On this great day, our glorious annals tell, Upon his natal hour what triumphs wait! Thy race, like arrows in a giant's hand! vine: Long, very long, thy courfe of glory run, And make his father's virtues all his own! 114. Prologue to The Election of the Managers; "Gives virtue fcandal, innocence a fear, [nature. Falfehood's vile glofs converts the very Bible To every fin a finner's name he tack'ė, Pride, was my lord, and drunkene 'Tis faid, when winds the troubled pe form, Pour copious ftreams of oil, 'twilk t Thus here, let mirth and frank good-b balm 定 Make cenfure mild, fcorn kind, and Some wholefome bitter if the bard prob 'Tis only wormwood to correct the juice, In this day's conteft, where, in column Three play-house candidates are bright: view Our little Bayes encounters fome difgrace $115. Prologue to Two to One; Ca T-NIGHT, as heralds tell, a virgitt An untrain❜d youth,a new advert Within this little round the parent bid How vain, alas, his hopes his fer 'Tis you must hear, and, hearing, ftrain, Your equat justice finks or lifts his Should fire and fon be both with dull The fhallow ftripling's vain attempt you 116. Prologue occafioned by the Death of Mr. Henderfon; 1785. MURPHY. RE fiction try this night he magic strain, 'And blend myfteriously delight with pain; e yet the wake her train of hopes and fears r Jaffier's wrongs and Belvidera's tears, ill you permit a true, a recent grief vent its charge, and feek that kind relief? How fhall we feel the tale of feign'd diftrefs, hile on the heart our own afflictions prefs! -hen our own friend, when Henderson expires, d from the tomb one parting pang requires! yonder Abbey fhall he reft his head, d on this fpot no virtuous drop be thed; You will indulge our grief:-thofe crowded rows w you have hearts that feel domeftic woes; arts that with gen'rous emulation burn, raife the widow, drooping o'er his urn; d to his child, when reafon's op'ning ray ill tell her whom the loft, this truth convey: father's worth made each good man his friend; our'd through life, regretted in his end! d for his relatives, to help his ftore, audience gave, when he could give no more. tim we all mourn, his friends still heave the figh, 1 ftill the tear ftands trembling in the eye. was each mild, each amiable art, gentleft manners, and the feeling heart; fimple truth; benevolence to all; en'rous warmth, that glow'd at friendship's call; dgment fure, while learning toil'd behind; mirth was wit; his humour, fenfe refin'd; oul above all guile, all meaner views; e friend of fcience, friend of ev'ry mufe! have I known him in my vernal years no feign'd grief-no artificial tear! in this breaft he wak'd the Mufes' flame; d to advise, and point my way to fame. o moft fhall praise him, all are still at ftrife; iring virtue leaves a void in life. void our scene has felt-with Shakfpeare's page o now, like him, fhall animate the ftage? alet, Macbeth, and Benedick, and Lear, hard, and Wolfey, pleas'd each learn'd ear. eigning well be our confuutmate art, v great his praife, who, in lago's part, ild utter thoughts fo foreign to his heart! ftaff, who thook this houfe with mirthful roar, How no counterfeit-he 'll rife no more! vas Henderson the drama to pervade, ch palliontouch, and give each nicer thade. en o'er thefe boards the Roman Father pais'd t I forbear-that effort was his laft ! e Mufe there faw his zeal, tho`rack'd with pain, hile the flow fever ambush'd in each vein. e fought the bedwhere, pale and wan, he lay, d vainly tried to chute difende away; Watch'd ev'ry look, and number'd ev'ry figh And gently, as he liv'd, the faw him die. Wild with her griefs, the join'd the mournful throng, With fullen found as the hearfe mov'd along : Through the dim vaulted ailes the led the way, And gave to genius past his kindred clay; Heard the laft requiem o'er his relics cold, And with her tears bedew'd the hallow' mould. In faithful verfe, there, near the lonely cell, The fair recording epitaph may tell; That he, who now lies mould'ring into duft Was good, was upright, generous, and just; By talents form'd to grace the poet's lays; By virtue form'd to dignify his days. When fatire's fting and moral precepts fail, Behold a fchoolmaster-Ticklebreech by Of places, penfions, finecures and fees, When in the field his looks, his fears betray, Mount to his heart, his martial bofem warm, And, like brave Pruffia, the wholeworld alarm. Next, to the male coquet 1 mean to speak, Whole head, and heart, and nerves alike are weak ; [teigns Who, like that curious mask which Alop The fox admir'd, yet mourn'd the wast of brains; ལས Whe Peter, Who plies his glass and grinning cries, "Sir fcreature! "There's a fine girl! Gad's curfe!acharming "What eyes, what lips! and then her fhape and "She must be mine,egad,at any rate," [gait! This wand, if once it touch the coxcomb's tail, I do affure him ne'er was known to fail ;: He'll own its charms furpaís his falts and drops, For into men it changes fools and fops; Ladies, be calm, this needlefs rage fufpend, And now, my pupils, what you have learnt this night Goteach 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 Mahomet. To point what lengths credulity has run, What counfels shaken, and what ftates undone; Hooded