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Boldly your will in open court declare,
And let the men dispute it if they dare !

EPILOGUE to the ANDRIA,

Aated at Hackney School.

Written by Mr, GARRICK,

Dayus speaks.
BUT why a& plays !--some formal greyheard cries :

I'll answer that, who am not over-wise :
To learn their lessons, and to play the fool,
Are the two great concerns of boys at school ;
And our good masters prudently discerning,
How much we lean to folly more than learning,
Contriv'd these plays, by which the verieft dunce
May learn his book and play the fool at once,
For Greek and Latin we have small devotion,
Terence himself goes down a fickly potion ;
But fet us once to act him-never fear us-
Our qualms are gone, 'tis you are fick who hear us.
Ne'er may our actors, when they quit the school,
Tread the great stage of life to play the fool ;
No partial friends can there our faults conceal,
Should we play characters we cannot feel.
If we act law---are judges !---then are we,
Like justice, blind---as counsel we may see
Enough to know the colour of a fee.
In phyfick --practice is our best adviser,
The more we're puzzled, we must seem the wiser.
If war's our trade, and, we vain, bluft'ring, young,
Should, Thraso like, fight battles with our tongue,
Soon 'twould appear how ill these airs become us ;
The foe comes on-quid nunc ?- quiu redeamus.
In Ahort, be what we may, experience teaches
This truth-One deed is worth a thousand speeches.
John Moody of fir Wronghead well has told it,
He can speak stawtly, but he canna' hawld it.
This for myself and school!--Now let me say,
Why with these English rhimes we close our play.
Ladies, for you they're meant -I feel to you,
Small as I am, that great respect is due :
Quit of my Grecian fervitude, I crave
Still to be Englith Davus, and your fave-
To fuccour English damsels is my plan ;
If you should want me, ladies, I'm your mar.

R3

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Should

Should stubborn age your tender hearts provoke,
" I foften rocks, and bend the knotted oak :"
Or should false swains for other nymphs forsake ye,
Stay a few years, and I'll be proud to take ye.
If in your smiles we approbation read,
'Tis done already-I'm a man indeed.

Mr. GARRICK's Address to the Town,

In the Character of the Busy Body.
SINCE my good friends, tho' late, are pleas’d at lake

I bear with patience all my fuff'rings past;
To you who saw my suff'rings, it is clear,
bought my secrets most confounded dear.
To any gentleman not over-nice,
I'll sell 'em all again, and at half price.
Wou'd I had been among you—for, no doubt,
You all have seerets cou'd I find them out.
Each has a secret fitted to his fancy !
My friends above there—honest John and Nancy;
How well their secrets with their passions suit,
Hearts full of love, and pockets full of fruit;
Each jolly failor thus his mistress grapples,
They look, and laugh, and love, and eat their apples.
So good or wise this precious town is growing,
There's scarce a secret here that's worth the knowing;
Nay, where a hungry mind expects a feast,
'Mongst politicians--it will get the leaft.
They promise much-seem full-stare, nod, and pout,
But tap 'em, and the devil a drop comes out.
In short, I'll give this busy business over,
Where much is felt, and little to discover;
But should the ladies wish, or want t'employ me,
I shou'd be proud and pleas'd if they wou'd try me,
To manage meetings, or to flip a letter,
There's no French milliner can do it better.
As for the gentlemen-the rake, or beau,
I wou'd not give 'em that--for all they know :
Indeed, for secrets there are none excel 'em ;
But then they make 'em, and when made they tell 'em.
There is one secret ftill remains behind,
Which ever did, and will distract my mind
I'd give up all for that.--nay, fix for ever,
To find the secret---to deserve your favour,

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PROLOGU E to PHILASTER.

Written by Mr. George COLMAN. WHILE modern tragedy, by rule exact,

Spins out a thin-wrought fable, act by act,
We dare to bring you one of those bold plays
Wrote by rough English wits in former days ;
Beaumont and Fletcher ! those twin stars, that run
Their glorious course round Shakespear's golden sun;
Or when Philaster, Hamlet's place supplied,
Or Beffus walk'd the stage by Falstaff's side;
Their souls, well pair'd, shot fire in mingled rays,
Their hands together twin'd the social bays ;
Till fashion drove, in a refining age,
Virtue from court, and nature from the stage.
Then nonsense, in heroics seem'd sublime;
Kings ray'd in couplets, and maids figh'd in rhime.
Next prim and trim, and delicate, and chaste,
A hash from Greece and France, came modern taste.
Cold are her fons, and so afraid of dealing
In rant and fuftian, they ne'er rise to feeling.
O say, ye bards of phlegm, say, where's the name
That can with Fletcher urge a rival claim ?
Say, where's the poet, train’d in pedant schools,
Equal to Shakespear, who o'erleapt all rules?

