PROLOGUE, Written and Spoken by Mr. GENTLEMAN

Ben JOHNSON's name, in ev'ry ear of taste, Must with respect, and countenance be graced; No pen the lines of nature better drew, No wit or satire ever higher flew; An early pillar of the English stage, His pieces were true pictures of the age; Time-worn they feel impair—yet still must please. Nervous and just, though void of modern ease.

Fashions, in characters as well as cloaths, Change, though less oft, as wav'ring fancy flows; Witches and fairies with their midnight train, No longer revel on the blasted plain; Now ev'ry simpleton of britain's isle, At such a fraud as Alchymy would smile; Yet being only chang'd in name and shapes, Scarce one in ten the gilded bait escapes.

Haste to the hall where law is sold like ware, How many long rob'd alchymsts ply there; What hopes to gudgeon clients they unfold, While empty quibbles turn to solid gold; See swarming quacks!—so public folly wills Convert to gold their health-destroying pills Change Alley view—that scene of transmutation That base alchemic bubble of the nation; See beauty's self resign its brightest charms And turn to gold in age's frozen arms.

Search all the world, examine ev'ry part; You'll find each man an alchymist at heart In ev'ry clime we find, if truth be told The universal deity is gold.

Whate'er of merit you perceive this night, Grant your old bard as his undoubted right My brain has laboured—feebly I confess, Only to furnish a more modern dress. My weak endeavours let your candor raise, They hope indulgence, though they reach not praise.