PROLOGUE to THE TAYLORS,
Spoken by SAMUEL FOOTE, Efq.

And fuppofed to be written by DG, Esq.

THIS

HIS night we add fome heroes to our store,
Who never were, as heroes, feen before;
No bluftering Romans, Trojans, Greeks fhall rage,
No Knights, arm'd cap a pee, fhall crow'd our stage;
Nor fhall out Henrys, Edwards take the field,
Oppofing fword to fword, and fhield to fhield;
With other inftrument our troop appears;
Needles to thimbles fhall, and fheers to fheers;
With parchment gorgets, and in buckram arm'd,
Cold-blooded taylors are to heroes warm'd ;
And, flip-fhod, flide to war.-No lions' glare,
No eye-balls flashing fire, fhall make you ftare:
Each outfide fhall belie the ftuff within;
A Roman spirit in each taylor's skin :-
A taylor-legg'd Pompey, Caffius, shall you fee,
And the ninth-part of Brutus ftrut in me!

What

What tho' no fwords we draw, no daggers shake,
Yet can our warrior's a quietus make

With a bare bodkin-Now be dumb, ye railers,
And never but in honour call out Taylors!
But are thefe heroes tragic? you will cry.
Oh, very tragic! and I'll tell you why-
Should female artifts with the male combine,
And mantua-makers with the taylors join ;

Should all, too proud to work, their trades give o'er,
Nor to be footh'd again by Six-pence more,
What horrors would enfue! Firft you, ye Beaux,
At once lofe all existence with your cloaths!
And you, ye fair, where wou'd be your defence?
This is no golden age of innocence !

Should drunken Bacchanals the Graces meet,
And no police to guard the naked street,
Beauty is weak, and paffion bold and ftrong,
Oh then-But modefty reftrains my tongue.
May this night's bard a skilful taylor be,
And like a well-made coat his tragedy.
Tho' clofe, yer eafy, decent, but not dull,
Short but not feanty, without buckram, FULL.

HOE'ER approaches to the Lord of all,
And with his offerings defolates the ftall;
Who brings a hundred bulls with garlands dreft,
The purple mantle, or the golden veft;
Or ivory figures richly wrought around,
Or curious images with emeralds crown'd;
And hopes with thefe GoD's favour to obtain,
His thoughs are foolish, and his hopes are vain.
He, only he, may truft his pray'r will rife,
And Heav'n accept his grateful facrifice,
Who leads, benificent, a virtuous life;
Who wrongs no virgin, who currupts no wife;
No robber he, nó murd'rer of mankind,
No mifer, fervant to the fordid mind,
Dare to be juft, my Pamphilus, difdain
The fmalleft trifle for the greatest gain :
For God is nigh thee, and his purer fight
In acts of goodnefs only takes delight;

He

He feeds the labourer for his honeft toil,
And heaps his fubftance as he turns the foil.
To him then humbly pay the rites divine,
And not in garments, but in goodnefs fhine.
Guiltlefs of confcience thou may'ft fafely fleep,
Tho' thunders bellow through the boundless deep.

A tranflation of a little Sonnet wrote by PLATO, in his younger time of life, and preferved by DIOGENES LAERTIUS.

'AKE the gift that I bestow,
catch this apple that I throw ;

Part of the heap, my faireft fee,
The heap I've treafur'd up for thee.

Take it, and my offer'd love
If, befide, thou doft approve,

In kind return to my bleft arms
Yield up the treasure of thy charms,

But if (how that But I hate!
Be it not confirm'd by fate!)
Thou favour'st not my am'rous fuit,
Still take my prefent of the fruit.

Think when thou behold'd its bloom,

What to-morrow 'twill become :

Think, that, if eaten not to-day,

To teeth of Time 'twill fall a prey.

EPITAPH on CLAUDIUS PHILLIPS.

By Dr. JOHNSON.