Thus of our bards we boldly fpeak our mind ;
A harder talk, alas ! remains behind :
To-night, as yet by public eyes unseen,
A raw unpractised novice fills the scene.
Bred in the city, his theatric star
Brings him at length on this fide Temple-bar;
Smit with the muse, the ledger he forgot,
And when he wrote his name, he made a blot.
Him while perplexing hopes and fears embarrass,
Sculking (like Hamlet's rat) behind the arras,
Me a dramatic fellow-feeling draws,
Without a fee, to plead a brother's cause.
Genius is rare; and while our great comptroller,
No more a manager, turns arrant stroller,
Let new adventurers your care engage,
And nurse the infant saplings of the stage !

E P I GRAM,
MUCH has been writ, o Wilkes ! in vain

Thy doubtful fame to ascertain ; At length two circumstances show Thy real character below.

Should stubborn age your tender hearts provoke,
" I soften rocks, and bend the knotted oak :”
Or should false swains for other nymphs forsake ye,
Stay a few years, and I'll be proud to take ye.
If in your smiles we approbation read,
'Tis done already—I'm a man indeed.

Mr. GARRICK's Address to the Town,

In the Charakter of the Busy Body.
SINCE my good friends, thoʻlate, are pleas’d at lak,

I bear with patience all my fuff'rings past; To you who saw my fuff'rings, it is clear, bought my secrets moft confounded dear.

To any gentleman not over-nice,
I'll fell 'em all again, and at half price.
Wou'd I had been among you—for, no doubt,
You all have seerets cou'd I find them out.
Each has a secret fitted to his fancy !
My friends above there—honeft John and Nancy;
How well their secrets with their passions suit,
Hearts full of love, and pockets full of fruit;
Each jolly failor thus his mistress grapples,
They look, and laugh, and love, and eat their apples.
So good or wise this precious town is growing,
There's scarce a secret here that's worth the knowing;
Nay, where a hungry mind expects a feast,
'Mongst politicians--it will get the least.
They promise much-seem full-stare, nod, and pout,
But tap 'em, and the devil a drop comes out.
In short, I'll give this busy businefs over,
Where much is felt, and little to discover;
But should the ladies wish, or want t'employ me,
I shou'd be proud and pleas'd if they wou'd try me,
To manage meetings, or to flip a letter,
There's no French milliner can do it better.
As for the gentlemen--the rake, or beau,
I wou'd not give 'em that--for all they know :
Indeed, for secrets there are none excel 'em ;
But then they make 'em, and when made they tell 'em.
There is one secret still remains behind,
Which ever did, and will distract my mind-
I'd give up all for that---nay, fix for ever,
To find the secreton-to deserve your favour.

PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE to PHILASTER.

Written by Mr. George ColmÀN. WH

HILE modern tragedy, by rule exact,

Spins out a thin-wrought fable, act by act,
We dare to bring you one of those bold plays
Wrote by rough English wits in former days;
Beaumont and Fletcher ! those twin stars, that run
Their glorious course round Shakespear's golden sun;
Or when Philaster, Hamlet's place supplied,
Or Beffus walk'd the stage by Falstaff's fide;
Their souls, well pair'd, shot fire in mingled rays,
Their hands together twind the social bays ;
Till fashion drove, in a refining age,
Virtue from court, and nature from the stage.
Then nonsense, in heroics seem'd sublime ;
Kings ray'd in couplets, and maids figh'd in rhime.
Next prim and trim, and delicate, and chaste,
A hash from Greece and France, came modern taste.
Cold are her fons, and so afraid of dealing
In rant and fustian, they ne'er rise to feeling.
O say, ye bards of phlegm, say, where's the name
That can with Fletcher urge a rival claim?
Say, where's the poet, train'd in pedant schools,
Equal to Shakespear, who o'erleapt all rules?

Thus of our bards we boldly fpeak our mind ;
A harder talk, alas ! remains behind :
To-night, as yet by public eyes unseen,
A raw unpractised novice fills the scene.
Bred in the city, his theatric star
Brings him at length on this fide Temple-bar ;
Smit with the muse, the ledger he forgot,
And when he wrote his name, he made a blot.
Him while perplexing hopes and fears embarrass,
Sculking (like Hamlet's rat) behind the arras,
Me a dramatic fellow-feeling draws,
Without a fee, to plead a brother's cause.
Genius is rare; and while our great comptroller,
No more a manager, turns arrant stroller,
Let new adventurers your care engage,
And nurse the infant faplings of the stage !

EPIGR A M,
MUCH has been writ, o Wilkes ! in vain

Thy doubtful fame to ascertain ; At length two circumstances now Thy real character below.

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