Yet whims like these have sometimes made you laugh,

'Tis tattling all like Isaac Bickerstaff.
Since war and places claim the bards that write,
Be kind, and bear a woman's treat to-night;
Let your indulgence all her fears allay,
And none but woman-haters damn this play.

$24. Prologue to The Man's Bewitch'd. 1710.
CENTLIVRE.
OUR female author trembling stands within,
Her fear arises from another's sin :
One of her sex has so abus'd the town,
That on her score she dreads your angry frown;
Though I dare say, poor soul, she never writ
Lampoon, or satire, on the box or pit;

A harmless hum'rous play is her extent of wit.
Though Bickerstaff's vast genius may engage,
And lash the vice and follies of the age;
Why should the tender Delia tax the nation,
Stickle and make a noise for reformation,
Who always gave a loose herself to inclination?
Scandal and satire's thrown aside to-day,
And humor's the sole business of our play.
Beaux may
dress on, to catch the ladies' hearts,
And good assurance pass for mighty parts:
The cits may bring their spouses without fear;
We show no wife that's poaching for an heir,
Nor teach the use of fine gauze handkerchier.
Cowards may huff, and talk of mighty wonders,
Andjilts set up for twenty-thousand-pounders.
Our author, even though she knows full well,
Is so good-natur'd, she forbears to tell,
What colonels, lately, have found out the knack
To muster madam, still, by Ned or Jack;
To keep their pleasures up, a frugal way,
They give her-subaltern's subsistence for her

In pity of my pains and doubt, And try if you can't find me out. Poor soul! he seems indeed in dismal plight; Let's see! it can't be, sure, from th' upper flight, No, no-that's plain-for-none of them can Nor can I think it from the middle fell, [write: For I'm afraid as few of them can spell; Beside, their haggling passions never gain Beyond the passage-walking nymphs of Drury[rovers, And then the pit's more stock'd with rakes and Than any of these senseless, whining lovers. The backs o' th' boxes too seem mostly lin'd With souls whose passion's to themselves confin'd.

lane:

Then powder'd for th' ensuing day's delights, Bows through his crowd of duns, and drives to White's.

Nor could I like the wretch that all night plays, And only takes his rest on winning days; Then sets up, from a lucky hit, his rattler; Then's trac'd from his original-in the Tatler. To tell you all that are my fix'd aversion, Would tire the tongue of malice or aspersion: But if I find 'mongst all one gen'rous heart, That, deaf to stories, takes the stage's part; That thinks that purse deserves to keep the plays, Whose fortune's bound for the support of operas; That thinks our constitution here is justly fix'd, And now no more with lawyers' brawls perplex'd;

He, I declare, shall my whole heart receive; And (what's more strange) I'll love him while I live.

§ 26. Prologue to Calo. 1713. POPE. To wake the soul by tender strokes of art, To raise the genius, and to mend the heart; To make mankind, in conscious virtue bold, Live o'er each scene, and be what they behold: For this the tragic muse first trod the stage, Commanding tears to stream through ev'ry age; Tyrants no more their savage nature kept, And foes to virtue wonder'd how they wept.

Our author shuns by vulgar springs to move The hero's glory, or the virgin's love; In pitying love, we but our weakness show, And wild ambition well deserves its woe.

Here tears shall flow from a more gen'rous cause,
Such tears as patriots shed for dying laws :
He bids your breasts with ancient ardor rise,
And calls forth Roman drops from British eyes.
Virtue confess'd in human shape he draws,
What Plato thought, and godlike Cato was :
No common object to your sight displays,
But what with pleasure Heaven itself surveys,
A brave man struggling in the storms of fate,
And greatly falling with a falling state.
While Cato gives his little senate laws,
What bosom beats not in his country's cause?
Who sees him act, but envies ev'ry deed?
Who hears him groan, and does not wish to
bleed?
[cars,
Even when proud Caesar, 'midst triumphal
The spoils of nations, and the pomp of wars,
Ignobly vain, and impotently great,
Show'd Rome her Cato's figure drawn in state:
As her dead father's rev'rend image pass'd,
The pomp was darken'd, and the day o'ercast;
The triumph ceas'd, tears gush'd from ev'ry eye;
The world's great victor pass'd unheeded by;
Her last good man dejected Rome ador'd,
And honor'd Cæsar's less than Cato's sword.
Britons, attend; be worth like this approv'd,
And show you have the virtue to be mov'd.
With honest scorn the first fam'd Cato view'd
Rome learning arts from Greece, whom she
subdued:

