ye more cautious---ye nice-judging few, Who give to beauty only beauty's due, Tho' friends to Love---je view with deep regret Our conquefts marr'd, and triumphs incomplete, Till polith'd wit more lafting charms difclete, And judgment fix the darts which beauty throws. In female breafts did fente and merit rule, The lover's mind would afk no other school; Sham'd into fenfe---the fcholars of our eyes, Our beaux from gallantry would foon be wife; Would gladly light, their homage to improve, The lamp of knowledge at the torch of love!

$89. Epilogue to the fame; 1775. SHERIDAN..$ 90. Epilogue to Edward and Elonora; 17-5.

LADIES, for you---I heard our poet fay,

He'd try to coax fome moral from his play: One moral's plain,' cried I, without more fufs; Man's focial happiness all refts on us:

Thro' all the drama, whether damn'd or not, Love gilds the frene, and women guide the plot. From ev'ry rank obedience is our duc:

D've doubt?---the world's great stage shall " prove it true.'

The cit, well fkill'd to fhun domestic strife, Will fup abroad; but firft---he'll ask his wife. John Trot, his friend, for once will do the fame; But then---he'll just flep home to tell his dume.

The furly quire at noon refolves to rule, And half the day---Zounds! Madam is a fool! Convinc'd at night, the vanquish'd victor says, Ah, Kate! you comen have juch coaxing way's! The jolly toper chides each tardy blade, Till reeling Bacchus calls on love for aid: Then with cach toaft he fees fair bumpers fwim, And killes Chloe on the parkling brim!

To the Pit.

SHERIDAN.

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Two years a wife---view Lesbia, fobbing, crying; Her chair is waiting--but my lord is dying; Preparing for the worft, fhe tells her maid To countermand her points, and new brocade; "For, O if I fhould lofe the best of men, "Heaven knows when I thall fee the Club again. “So, Lappet, fhould he die while I am out, "You'll fend for me at Lady Bafto's rout; "The doctor faid he might hold out till three, "But I ha'n't fpirits for the coterie !"

Now change the fccne---place madam in the fever,

My lord for comfort at the Spavoir Vivre ; His valet enters---thakes his meagre head--"Chapeau, what news?"--"Ah! Sir, me lady "dead!"

The deuce!---'tis fudden, faith---but four days fick!

"Well, feven's the main---(poor Kate ')---cle

"ven's a nick."

But hence reflections on a fenfeless train, Who, loft to real joy, should feel no pain; 'Mongft Britain's daughters ftill can Hymen's light Reveal the love which charm'd your hearts tonight;

Shew beauteous martyrs, who would each prefer, To die for him, who long has liv'd for her; Domeftic heroines, who with fondest care Outfmile a husband's griefs, or claim a fhare; Search where the rankling evils most abound, And heal with cherub-lip the poison'd wound. Nay fuch bright virtues in a royal mind Were not alone to Edward's days confin'd; Still, ftill they beam around Britannia's throne, And grace an Eleonora of our own.

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WHILE, in thefe days of fentiment and grace,
Poor comedy in tears refigns her place,
And fmit with novels, full of maxims crude,
She that was frolic once, now turns a prude;
To her great end the tragic mufe afpires,
At Athens born, and faithful to her fires.

The comic fifter, in hyfteric fit,
You'd fwear has loft all memory of wit;
Folly for her may now exult on high;
Feather'd by ridicule, no arrows fly;
But, if you are diftrefs'd, the's fure to cry.
She that could jig, and nick-name all heaven's

creatures,

With forrows not her own deforms her features;
With ftale reflections keeps a conftant pother;
Grecce gave her one face, and the makes another---
So very pious, and fo full of woe,
You well may bid her, " To a nunnery go."
Not fo Melpomene; to nature true,
She holds her own great principle in view.
She, from the firft, when men her pow'r confefs'd,
When grief and terror feiz'd the tortur'd breaft,
She made, to ftrike her moral to the mind,
The itage the great tribunal of mankind.

Hither the worthies of each clime she draws, Who founded states, or rescued dying laws; Who, in bafe times, a life of glory led,

And for their country who have toil'd or bled, Hither they come---again they breathe, they live; And virtue's meed thro' ev'ry age receive.

Hither the murd'rer comes, with ghaftly mien, And the fiend confcience hunts him o'er the fcene. None are exempted; all must re-appear, And even kings attend for judgment here; Here find the day, when they their pow'r abuse, Is a fcene furnith'd to the tragic mufe.

Such is her art; weaken'd perhaps at length, And while the aims at beauty, lofing strength. O! when, refuming all her native rage, Shall her true energy alarm the stage?

