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PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES.

THE PROLOGUE

OF LABERIUS, A ROMAN KNIGHT AND FARCE-WRITER.
From the Latin, preserved by Macrobius.

WHAT! no way left to shun the inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age?
Scarce half alive, oppressed with many a year,
What in the name of dotage drives me here ?
A time there was, when glory was my guide-
Nor force nor fraud could turn my steps aside ;
Unawed by power, and unappalled by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honor dear:
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my
hoard of honor is no more —
For, ah! too partial to my life's decline,
Cæsar persuades, submission must be mine!
Him I obey, whom heaven itself obeys;
Hopeless of pleasing, yet inclined to please.
Here, then, at once I welcome every shame,
And cancel at three-score a life of fame;
No more my titles shall my children tell;
The old buffoon will fit my name as well;
This day beyond its term my fate extends,
For life is ended when our honor ends.

EPILOGUE

TO THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.

As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure Thus, on the stage, our play-wrights still depend, For epilogues and prologues, on some friend Who knows each art of coaxing up the town; And make full many a bitter pill go down. Conscious of this, our bard has gone about And teased each rhyming friend to help him out. "An epilogue — things can't go on without it; It could not fail, would you but set about it." "Young man," cries one a bard laid up in clover "Alas! young man, my writing days are over; Let boys play tricks and kick the straw; not I: Your brother doctor there perhaps may try." "What, I dear sir," the doctor interposes; "What, plant my thistles, sir, among his roses! No, no; I've other contests to maintain; To-night I head our troops at Warwick-lane :

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Go, ask your manager." Who, me? your pardon;
These things are not our forte at Covent Garden."
Our author's friends, thus placed at happy distance,
Give him good words, indeed, but no assistance:
As some unhappy wight, at some new play,
At the pit-door stands elbowing away,

While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug,
He
eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug
His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes,
Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise:

He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace;
But not a soul will budge to give him place.

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Since, then, unhelped, our bard must now conform
To bide the "pelting of this pitiless storm"
Blame where you must, be candid where you can,
And be each critic the good-natured man.

EPILOGUE

TO THE SISTER, A COMEDY, BY MRS. CHARLOTTE LENNOX.

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 ;
Warmed 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 sinking;
Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking.
Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill,

What if I give a masquerade?—I will.

But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing]-I've got my cue:
The world's a masquerade! the maskers, you, you, you.
[To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.
Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses

False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!
Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside them,

Patriots in party-colored suits that ride them.
There Hebes, turned of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of three-score.
These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.

Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,

Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman;

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 everything but what they are.
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
Who seems to have robbed his visor from the lion

n;

Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade, Looking, as who should say, damme! who's afraid?

Strip but this visor off, and sure I am
You'll find his lionship a very lamb.
Yon politician, famous in debate,

Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;
Yet, when he deigns his real shape to assume,
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,
And seems to every gazer all in white,

If with a bribe his candor you attack,

[Mimicking.

He bows, turns round, and whip - the man's a black! Yon critic, too - but whither do I run?

If I proceed, our bard will be undone !

Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too :
Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you.

PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE.

A TRAGEDY, BY JOSEPH CRADOCK.

IN these bold times, when learning's sons explore
The distant climate, and the savage shore
When wise astronomers to India steer,

And quit for Venus many a brighter here

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