Our scene precariously subsists too long
On French translation, and Italian song.
Dare to have sense yourselves; assert the stage,
Be justly warm'd with your own native rage:
Such plays alone should please a British ear,
As Cato's self had not disdain'd to hear.

A heroine, a martyr, and a queen;
And though the poet dares not boast his art,
The very theme shall something great impart,
To warm the gen'rous soul, and touch the ten-
der heart.

To you, fair judges, we the cause submit ;
Your eyes shall tell us how the tale is writ.
If your soft pity waits upon our woe,
If silent tears for suff'ring virtue flow;
Your grief the muses' labor shall confess,
The lively passions, and the just distress.
O! could our author's pencil justly paint,
Such as she was in life, the beauteous saint;
Boldly your strict attention might we claim,
And bid you mark and copy out the dame.
No wand'ring glance one wanton thought con-

fess'd;

No guilty wish inflam'd her spotless breast: The only love that warm'd her blooming youth, Was husband, England, liberty, and truth.

|

For these she fell; while, with too weak a hand,
She strove to save a blind ungrateful land.
But thus the secret laws of fate ordain,
William's great hand was doom'd to break that
chain,

And end the hopes of Rome's tyrannic reign.
For ever as the circling years return,
Ye grateful Britons! crown the hero's urn;
To his just care you ev'ry blessing owe,
Which or his own, or following reigns bestow;
Though his hard fate a father's name denied,
To you a father, he that loss supplied.
Then while you view the royal line's increase,
And count the pledges of your future peace,
From this great stock while still new glories
Conquest abroad, and liberty at home ; [come,
While you behold the beautiful and brave,
Bright princesses to grace you, kings to save,
Enjoy the gift, but bless the hand that gave.

$28.

Epilogue to the Cruel Gift. Spoken by
Mrs. Oldfield. 1717. RowE.
WELL, 'twas a narrow'scape my lover made-
That cup and message-I was sore afraid!
Was that a present for a new-made widow,
All in her dismal dumps, like doleful Dido?
When one peep'd in-and hop'd for something
good,

There was O gad! a nasty heart and blood*.
If the old man had show'd himself a father,
His bowl should have inclos'd a cordial rather;
Something to cheer me up amidst my trance,
L'eau de Barbade-or comfortable Nantz↑.
He thought he paid it off with being smart,
And, to be witty, cried, he'd send the heart.
I could have told his gravity, moreover,
Were I our sex's secrets to discover,
'Tis what we never look for in a lover.
Let but the bridegroom prudently provide
All other matters fitting for a bride,
So he make good the jewels and the jointure,
To miss the heart does seldom disappoint her.
'Faith, for the fashion hearts of late are made in,
They are the vilest bauble we can trade in.
Where are the tough brave Britons to be found,
With hearts of oak, so much of old renown'd?
How many worthy gentlemen of late
Swore to be true to mother-church and state;
When their false hearts were secretly main-.

+ The Prince of Wales, then present.

Nor, like Sir Martin Mar-all, still play'd on;
They imitated nature in their plan,
Nor made a monkey when they meant a man.
From modern fancy then this custom rose,
Like whimsical toupees among the beaux :
Monstrous excrescences! both which disgrace
(By being fix'd in an improper place)
Heaven's great production, man; inan's great
production, plays.

Yet must we, though as foolish we decry
This mode, be fools in fashion, and comply;
For rights, we know, howe'er absurdly gain'd
At first, with obstinacy are maintain'd:
Since then this privilege you will not lose,
Let's hear what sort of epilogue you'll choose.
Are you for satire? No; why there you're right;
The wisest can't foresee where that may light.
Are ye for politics? There we cry, No,
Where that may light-you easily may know.
Another topic then, pray, ladies, hear;
Suppose a panegyric on the fair.

