PROLOGUE TO PHILASTER. Revived on the first Appearance of Mr. POWELL, Spoken by MR. KING. MDCCLXIII

While Modern Tragedy, by rule exact, Spins out a thin-wrought Fable, Act by Act, We dare to bring you one of those bold Plays Wrote by rough English Wits in former days; Beaumont and Fletcher! those Twin Stars, that run Their glorious course round Shakespeare's golden Sun; Or when Philaster Hamlet's place supplied, Or Bessus walk'd the Stage by Falstaff's side. Their Souls, well-pair'd, shot fire in mingled rays, Their hands together twin'd the social Bayes, Till Fashion drove, in a refining age, Virtue from Court, and Nature from the Stage. Then Nonsense, in Heroicks, seem'd sublime; Kings rav'd in couplets, and maids sigh'd in Rhime. Next, prim, and trim, and delicate, and chaste, A Hash from Greece and France, came Modern Taste. Cold are her sons, and so afraid of dealing In Rant and Fustian, they ne'er rise to Feeling. O say, ye Bards of Phlegm, say, where's the name That can with Fletcher urge a rival claim? Say, where's the Poet, train'd in Pedant Schools, Equal to Shakespeare, who o'erleap'd all Rules?

Thus of our Bards, we boldly speak our mind; A harder task, alas, remains behind: To-night, as yet by publick eyes unseen, A raw, unpractis'd Novice, fills the Scene. Bred in the City, his Theatrick Star Brings him at length, on this side Temple-Bar; Smit with the Muse, the Ledger he forgot, And when he wrote his name, he made a blot. Him while perplexing hopes and fears embarrass, Skulking (like Hamlet's Rat) behind the Arras, Me a Dramatick fellow-feeling draws, Without a fee, to plead a Brother's Cause. Genius is rare; and while our Great Comptroller, No more a Manager, turns Arrant-Stroller, Let new adventurers your care engage, And nurse the Infant Saplings of the Stage!