and train'd like hawks th' ef fiafts fly, And the priest's victims in their pen ncesde Like whelps born blind, by motherdu they're bred, Nor wake to fight, to know themselvent Murder's the game-and to the fpert preft, Proud of the fin, and in the duty blef, › The layman's but the blood-hoender priest. Whoe'er thou art, that dar'st fuch time vance, To prieft-rid Spain repair, or flavible For Judas' hire there do the devil. And trick up flavery in religion's m England, ftill free, no furer meas To fink their fottifh fouls, and dey fmartial fires. Britons, thefe numbers to yores Voltaire hath ftrength to shoot in Shlyer bow: Fame led him at his Hippocrene to And taught to write with nature, an With English freedom, Englia witho And from the unexhausted stream part: drew. Cherish the noble bard yourfelves latest Nor let the frauds of France ftealabour Now of each prize the winner has the ver E'en fend our English Rage a-private With your cominiflion we'll all in fold, And from their loads of drofs im $119. Prologue to the Jeal THE Jealous Wife! a comedy! A charming fubject! but awr His skittish wit, o'erleaping the de Commits flat trefpafs upon tragic Quarrels, upbraidings, jealoudes, and Grow too familiar in the comic free Tinge but the language with herok paffion, pathos, character, fubli What round big words had fwell'de pous scene, What hellish fury wings th' enthufiaft's rage, Firft to this crufade led the tragic muse; A king the hufband, and the wife a Then might diffraction rend her gra See fightless forms, and feream, and, ftare. Drawcanfir Death had rag'd with Here the drawn dagger, there the po What eyes had ftream'd at all the wh What hands had thunder'd at exhi Oh! But peace! The gentle prolog Like drum and ferjeant, to beat up fr At vice and folly, each a lawful gas“, Our author flies but with no partid a He read the manners, open as they le In nature's volume to the gen'raleye Books too he read, nor blath'd to the ftore He does but what his betters did before hakspeare has done it, and the Grecian ftage fpoil and plunder with a robber's hand, $120. Prologue to Runnamede. EFORE the records of renown were kept, Or theatres for dying heroes wept, le race of fame by rival chiefs was run, he world by former Alexanders won: ges of glory in long order roll'd, w empires rifing on the wreck of old: onders were wrought by nature in her prime, or was the ancient world a wilderness of time. Yet loft to fame is virtue's orient reign; he patriot liv'd the hero died in vain. The legislators and the chiefs of old, Our author, trembling for his virgin mufe, Proud on his country's cause to build his name, 121. Prologue to the Heiress. FITZPATRICK. away, So, when the poet's dark horizon clears, Still varying topics for her fportive rhymes, rk night defcended o'er the human day, Prologues, like peers, by privilege are dull- he chronicle of fame by Jove is given; ft have you liften'd to the voice divine. Now when each batchelora helpmate lack, This tempting title-he, perhaps, expects, The rofy dimples of Sixteen furpafs: And runs diftracted for-her three per cents. A very bankrupt, should you chance to frown: Confirm Confirm the name an anxious parent gave her, And prove her Heiress of the public favour! 122. Prologue to the Ambitious Step-mother. IF dying lovers yet deferve a tear; RowE. If a fad ftory of a maid's defpair Yet move compaffion in the pitying fair; This day the poet does his arts employ, The foft acceffes of your fouls to try. Nor let the ftoic boat his mind unmov'd The brute philofopher, who ne'er has prov'd The joy of loving and of being lov'd; Who fcorns his human nature to confefs, And, friving to be more than man, is lefs. Nor let the men the weeping fair accufe, Thofe kind protectors of the tragic mufe, Whofe tears did moving Otway's labours crown, And made the poor Monimia's grief their own: O could this age's writers hope to find Nor cap'ring Monfieur brought from active Clinch,and his organ-pipe,his dogs and bear, In purple pomp adorn the fwelling fcene; store, The fortunes of their loves and arms explore, Such as might grieve you, but should pleate the more, What Shakspeare durft not, this bold age fhould do, And famous Greek and Latin beauties fhew: Shakspeare, whofe genius, to itself a law, Could men in ev'ry height of nature draw, And copied all but woman that he saw, Thofe ancient heroines your concern should move, 6123. Epilogue to the fame. Row!. THE fpleen and vapours, and this dekiu. play, Have mortified me to that height to-day, We find your wav'ring temper to our cat. trade, Bells fhall no more be rung, nor gras The hearfe and fix no longer be in t Since all the faithful may expect int What think you of the project? I'm form. I'll lay afide thefe foolith thoughtscie Preferve my youth and vigour fort And be tranflated in a good old age. 124. Prologue to the Tinder Haft Accomplished Fools. Their grief and anger much, but moft their the first rife and infancy of farer, -love: When fools were many, and whe were scarce,, The raw unpractis'd author could**** But now our British theatre can b Drolls of all kinds, a vaft unthinkinghol Fruitful of folly and of vice, it the Cuckolds, and cits, and bawds, and pimps, # beaux ; |