So, I perceive, I've touch'd the ticklish place;
And clearly read consent in ev'ry face.
O fie! consent so soon? that can't be right;
I hate such coming ladies-so good night.

THAT I'm a lying rogue you all agree; [see, And yet, look round the world, and you shall That many more, my betters, lie as fast as me. Against this vicc we all are ever railing, And yet, so tempting is it, so prevailing, You'll find but few without this useful failing. Lady or Abigail, my Lord or Will,

The lie goes round, and the ball's never still. My lies were harmless, told to show my parts, And not like those when tongues belie their hearts.

In all professions you will find this flaw; And in the gravest too, in physic and in law. The gouty sergeant cries, with formal pause, "Your plea is good, my friend, don't starve the cause:

But when my lord decrees for t'other side, Your costs of suit convince you that he lied. A doctor comes, with formal wig and face, First feels your pulse, then thinks, and knows

your case,

you;

"Your fever's slight, not dangerous, I assure
[cure you."
Keep warm, and repetatur haustus, Sir, will
Around the bed, next day, his friends are crying;
The patient dies; the doctor's paid for lying.
The poet, willing to secure the pit,
Gives out, his play has humor, taste, and wit:
The cause comes on, and while the judges try,
Each groan and cat-call gives the bard the lie.
Now let us ask, pray, what the ladies do:
They too will fib a little, entre nous.

"Lord!" says the prude (her face behind her "How can our sex have any joy in man? [fan) As for my part, the best could ne'er deceive me; And were the race extinct, 'twould never grieve me!

Their sight is odious, but their touch, O gad!
The thought of that's enough to drive one mad."
Thus rails at men the squeamish Lady Dainty,
Yet weds at fifty-five a rake of twenty.
In short, a beau's intrigues, a lover's sighs,
The courtier's promise, the rich widow's cries,
And patriot's zeal, are seldom more than lies.
Sometimes you'll see a man belie his nation,
Nor to his country show the least relation.
For instance, now--

A cleanly Dutchman, or a Frenchman grave,
A sober German, or a Spaniard brave,
An Englishman, a coward or a slave.
Mine, though a fibbing, was an honest art;
I serv'd my master, play'd a faithful part:
Rank me not, therefore, mongst the lying crew,
For though my tongue was false, my heart was

true.

$31. Epilogue to Ignoramus, acted at Westminster School in December 1747. Spoken by Ignoramus and Musaus.

Ign. PEACE, bookworm! bless me, what a clerk have I!

A strange place, sure-this university!
What's learning, virtue, modesty, or sense?
Fine words to hear-but will theyturn the pence?
These stiff pedantic notions-far outweighs
That one short, comprehensive thing- face.
Go, match it if you can with all your rules
Of Greek or Roman, old or modern schools:
The total this of Ignoramus' skill,
To carve his fortune-place him where you will.
For not in law alone could I appear;
My parts would shine alike in any sphere.

You've heard my song in Rosabella's praise: You'll see me soon-a rival for the bays.

Or, I could turn a journalist, and write With little wit, but large recruits of spite: Abuse and blacken-just as party swaysAnd lash my betters-these are thriving ways.

My mind to graver physic would I bend, Think you I'd study Greek, like Mead or Friend? No-with some nostrum I'd ensure my fees, Without the help of learning or degrees: On drop or pill securely I'd rely, And shake my head at the whole faculty. Or would I take to ordersMus. Orders; how?

know:

Both universities-are all a jest.

Mus. I grant, a prodigy we sometimes view, Whom neither of our seats of learning knew. Yet sure none shine more eminently great, In law or physic, in the church or state, Than those who early drank the love of fame At Cam's fair bank, or Isis' silver stream. Look round-here's proof enough this point. to clear.

Ign. Bless me!-what;-not one Ignora-
mus here?

I stand convicted-what can I say more?
See, my face fails, which never fail'd before.
How great soe'er I seem in Dulman's eye, [by.
Yet Ignorance must blush-when Learning's

$32. Epilogue to Agamemnon. THOMSON.

