A PROLOGUE, WRITTEN AND SPOKEN BY THE POET LABERIUS, A ROMAN KNIGHT, WHOM CÆSAR FORCED UPON THE STAGE. Preserved by Macrobius.* WHAT! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage, Scarce half-alive, oppress'd with many a year, *This translation was first printed in one of our Author's earliest works, 'The Present State of Learning in Europe,' 12mo. 1759. For Ah! too partial to my life's decline, EPITAPH ON PURDON.* HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from misery freed, He led such a damnable life in this world, *This gentleman was educated at Trinity College, Dublin; but, having wasted his patrimony, he enlisted as a foot-soldier. Growing tired of that employment, he obtained his discharge, and became a scribbler in the newspapers. He translated Voltaire's Henriade EPILOGUE ΤΟ THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS. WHAT! five long acts and all to make us wiser ! Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser. Had she consulted me, she should have made Her moral play a speaking masquerade; Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage Have emptied all the green-room on the stage. My life on't this had kept her play from sink ing; Have pleas'd our eyes, and sav'd the pain of thinking. Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill, What if I give a masquerade?—I will. But how? aye, there's the rub! [pausing]I've got my cue: The world's a masquerade; the masquers, you, you, you. [To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses, False wit, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses! Statesmen with bridles on; and close beside 'em, Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, man; The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure, And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure, Thus 'tis with all-their chief and constant care Is, to seem every thing but what they are. Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion; Who frowns, and talks and swears, with round parade, afraid? Looking, as who should say, Dam'me who's Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state; Yon patriot too, who presses on your sight, Yon critic too-but whither do I run? A SONNET. WEEPING, murmuring, complaining, Yet why impair thy bright perfection, |