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Have we for this increas'd Apollo's race?
Been often pregnant with your wits embrace?
And borne you many chopping babes of grace?
Some ugly toads we had, and that's the curse,
They were fo like you, that you far'd the worse;
For this to-night, we are not much in pain,
Look on 't, and if you like it, entertain:
If all the midwife fays of it be true,
There are fome features too like fome of you:
For us, if you think fitting to forfake it,
We mean to run away, and let the parish take it.

EPILOGUE

SPOKEN BY MRS. BARRY,

At the Theatre-Royal in Drury-Lane, April the 7th, 1709, at her playing in LOVE FOR LOVE with Mrs. Bracegirdle, for the benefit of Mr. Betterton.

A

S fome brave knight, who once with fpear and
fhield

Had fought renown in many a well-fought field;
But now no more with facred fame inspir'd,
Was to a peaceful hermitage retir'd :

There, if by chance difaftrous tales he hears,
Of matrons wrongs, and captive virgins tears,
He feels foft pity urge his generous breast,
And vows once more to fuccour the diftrefs'd.
Buckled in mail, he fallies on the plain,
And turns him to the feats of arms again.

So we, to former leagues of friendship true,
Have bid once more our peaceful homes adieu,
To aid Old Thomas, and to pleasure you.
Like errant damfels, boldly we engage,
Arm'd, as you fee, for the defenceless stage.
Time was when this good man no help did lack,
And fcorn'd that any fhe fhould hold his back;
But now, fo age and frailty have ordain'd,

*

By two at once he's forc'd to be sustain'd,
You see what failing nature brings man to;
And yet let none infult, for ought we know,
She may not wear fo well with fome of you.
Though old, yet find his strength is not clean past,
But true as fteel he 's metal to the last.

If better he perform'd in days of yore,

Yet now he gives you all that's in his power;
What can the youngest of you all do more?
What he has been, though present praise be dumb,
Shall haply be a theme in times to come,

As now we talk of Rofcius, and of Rome.

Had withheld you

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Old Shakespeare's ghost had ris'n to do him right.
With indignation had you seen him frown
Upon a worthlefs, witlefs, tafteless town;
Griev'd and repining, you had heard him say,
Why are the Mufe's labours caft away?
Why did I write what only he could play?

}

But

**Mrs. Barry and Mrs. Bracegirdle clafp him round

the waste.

But fince, like friends to wit, thus throng'd you meet,
Go on, and make the generous work compleat:

Be true to merit, and ftill own his caufe,
Find fomething for him more than bare applause.
In just remembrance of your pleasures past,
Be kind, and give him a discharge at last ;

In

peace and eafe life's remnant let him wear, And hang his confecrated Bufkin * there.

EPILOGUE TO THE CRUEL GIFT.

A TRAGEDY. BY MRS. CENTLIVRE.

AS IT WAS ACTED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL IN DRURY-LANE, 1717.

SPOKEN BY MRS. OLDFIELD.

WE

ELL-'twas a narrow 'fcape my Lover made,
That Cup and Meffage-I was fore afraid-

Was that a Prefent for a new-made Widow,
All in her dismal dumps, like doleful Dido?
When one peep'd in—and hop'd for fomething good,
There was-Oh! Gad! a nafty Heart and Blood †,

D 2

* Pointing to the top of the stage.

If

This tragedy was founded upon the ftory of Segifmonda and Guifcardo, one of Boccace's novels; wherein the Heart of the Lover is fent by the Father to his Daughter, as a prefent.

If the old man had fhewn himself a father,
His Bowl fhould have inclos'd a Cordial rather,
Something to chear me up amidst my trance,
L'Eau de Bardè—or comfortable Nants * !
He thought he paid it off with being smart,
And, to be witty, cry'd, he'd fend the heart.
I could have told his gravity, moreover
Were I our fex's feciets to discover,

'Tis what we never look'd for in a Lover.
Let but the Bridegroom prudently provide
All other Matters fitting for a Bride,

So he make good the Jewels and the Jointure,
To mifs the Heart, does feldom disappoint her.
Faith, for the fashion Hearts of late are made in,
They are the vileft Baubles we can trade in.
Where are the tough brave Britons to be found,
With Hearts of Oak, fo much of old renown'd?
How many worthy gentlemen of late

}

Swore to be true to Mother-Church and State;
When their falfe Hearts were fecretly maintaining
Yon trim king Pepin, at Avignon reigning?
Shame on the canting crew of Soul-Infurers,
The Tyburn Tribe of fpeech-making Non-jurors;
Who, in new-fangled Terms, old Truths explaining
Teach honeft Englishmen, damn'd Double-Meaning.
Oh! would you loft integrity restore

And boast that Faith your plain fore-fathers bore;

* i. e. Citron-Water and good Brandy,

What

What furer pattern can you hope to find,

Than that dear pledge * your Monarch left behind!
See how his Looks his honeft Heart explain,
And speak the bleffings of his future Reign!
In his each feature, truth and candour trace,
And read Plain-dealing written in his Face.

PROLOGUE TO THE NON-JUROR. A COMEDY. BY MR. CIBBER.

AS IT WAS ACTED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL IN

DRURY-LANE, 1718.

SPOKEN BY MR. WILK S.

O-night, ye Whigs and Tories, both be fafe,

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Nor hope at one another's cost to laugh.

We mean to fouse old Satan and the Pope ;
They've no relations here, nor friends, we hope.
A tool of theirs fupplies the comic stage
With just materials for fatiric rage :

Nor think our colours may too ftrongly paint
The ftiff Non-Juring Separation Saint.
Good-breeding ne'er commands us to be civil-
To those who give the nation to the devil;
Who at our fureft, beft foundation strike,
And hate our monarch and our church alike;
Our church-which, aw'd with reverential fear,
Scarcely the Muse presumes to mention here.

D 3

* The prince of Wales then present.

Long

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