Know ye to-night, that his prefumptuous works,
Have turn'd good Chriftians into-Heathen Turks?
And if the genius an't corrected foon,

In his next Trip, he'll mount us to the Moon.

Methinks I hear him fay-" For mercy's fake Hold your rash tongue-my Love and Fame's at stake; When behold me-diffident-diftreft !

you

'Tis cruelty to make my woes a jest:

Well-if you will-but why should I distrust ?
My judges are as merciful as juft;

I know them well, have oft their friendship try'd,
And their protection is my boaft-my pride."

Hoping to please, he form'd this bustling plan;
Hoping to please! 'tis all the moderns can:
Faith! let him 'fcape, let Love and Fame survive,
With your kind sanction keep his scenes alive;
Try to approve (applaud we will exempt)
Nor crush the bardling in this hard attempt.
Could he write up to an illuftrious theme,
There's mark'd upon the register of Fame
A fubject-but beyond the warmest lays!
Wonder muft paint, when 'tis a G-nby's praise.

A PRO

PROLOGUE,

'T

То RULE A WIFE.

SPOKEN AT EDINBURGH.

IS an odd portrait that the poet drew!
A ftrange irregular he fets in view!

'Mongft us-thank heaven-the character's unknown, (Bards have creative faculties we own)

And this appears a picture from his brain,
"Till we reflect the lady liv'd in Spain.

Should we the portrait with the fex compare,
'Twould add new honours to the northern fair;
Their merit, by the foil, confpicuous made,
And they feem'd brighter from contrafting fhade.

Rude were the rules our fathers form'd of old,
Nor fhould fuch antiquated maxims hold;
Shall fubject man affert fuperior fway,
And dare to bid the angel fex obey!
Or if permitted to partake the throne,
Defpotic, call the reins of power his own!
Forbid it, all that's gracious-that's polite!
(The fair to liberty have equal right)

Nor urge the tenet, tho' from Fletcher's fchool,
husband has a right to rule.

That every

A matri

A matrimonial medium may be hit,
Where neither governs, but where both submit.

The nuptial torch with decent brightness burns,
Where male and female condescend by turns;
Change then the phrase, the horrid text amend,
And let the word obey,―be condescend.

A

PROLOGUE,

ON REVIVING THE

MERCHANT OF VENICE, AT

THE TIME THE BILL HAD PASSED FOR NATURALIZING THE JEWS.

WIXT the fons of the ftage, without pensions
or places,

And the vagabond Jews, are fome fimilar cafes;
Since time out of mind, or they're wrong'd much by

flander,

Both lawlefs, alike, have been fentenc'd to wander;
Then faith 'tis full time we appeal to the nation,
To be join'd in this bill for na-tu-ra li-za-ti-on ;
Lard, that word's fo uncouth!-'tis fo irksome to
fpeak it!

But 'tis Hebrew, I believe, and that's tafte, as I

take it.

Well

Well -now to the point-I'm fent here with commiffion,

To present this fair circle our humble petition:
But conscious what hopes we should have of fucceeding,
Without (as they phrase it) sufficiently bleeding;
And convinc'd we've no funds, nor old gold we can
rake up,

Like our good fathers-Abraham, Ifaac, and Jacob;
We must frankly confefs we have nought to present ye,
But Shakespeare's old fterling-pray let it content ye.

This SHYLOCK, the Jew, whom we mean to reftore ye,

Was naturaliz'd oft by your fathers before ye; Then take him to-night to your kindest compaffion, For to countenance Jews is the pink of the fashion.

A

PROLOGUE,

FOR SOME COUNTRY

I

DEVIL OF A WIFE, 1N THE

HOLIDAYS.

N days of yore, when round the jovial board, With harmless mirth, and focial plenty stor❜d, Our parent Britons quaff'd their nut-brown ale, And carols fung, or told the Christmas tale;

In ftruts St. George, Old England's champion knight, With hafty steps, impatient to recite

"How he had kill'd the dragon, once in fight."

From ev'ry fide-from Troy-from antient Greece, Princes pour in to fwell the motly piece;

And while their deeds of prowess they rehearse,
The flowing bowl rewards their hobbling verse.

Intent to raise this evening's cordial mirth,
Like theirs, our fimple stage play comes to birth.
Our want of art we candidly confefs,

But give you nature in her homespun dress;
No heroes here-no martial men of might!
A cobler is the champion of to-night;

His ftrap, more fam'd than George's lance of old,
For it can tame that dragoness, a scold:
Indulgent, then, fupport the cobler's cause,
And tho' he may'nt deserve it, fmile applause.

A PRO