}

Nay, death itself could not their hearts divide,
They mix'd their love with monumental pride;
For, cut in ftone, they still lay fide by fide.
But why thefe Gothic ancestors produce?
Why scour their rufty armours? What's the ufe:
'Twould not your nicer optics much regale,
To fee us beaux bend under coats of mail :
Should we our limbs with iron doublets bruife..
Good Heaven! how much court-plaifter we
fhould use!

We wear no armour now-but on our fhoes.
Let not with barbarifm true tafte be blended;
Old vulgar virtues cannot be defended;
Let the dead reft-we living can't be mended.

}

108. Epilogue to Fatal Falsehood; 1779. SHERIDAN. UNHAND me, gentlemen, by Heaven, I fay, I'll make a gloft of him who bars my way. [Bebind the fcenes.

Forth let me come-a poetafter true,
As lean as envy, and as baneful too;
On the duli audience let me vent my rage,
Or drive these female fcribblers from the ftage;
For fenfe or history, we 've none but these,
The law of liberty and wit they feize;
In tragic-comic-paftoral-they dare to

pleafe.

}

Each puny bard muft furely burst with spite,
To find that women with fuch fame can write:
But O, your partial favour is the cause,
Who feed their follies with fuch full applaufe;
Yet still our tribe thall feek to blaft their fame,
And ridicule each fair pretender's aim;
Where the dull duties of domeftic life
Wage with the Mufe's toils eternal ftrife.

What motley cares Corilla's mind perplex,
While maids and metaphors confpire to vex!
In ftudious difhabille behold her fit,
A letter'd goflip, and a housewife wit;
At once invoking, though for different views,
Her gods, her cook, her milliner, and mufe;
Round her firew'd room a frippery chaos lies,
A chequer'd wreck of notable and wife;
Bills, books, caps, couplets, combs, a varied mafs,
Oppress the toilet, and obfcure the glafs;
Unfinish'd here an epigram is laid,

When, dire mishap! tho' neither fhame nor fin,
Sappho herself, and not her Mufe, lies in.
The virgin Nine in terror fly the bow'r,
And matron Juno claims defpotic pow'r :
Soon Gothic hags the claffic pile o'erturn,
A caudle-cup fupplants the facred urn;
Nor books nor implements efcape their rage.
They fpike the ink-ftand, and they rend the
page:

Poems and plays one barbarous fate partake;
Ovid and Plautus fuffer at the ftake; [cake.
And Ariftotle's only fav'd-to wrap plum-

Yet thall a woman tempt the tragic scene?
And dare-but hold-I muft reprefs my fpleen;
I fee your hearts are pledg'd to her applause,
While Shakspeare's fpirit seems to aid her caufe;
Well pleas'd to aid-fince o'er his facred bier-
A female hand did ample trophies rear,
And gave the gentlett laurel that is worshipp'd

there.

$109. Prologue to the Fathers; 1779. GARRICK. WHEN from the world departs a fen of fame, His deeds or works embalm his precious

name;

Yet, not content, the public call for art,
To refcue from the tomb his mortal part;
Demand the painter's and the fculptor's hand,
To fpread his mimic form throughout the land;
A form, perhaps, which living was neglected,
And, when it could not feel respect, respected.
This night, no butt or picture claims your praifes
Our claim 's fuperior---we his fpirit raife;
From Time's dark sto:c-house bring a long-left
play,

And drag it from oblivion into day.

But who the author? Need I name the wit, Whom Nature prompted as his genius writ Truth fmil'd on Fancy for each well-wrought ftory,

Where characters live, act, and stand before ye.
Suppofe thefe characters, various as they are,
The knave, the fool, the worthy, wife, and fair,
For and against the author pleading at your bar.
First pleads Tom Jones---grateful his heart and

ing...

"Damn 'en thefe wits are varmint not worth breeding: ["ing? "What good e'er came of writing and of readNext comes, brim full of spite and politics, His fifter Western-- and thus deeply speaks: "Wits are arm'd pow'rs; like France attack the 66 foc;

"Negotiate till they fleep---then ftrike the blow." Allworthy laft pleads to your nobleft paffions : "Ye gen'rous leaders of the tastes and fashions, "Departed Genius left his orphan play "To your kind care---what the dead wills, obey "O then respect the father's fond bequest, "And make his widow fimile, his fpirit reft!" § 110. Prologue to the Miniature-Picture; 1780. SHERIDAN.

CHILL'D by rude gales, while yet reluctant

May

Withholds the beauties of the vernal day;
As fome fond maid, whom matron frowns reprove,
Sufpends the fmile her heart devotes to love;
The feafon's pleasures too delay their hour,
And winter revels with protracted pow'r:
Then blame not, critics, if thus late we bring
A winter's drama; but reproach—the spring.
What prudent cit dares yet the season trust,
Bak in his whisky, and enjoy the duft?
Hous'd in Cheapfide, fcarce yet the gayer fpark
Achieves the Sunday triumph of the Park;
Scarce yet you fee him, dreading to be late,

The vulgar verdure of her walk remains, Where white-rob'd miffes amble two by two, Nodding to booted beaux-"How do, how do?" With gen'ral queftions, that no answer wait, "How vaftly full! A'n't you come vaftly late? "Isn't it quite charming? When do you leave

"town?

But fee a critic ftarting from his bench

A noble author?" Yes, Sir, but the play 's not French;

Yet if it were, no blame on us could fall,
For we, you know, muft follow fashion's call:
And true it is, things lately were in train
To woo the Gallic Mufe at Dury-lane;
Not to import a troop of foreign elves,
But treat you with French actors-in ourselves:
A friend we had, who vow'd he 'd make us
fpeak

Pure flippant French-by contract-in a week;
Told us 't was time to ftudy what was good,
Polith, and leave off being understood:
That crowded audiences we thus might bring
To Monfieur Parfons, and Chevalier King:
Or fhould the vulgars grumble now and then,
The prompter might tranflate---for country gen-

tlemen.