OUR bard, to modern epilogue a foe, Thinks such mean mirth but deadens gen'rous woe;

Dispels in idle air the moral sigh,

And wipes the tender tear from pity's eye: No more with social warmth the bosom burns; But all th' unfeeling, selfish man returns.

Thus he began: and you approv'd the strain, Till the next couplet sunk to light and vain. You check'd him there-to you, to reason, just, He owns he triumph'd in your kind disgust. Charm'd by your frown, by your displeasure grac'd,

He hails the rising virtue of your taste.
Wide will its influence spread, as soon as known;
Truth, to be lov'd, need only to be shown.
Confirm it, once, the fashion to be good
(Since fashion leads the fool, and awes the rude)
No petulance shall wound the public ear;
No hand applaud what honor shuns to hear;
No painful blush the modest cheek shall stain;
The worthy breast shall heave with no disdain.
Chastis'd to decency, the British stage
Shall oft invite the fair, invite the sage: [part;
Both shall attend well pleas'd, well pleas'd de-
Or, if they doom the verse, absolve the heart.

And panting Time toil'd after him in vain :
His pow'rful strokes presiding Truth impress'd,
And unresisted Passion storm'd the breast.
Then Jonson came, instructed from the school,
To please in method, and invent by rule:
His studious patience, and laborious art,
By regular approach assay'd the heart:
Cold approbation gave the ling'ring bays;
For those who durst not censure scarce could
praise.

A mortal born, he met the gen'ral doom,
But left, like Egypt's kings, a lasting tomb.
The wits of Charles found easier ways to
fame,

Nor wish'd for Jonson's art, nor Shakspeare's flame;

Themselves they studied, as they felt they writ;
Intrigue was plot, obscenity was wit.
Vice always found a sympathetic friend;
They pleas'd their age, but did not aim to
mend.

Yet bards like these aspir'd to lasting praise,
And proudly hop'd to pimp in future days:
Their cause was gen'ral, their supports were
strong,

Their slaves were willing, and their reign was Till shame regain'd the post that sense betray'd, long;

And virtue call'd oblivion to her aid.

Then crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as refin'd,

For years the pow'r of Tragedy declin'd:
From bard to bard the frigid caution crept,
Till declamation roar'd whilst passion slept;
Yet still did virtue deign the stage to tread,
Philosophy remain'd, though nature fled.
But forc'd at length her ancient reign to quit,
She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of wit:
Exulting Folly hail'd the joyful day,
And Pantomime and Song confirm'd her sway.

But who the coming changes can presage, And mark the future periods of the stage? Perhaps, if skill could distant times explore, New Behns, new Durfeys, yet remain in store; Perhaps, where Lear has rav'd, and Hamlet died,

On flying cars new sorcerers may ride; Perhaps (for who can guess th' effects of chance?)

Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet may dance.

Hard is his lot that, here by fortune plac'd, Must watch the wild vicissitudes of taste; With every meteor of caprice must play, And chase the new-born bubble of the day. Ah! let not censure term our fate our choice, The stage but echoes back the public voice; The Drama's laws the Drama's patrons give, For we that live to please, must please to live. As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die; Then prompt no more the follies you decry, 'Tis yours this night to bid the reign commence Of rescued nature, and reviving sense; [show, To chase the charms of sound, the pomp of For useful mirth and salutary woe; Bid Scenic Virtue form the rising age, And Truth diffuse her radiance froin the Stage.

$34. Epilogue to Shakspeare's First Part of
King Henry IV. Spoken by Mr. J. Y. in
the Character of Falstaff, 1748. Acted by
young Gentlemen at Mr. Newcome's School
at Hackney.
HOADLEY.
[Push'd in upon the Stage by Prince Henry.]
A PLAGUE upon all cowards, still I say-
Old Jack must bear the heat of all the day,
And be the master-fool beyond the play-
Amidst hot-blooded Hotspur's rebel strife,
By miracle of wit I sav'd my life;
And now stand foolishly expos'd again
To th' hissing bullets of the critic's brain.
Go to, old lad, 'tis time that thou wert wiser-
Thou art not fram'd for an epiloguizer.
There's Hal, now, or his nimble shadow, Poins,
Straight in the back, and lissome in the loins,
Who wears his boot smooth as his mistress' skin,
And shining as the glass she dresses in ;
Can bow and cringe, fawn, flatter, cog, and lie-
Which honest Jack could never do-not I.
Hal's heir-apparent face might stand it buff,
And make (ha! ha! ha!) a saucy epilogue
enough.