This night a bard (our hopes may rife too high--

'Tis yours to judge, 'tis yours the calfe to try)--This night a bard, as yet unknown to fame, Once more, we hope, will rouse a genuine flame, His no French play---tame, polish'd, dull by rule: Vigorous he comes, and warm from Shakipeare's

fchool.

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Shall they who govern forture, cringe and court her,

Thirft in their age, and call in vain for porter? | Like-Belifarius, tax the pitying ftreet With date obolum to all they meet?

Shan't I, who oft have drench'd my hands in gore;

Stabb'd many, poifon'd fome, beheaded more ;
Who numbers flew in battle on this plain---
Shan't I, the flayer, try to feed the flain?
Brother to all, with equal love I view
The men who flew me, and the men I flew :
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I muft,

1

I muft, I will this happy project feize,
That thofe, too old to die, may live with cafe.
Suppofe the babes I fmother'd in the Tow'r,
By chance, or fickness, lole their acting pow'r,
Shall they, once princes, worfe than all be ferv'd---
In childhood murder'd, and, when murder'd,
fcary'd?

Matrons half ravish'd for your recreation,
In age, thould never want fome confolation.
Can I, young Hamlet once, to nature lcit,
Behold, O horrible! my father's ghoft,
With grifly beard, pale cheek, ftalk up and down,
And he, the Royal Dane, want half a crown?
Forbid it, ladies; gentlemen, forbid it :
Give joy to age, and let 'em fay---You did it.
To you, ye gods! I make my last appeal;
You have a right to judge, as well as feel;
Will your high wifdoms to our scheme incline,
That kings, queens, heroes, gods, and ghofts may

dine?

Olympus shakes !---that omen all fecures; May ev'ry joy you give be tenfold yours!

$93. Prologue to the Capuchin; 1776. Spoken by Mr. Foote.

COLMAN.

CRITICS, whene'er I write, in ev'ry fcene Difcover meanings that I never mean; Whatever character I bring to view, I am the father of the child, 'tis true, But ev'ry babe his chrift ning owes to you. "The comic poet's eye, with humorous air, "Glancing from Watling-ftreet to Grofvenorfquare,

"He bodies forth a light ideal train,

"And turns to fhape the phantoms of his brain:
"Meanwhile your fancy takes more partial aim,
"And gives to airy nothing place and name."
A limner once, in want of work, went down
To try his fortune in a country town:
The waggon, loaded with his goods, convey'd
To the fame pot his whole dead stock in trade,
Originals and copies---ready made.

To the new painter all the country came;
Lord, lady, doctor, lawyer, 'fquire, and dame,
The humble curate, and the curate's wife,
All afk a likeness---taken from the life.
Behold the canvas on the cafel ftand!

A pallet grac'd his thumb, and brushes fill'd his

hand:

Bit, ah! the painter's fkill they little knew,
Nor by what curious rules of art he drew.
The waggon-load unpack'd, his ancient store
Furnish'd for each a face drawn long before,
God, dame, or hero, of the days of yore.
The Cæfars, with a little alteration,
Were turn'd into the mayor and corporation :
To reprefent the rector and the dean,
He added wigs and bands to Prince Eugene.
The ladies, blooming all, deriv'd their faces
From Charles the Second's beauties, and theGraces.

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"And in the style and manner of Vandyke ! "O, this new limner's pictures always ftrike! "Old, young, fat, lean; dark, fair; or big or little,

The very man, or woman, to a tittle !"

Foote and this limner in fome points agree,
And thus, good Sirs, you often deal by me.
When, by the royal licence and protection,
I fhew my fmall academy's collection,
The connoiffeur takes out his glais to pry.
Into each picture with a curious eye;
Turns topiy-turvy my whole compofition,
And makes mere portraits all my exhibition.
But ftill the copy 's fo exact, you fay;
Alas! the fame thing happens ev'ry day!
How many a modifh well-drefs'd fop you meet,
Exactly fuits his fhape in Monmouth-ftreet;
In Yorkshire warehouses and Cranbourn-alley,
As honeft Crifpin understands his trade,
'Tis wonderful how fhoes and feet will tally!

On the true human fcale his lafts are made,
The measure of each fex and age to hit,
And ev'ry fhoe, as if bespoke, will fit.
My warehouse thus, for nature's walks, fupplics
Shoes for all ranks, and lafts of ev'ry fize.
Sit ftill, and try them, Sirs; I long to please ve---
How well they fit! I hope you find them caly:
If the fhoe pinches, fwear you cannot bear it:
But if well made---I with you health to wear it!

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