EPILOGUE.

WRITTEN BY COLLEY CIBBER, ESQ.

Spoken by Maria.

SINCE fate has robb'd me of the hapless youth,
For whom my heart had hoarded up its truth;
By all the laws of love and honour, now,
I'm free again to choose-and one of you.

But soft-With caution first I'll round me peep:
Maids, in my case, should look before they leap.
Here's choice enough, of various sorts and hue,
The cit, the wit, the rake cock'd up in cue,
The fair spruce mercer, and the tawny Jew.

Suppose I search the sober gallery?- -No; There's none but 'prentices, and cuckolds all-a-row; And these, I doubt, are those that make them so. [Pointing to the Boxes.

'Tis very well, enjoy the jest:-But you, Fine powder'd sparks,nay, I am told 'tis true,Your happy spouses- can make cuckolds too. 'Twixt you and them the diff'rence this, perhaps : The cit's ashamed whene'er his duck he traps; But you, when Madam's tripping, let her fall, Cock up your hats, and take no shame at all.

What if some favour'd poet I could meet,
Whose love would lay his laurels at my feet.
No- -Painted pafsions real love abhors-
His flame would prove the suit of creditors.

Not to detain you then with longer pause,
In short, my heart to this conclusion draws;
I yield it to the hand that's loudest in applause.

}

A

COMEDY.

BY

BEN JONSON.

AS ALTERED BY

DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.

LONDON:

PRINTED BY C. WHITTINGHAM,
Dean Street,

FOR JOHN SHARPE, OPPOSITE YORK HOUSE,

PICCADILLY.

PROLOGUE.

CRITICS, your favour is our author's right-
The well-known scenes we shall present to-night
Are no weak efforts of a modern pen,

But the strong touches of immortal Ben;
A rough old Bard, whose honest pride disdain'd
Applause itself, unless by merit gain'd-

And wou'd to-night your loudest praise disclaim,
Shou'd his great shade perceive the doubtful fame,
Not to his labours granted, but his name.
Boldly he wrote, and boldly told the age;
'He dar'd not prostitute the useful stage,
Or purchase their delight at such a rate,
As, for it, he himself must justly hate:

But rather begg'd they wou'd be pleas'd to see
From him, such plays as other plays shou'd be:
Wou'd learn from him to scorn a motley scene,
And leave their monsters, to be pleas'd with men.'
Thus spoke the bard-and though the times are
chang'd,

Since his free muse for fools the city rang'd:
And satire had not then appear'd in state,
To lash the finer follies of the great,

Yet let not prejudice infect your mind,
Nor slight the gold, because not quite refin'd;
With no false nicenefs this performance view,
Nor damn for low, whate'er is just and true:
Sure to those scenes some honour shou'd be paid,
Which Cambden patroniz'd, and Shakspeare play'd:
Nature was Nature then, and still survives:
The garb may alter, but the substance lives.
Lives in this play-where each may find complete
His pictur'd self-Then favour the deceit-
Kindly forget the hundred years between;
Become old Britons, and admire old Ben.