HILLIPS! whose touch harmonious could remove

The pangs of guilty power or hapless love,
Reft here: opprefs'd by poverty no more,
Here find that calm thou gav'ft fo oft before:
Sleep undisturb'd within this humble shrine,
Till angels wake thee with a note like thine.

Verfes infcribed on a fmall Cottage, in ruftic Tafte, intended as a Place Powis, Efq. in a Grove by the River

of Retirement, built by

Severn.

TAY, paffenger, and tho' within,

Nor gold, nor glitt'ring gems are seen,
To ftrike thy dazzled eye,

Yet enter, and thy ravish'd mind
Beneath this humble roof fhall find
What gold will never buy.

Within this folitary cell,

Calm thought and fweet contentment dwell,
Parents of blifs fincere ;

Peace fpreads around her balmy wings,
And, banish'd from the courts of kings,
Has fix'd her manfion here.

An Occafional Prologue, Spoken by Mr. Powell, at the Opening of the Theatre Royal in Covent-Garden, on Monday the 14th of Sept.

As
For dubious feas advent'rous quits the fhore,
Still anxious for his freight, he trembling fees
Rocks in each buoy, and tempefts in each breeze;
The curling wave to mountains billows fwells,
And every cloud a fancied storm foretels :
Thus rafhly launch'd on this theatric main,
Our all on board, each phantom gives us pain;
The catcall's note feems thunder in our ears,
And every hifs a hurricane appears;

In Journal fquibs we lightning's blait espy,
And meteors blaze in every critic's eye.

Spite of thefe terrors, ftill fome hopes we view,
Hopes ne'er cap fail us-fince they're plac'd in you.
Your breath the gale, our voyage is fecure,
And fafe the venture which your fmiles infure:
Tho' weak his skill, th' advent'rer muft fucceed,
Where candour takes the endeavour for the deed.
For Brentford's ftate two kings could once fuffice,
In ours, behold! four kings of Brentford rife;
All smelling to one nofegay's odorous favour,
The balmy nofegay of the public favour.
From hence alone our royal funds we draw,
Your pleasure our fupport, your will our law.
While fuch our government, we hope you'll own us,
But, fhould we ever tyrants prove-dethrone us.

1

Like

Like brother monarchs, who, to coax the nation,
Begin their reigns with fome fair proclamation:
We two fhould talk at leaft-of Reformation;
Declare that during our imperial fway,
Nor bard fhall mourn his long-neglected play;
But then the play muft have fome wit, fome fpirit,
And we allow'd fole umpires of its merit.
For thofe deep fages of the judging pit,

Whofe tafte is too refin'd for modern wit,
From Rome's great theatre we'll cull the piece,
And plant on Britain's ftage the flowers of Greece.
If fome there are our British bards can please,
Who tafte the ancient wit of ancient days,
Be our's to fave from time's devouring womb

Their works, and fnatch their laurels from the tomb.
For you, ye fair, who fprightlier fcenes may choofe,
Where mufic decks in all her airs the mufe,
Gay opera fhall all its charms difpenfe :
Yet boaft no tuneful triumph over fenfe :
The nobler bard fhall ftill affert his right,
Nor Handel rob a Shakespeare of his night.
To greet their mortal brethen of our fkies,
Here all the gods of pantomime fhall rife:
Yet, 'midit the pomp and magic of machines,
Some plot may mark the meaning of our scenes:
Scenes which were held, in good king Rich's days,
By fages, no bad epilogues to plays.

If terms like thefe your fuffrage can engage,
To fix our mimic empire of the ftage;

Confirm our title, in your fair opinions,

And croud each night to people our dominions.

On the Right Hon. the Earl of CHESTERFIELD's Recover from a late

Indifpofition.

By MICHAEL CLANCY, M. D.

Durrow in Ireland, Sept. 29.

Je difois a la nuit fombre;

Tu vas maintenant dans ton ombre

Le cacher pour toujour :

Je redijois a l' Aurore,
La mantinée que tu vas eclore

Ce fera le dernier de fes jours.

1 his head;

N noon-day heat, a pilgrim fpread

Enjoy'd