Straight all fubfcrib'd---kings, gods, mutes, finger, actor;

A Flanders figure-dancer our contractor.
But here I grieve to own, tho' 't be to you,
He acted---e' enas moft contractors do,
Sold what he never dealt in; and, th' amount

Being firft difcharg'd, fubmitted his account.

And what th' event? Their industry was fuch,
Dodd fpoke good Flemish, Bannifter bad Dutch:
Then the rogue told us, with infulting eafe,
So it was foreign it was fure to please:
Beaux, wits applaud, as fashion fhould command,
And miffes laugh---to feem to understand-
So from each clime our foil may fomething gain;
Manhood from Rome, and fprightlinefs from

Spain;

Some Ruffian Rofcius next delight the age, And a Dutch Heinel fkate along the ftage. Exotic fopperics, hail! whose flatt'ring fimile Supplants the fterner virtues of our ifle!

gate.

Anxious-and fearful too-his fteed to fhew,
The hack'd Bucephalus of Rotten-row :
Carclefs he feems, yet vigilantly fly,
Woes the ftray glance of ladies paffing by;
While his off-heel, infidioufly afide,
Provokes the caper which he feems to chide.

Our nurs'ries fwarm, the British oak declines:
Yet vain our Mufes fear---no foreign laws
We dread, while native beauty pleads our caufe:
While you too judge, whofe fmiles are honours
higher

Than verfe fhould gain, but were thofe eyes infpire.

But

But if the men prefume your pow'r to awe,
Retort their churlish fenatorial law:
This is your houfe---and move---the gentle-
men withdraw:

Then they may vote, with envy never ceafing,
Your influence has increas'd and is increafing:
But there, I truft, the refolution 's finifh'd;
Sure none will fay---it ought to be diminish'd.

§ 111. Epilogue to the fame; 1780. JEKYLL. THE men, like tyrants of the Turkish kind, Have long our fex's energy confin'd;

In full-drefs black, and bows, and folemn ftalk,
Have long monopoliz'd the Prologue's walk;
But ftill the flippant Epilogue was ours,
It afk 'd, for gay fupport, the fernale pow'rs;
It afk'd a flirting air, coquet and free,
And fo, to murder it, they fix on me.

Much they mistake my talents---I was born To tell, in fobs and fighs, fome tale forlorn; To wet my handkerchief with Juliet's woes, Or turn to Shore's defpair my tragic nofe.

Yes, gentlemen, in education's fpite, You ftill fhall find that we can read and write; Like you, can fwell a debt or a debate, Can quit the card-table to fleer the state, And bid our Belle Affemblée's rhet'ric flow, To drown your dull declaimers at Soho! Methinks e'en now I hear my fex's tongues, The thrill, fmart melody of female lungs ! The ftorm of question, the divifion calm, WithHear her! hear her! Mrs. Speaker,

"Ma'am!

"O order! order!" Kates and Sufans rife,
And Margret moves, and Tabitha replies.
Look to the camp---Coxheath and Warley
Commen

Supplied, at leaft, for ev'ry tent a woman;
The cartridge-paper wrapp'd the billet-doux,
The rear and piquet form'd the rendezvous;
The drum's ftern rattle fhook the nuptial bed,
The knapsack pillow'd Ledy Sturgeon's head;
Love was the watch-word, till the morning fife
Rous'd the tame Major and his warlike wife.

Look to the ftage---to-night's example draws
A female Dramatift to grace the caule-
So fade the triumphs of prefumptuous man!
And would you, ladies, but complete my plan,
Here thould ye fign fome patrio: petition
To mend our conftitutional condition.
The men invade our rights, the mimic elves
Lifp and nick-name God's creatures like ourselves,
Rouge more than we do, fimper, flounce, and fret,
And they coquet, good gods, bow they coquet!
They too are coy; and, monftrous to relate,
Theirs is the coynefs in a tête-à-tête.
Yes, ladies, yes, I could a tale unfold,
Would barrow up your---cushions---were it told;
Part your combined curls, and freeze---pomatum,
At griefs and grievances, as I could ftate 'em.
But fuch eternal blazon muft not speak;
Befides, the Houfe adjourns fome day next week.

There fcholars, fimple nature caft afide,
Have trick'd their heroes out in clathic pride;
No fcenes where genuine paifon runs to wafte,
But all hedg'd in by fhrubs of modern tafte!
Each tragedy laid out like garden grounds,
One circling gravel marks its narrow bounds.
Lillo's plantations were of foreft growth---
Shakspeare's the fame---great nature's hand in
both!

Give me a tale the paffions to controul,
"Whofe flighteft word may harrow up the foul!"
A magic potion, of charm'd drugs commixt,
Where pleasure courts, and honour comes betwixt!

Such are the scenes that we this night renew, Scenes that your fathers were well-pleas'd to view. Once we half-paus'd---and while 'cold fears pre

vail,

Strive with faint ftrokes to foften down the tale;
But foon, attir'd in all its native woes,
The fhade of Lillo to our fancy rofe:

heck thy weak hand, it faid, or feem'd to say--
Nor of s manly vigour rob my play!
From British annals I the fory drew,
And British hearts thall feel, and bear it too.
Pity fhall move their fouls, in spite of rules;
And terror takes no leffon from the fchools.

Speak to their bofors, to their feelings truft,
You ll find their fentence generous and jy?.