But I am old and stiff-nay, bashful grown,
For Shakspeare's humor is not now my own.
I feel myself a counterfeiting ass;
And if for sterling wit I give you' brass,
It is his royal image makes it pass.
Fancy now works; and here I stand and stew
In mine own greasy fears, which set to view
Eleven buckram critics in each man of you;
Wights, who with no out-facings will be

shamm'd,

$35. Prologue to Irene. 1749. JOHNSON. YE glitt'ring train! whom lace and velvet bless,

Suspend the soft solicitudes of dress;
From grov'ling business and superfluous care,
Ye sons of Avarice! a moment spare:
Vot'ries of Fame, and worshippers of Pow'r!
Dismiss the pleasing phantoms for an hour.
Our daring bard, with spirit unconfin'd,
Spreads wide the mighty moral of mankind.
Learn here how Heaven supports the virtuous
mind,

Daring, tho' calm; and vig'rous, tho' resign'd.
Learn here what anguish racks the guilty breast,
In pow'r dependent, in success deprest,

Learn here that peace from innocence must flow;

All else is empty sound, and idle show. [join;
But truths like these with pleasing language
Ennobled, yet unchang'd, if Nature shine:
If no wild draught depart from Reason's rules,
Nor gods his heroes, nor his lovers fools;
Intriguing wits! his artless plot forgive;
And spare
him, beauties! tho' his lovers live.
Be this at least his praise, be this his pride;
To force applause no modern arts are tried.
Should partial cat-calls all his hopes confound,
He bids no trumpet quell the fatal sound;
Should welcome sleep relieve the weary wit,
He rolls not thunders o'er the drowsy pit;
No snares to captivate the judgment spreads;
Nor bribes your eyes to prejudice your heads.
Unmov'd tho' witlings sneer, and rivals rail;
Studious to please, yet not asham'd to fail,
Hescorns the meek address, the suppliant strain,
With merit needless, and without it vain.
In Reason, Nature, Truth, he dares to trust;
Ye fops, be silent; and ye wits, be just.

YE patriot crowds who burn for England's

fame, [name, Ye nymphs whose bosoms beat at Milton's Whose gen'rous zeal, unbought by flatt'ring rhymes,

Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times;
Immortal patrons of succeeding days,
Attend this prelude of perpetual praise;
Let wit, condemn'd the feeble war to wage
With close malevolence, or public rage;
Let study, worn with virtue's fruitless lore;
Behold this Theatre, and grieve no more. [tell
This night, distinguish'd by your smiles, shall
That never Briton can in vain excel;
The slighted Arts futurity shall trust,
And rising ages hasten to be just.

At length our mighty bard's victorious lays
Fill the loud voice of universal praise;
And baffled spite, with hopeless anguish dumb,
Yields to renown the centuries to come;
With ardent haste each candidate of fame
Ambitious catches at his tow'ring nanie;
He sees, and pitying sees, vain wealth bestow
Those pageant honors which he scorn'd below,
While crowds aloft the laureat bust behold,
Or trace his form on circulating gold.
Unknown, unheeded, long his offspring lay,
And want hung threat'ning o'er her slow decay.
What tho' she shine with no Miltonian fire,
No fav'ring muse her morning dreams inspire,
Yet softer claims the melting heart engage,
Her youth laborious, and her blameless age;
Hers the mild merits of domestic life,
The patient sufferer, and the faithful wife.
Thus grac'd with humble virtue's native charms,
Her Grandsire leaves her in Britannia's arms;
Secure with peace, with competence, to dwell,
While tutelary nations guard her cell.