PROLOGUE On the opening of the THEATRE ROYAL in the HAY-MARKET, May 15, 1777. Spoken by Mr. PALMER

Pride, by a thousand arts, vain honours claims, And gives to empty nothings pompous names. Theatrick Dealers thus would fain seem great, And every Playhouse grows a mighty State: To fancied heights howe'er mock monarchs soar, A Manager's a Trader—nothing more. You (whom they court) their customers—and then We players—poor devils!—are the journeymen.

While Two Great Warehouses, for Winter use, Eight months huge Bales of Merchandise produce, Out with the Swallow comes our Summer Bayes, To shew his Taffata and Lutestring plays; A choice assortment of slight goods prepares, The smallest Haberdasher of Small Wares.

In Laputa we're told a grave Projector, —A mighty Schemer, like our New Director— Once form'd a plan—and 'twas a deep one, sirs! To draw the Sun-beams out of Cucumbers. So whilst less vent'rous managers retire, Our Salamander thinks to live in fire.

A playhouse Quidnunc—and no Quidnuncs wiser— Reading our play-bills in the Advertiser, Cries "Hey! what's here? In the Haymarket a play, To sweat the Publick in the midst of May? Give me fresh air!" then goes, and pouts alone In country lodgings—by the Two-mile Stone: There sits, and chews the cud of his disgust, Broil'd in the sun, and blinded by the dust.

Dearee, says Mrs. Inkle, let us go To the Hay-market to-night and see the Show! Psha, woman, cries old Inkle, you're a fool: We'll walk to Hornsey, and enjoy the cool. So said, to finish the domestick strife, Forth waddle the fat spouse and fatter wife: And as they tug up Highgate-Hill together, He cries—"delightful walking—charming weather!"

Now, with the napkin underneath the chin, Unbutton'd Cits their Turtle feast begin, And plunge full knuckle-deep thro' thick and thin; Throw down fish, flesh, fowl, pastry, custard, jelly, And make a Salmagundy of their belly. " More Chian-Pepper!—Punch, another rummer! " So cool and pleasant—eating in the Summer!"

To antient Geographers it was not known Mortals could live beneath the Torrid Zone: But we, tho' toiling underneath the Line, Must make our Hay, now while the weather's fine. Your good Old Hay-maker, long here employ'd, The sunshine of your smiles who still enjoy'd, The fields which long he mow'd will not forsake, Nor quite forego the Scythe, the Fork, and Rake, But take the field, ev'n in the hottest day, And kindly help us to get in our hay.