Written and spoken by Decimus Laberius, a Roman Knight,
whom Cæsar forced upon the stage. Preserved by Macrobius.*
What! no way left to shun th' inglorious stage,
And save from infamy my sinking age?
Scarce half alive, oppress'd 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 unappall'd by fear,
With honest thrift I held my honour dear.
But this vile hour disperses all my store,
And all my hoard of honour 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 threescore a life of fame:
No more my title 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 honour ends.
* This translation was first printed in "The Present State of Learning in Europe, 12mo, 1759;" but was omitted in the second edition, which appeared in 1774.
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 thistle, sir, among his roses!
No, no, I've other contests to maintain;
To-night I head our troops at Warwick Lane:+
Go ask your manager."—" Who, me? Your pardon;
Those 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.
* Spoken 29th January, 1768, by Mrs Bulkley, in the character of Miss Richland.
+ The then site of the College of Physicians.
Since then, unhelp'd, 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.
TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTER."
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 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 masquers 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 'em,
Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em.
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore:
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.
* By Mrs Charles Lennox, acted at Covent-Garden Theatre, 18th February, 1769.
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 t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion,
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade,
Looking, as who should say, Dam'me! whose afraid?
[Mimicking.
Strip but this vizor 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 t' 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 candour you attack,
He bows, turns round, and whip-the man is 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.*
In these bold times when Learning's sons explore
The distant climates and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists all cold to smile and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling;
*From "Zobeide:" a Tragedy, by Joseph Cradock, Esq., first acted at Covent-Garden Theatre, 11th December, 1771. The Prologue was spoken by Mr Quick in the character of a Sailor; the astronomers alluded to are Capt. Cooke and Green; the botanists Sir J. Banks and Solander.
When every bosom swells with wondrous scenes,
Priests, cannibals, and hoity-toity queens;
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian* stores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course in hopes of trading-
Yet, ere he lands, he's order'd me before,
To make an observation on the shore.
Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost!
This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast.
Lord, what a solitary climate am I under!
Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder;
There mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em
Here trees of stately size-and billing turtles in 'em.
Here ill-condition'd oranges abound
And apples, bitter apples strew the ground.
The place is uninhabited, I fear:
I heard a hissing-there are serpents here!
O, there the natives are-a dreadful race!
The men have tails—the women paint their face.
No doubt they're all barbarians-yes, 'tis so;
I'll try to make palaver with them though: [Makes signs.
'Tis best, however, keeping at a distance.
Our captain, gentle natives! craves assistance;
Our ship's well stored-in yonder creek we've laid her; His honour is no mercenary trader.
This is his first adventure, lend him aid,
And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.
His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far,
Equally fit for gallantry and war.
What, no reply to promises so ample?
I'd best step back-and order up a sample.
* The scene of the tragedy is laid in Scythia.
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