Then crush'd by rules, and weaken'd as refined,
For years the power of Tragedy declined;
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 forced, at length, her ancient reign to quit,
She saw great Faustus lay the ghost of Wit;
Exulting Folly hail'd the joyous 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,1 new Durfeys, yet remain in store;
Perhaps where Lear has raved, and Hamlet died,
On flying cars new sorcerers may ride;

Perhaps (for who can guess the effects of chance?)
Here Hunt may box, or Mahomet 3 may dance.
Hard is his lot that, here by Fortune placed,
Must watch the wild vicissitudes of Taste ;
With every meteor of Caprice must play,
And chase the new-blown bubbles 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.
Then prompt no more the follies you decry,
As tyrants doom their tools of guilt to die ;
"Tis yours, this night, to bid the reign commence
Of rescued Nature, and reviving Sense;

To chase the charms of Sound, the pomp of Show,
For useful Mirth and salutary Woe;

'Behn:' Afra, a popular but obscure novelist and play-wright.—2 Hunt:' Mahomet : ' a rope-dancer.

a famous stage-boxer.

Bid scenic Virtue form the rising age,

And Truth diffuse her radiance from Stage."

61

PROLOGUE

SPOKEN BY MR GARRICK BEFORE THE 'MASQUE OF COMUS,' ACTED FOR THE BENEFIT OF MILTON'S

DAUGHTER.

GRAND

YE patriot crowds, who burn for England's fame!
Ye nymphs, whose bosoms beat at Milton's name,
Whose generous zeal, unbought by flattering 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.
This night, distinguish'd by your smiles, shall tell
That never Briton can in vain excel :
The slightest 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 towering name;
He sees, and pitying sees, vain wealth bestow
Those pageant honours which he scorn'd below.
While crowds aloft the laureate bust behold,
Or trace his form on circulating gold,

Unknown-unheeded, long his offspring lay,
And Want hung threatening o'er her slow decay.
What though she shine with no Miltonian fire,
No favouring 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 graced 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.

Yours is the charge, ye fair! ye wise! ye brave!
'Tis yours to crown desert-beyond the grave.

PROLOGUE

TO GOLDSMITH'S COMEDY OF 'THE GOOD-NATURED MAN,'

1769.

PRESS'D by the load of life, the weary mind

Surveys the general toil of human kind;

With cool submission joins the labouring train,

And social sorrow loses half its pain.

Our anxious bard without complaint may share
This bustling season's epidemic care ;
Like Cæsar's pilot, dignified by Fate,

Toss'd in one common storm with all the great;
Distress'd alike the statesman and the wit,
When one the borough courts, and one the pit.
The busy candidates for power and fame
Have hopes, and fears, and wishes just the same;
Disabled both to combat, or to fly,

Must hear all taunts, and hear without reply.

10

Unchecked, on both loud rabbles vent their rage,
As mongrels bay the lion in a cage.

The offended burgess hoards his angry tale,
For that blest year when all that vote may rail.
Their schemes of spite the poet's foes dismiss,

6

Till that glad night when all that hate may hiss.
This day the powder'd curls and golden coat,'
Says swelling Crispin, 'begg'd a cobbler's vote;
'This night our wit,' the pert apprentice cries,
'Lies at my feet; I hiss him, and he dies.'
The great, 'tis true, can charm the electing tribe,
The bard may supplicate, but cannot bribe.
Yet, judged by those whose voices ne'er were sold,
He feels no want of ill-persuading gold;
But confident of praise, if praise be due,
Trusts without fear to merit and to you.

THIS night presents a play which public rage,
Or right, or wrong, once hooted from the stage;
From zeal or malice now no more we dread,
For English vengeance wars not with the dead.
A generous foe regards with pitying eye

The man whom Fate has laid-where all must lie.
To Wit, reviving from its author's dust,
Be kind, ye judges! or at least be just.
For no renew'd hostilities invade
The oblivious grave's inviolable shade.

10

11

Let one great payment every claim appease,
And him who cannot hurt, allow to please;
To please by scenes unconscious of offence,
By harmless merriment, or useful sense.
Where aught of bright or fair the piece displays,
Approve it only 'tis too late to praise.

If want of skill, or want of care appear,
Forbear to hiss-the poet cannot hear.

By all like him must praise and blame be found,
At best a fleeting dream, or empty sound.
Yet then shall calm Reflection bless the night
When liberal Pity dignified delight;

When Pleasure fired her torch at Virtue's flame,
And Mirth was Bounty with an humbler name.

SPRING.

1 STERN Winter now, by Spring repress'd,
Forbears the long-continued strife;
And Nature, on her naked breast,
Delights to catch the gales of life.

2 Now o'er the rural kingdom roves
Soft Pleasure with her laughing train;
Love warbles in the vocal groves,
And Vegetation paints the plain.

3 Unhappy! whom to beds of pain Arthritic tyranny consigns;

Whom smiling Nature courts in vain,

Though Rapture sings, and Beauty shines.