PROLOGUE TO THE CAPUCHIN. Spoken by Mr. FOOTE. August, 1776

Criticks, whene'er I write, in every Scene Discover meanings that I never mean; Whatever character I bring to view, I am the father of the child 'tis true, But every babe his christening owes to you. " The Comick Poet's eye, with humorous air, Glancing from Watling-street to Grosvenor-square, He bodies forth a light ideal train, And turns to shape the phantoms of his brain: Meanwhile your fancy takes more partial aim, And gives to airy nothing Place and Name."

A Limner once, in want of work, went down To try his fortune in a country town; The waggon, loaded with his goods, convey'd To the same spot his whole dead stock in trade, Originals and Copies—ready made. To the new Painter all the country came, Lord, Lady, Doctor, Lawyer, 'Squire, and Dame, The humble Curate, and the Curate's wife; All ask a likeness—taken from the life. Behold the canvass on the easel stand! A pallet grac'd his thumb, and brushes fill'd his hand: But, ah! the Painter's skill they little knew, Nor by what curious rules of Art he drew. The waggon-load unpack'd, his ancient store Furnish'd for each a face drawn long before, God, Dame, or Hero—of the days of yore. The Caesars, with a little alteration, Were turn'd into the Mayor and Corporation; To represent the Rector and the Dean, He added wigs and bands to Prince Eugene: The ladies, blooming all, deriv'd their faces From Charles the Second's Beauties and the Graces. Thus done, and circled in a splendid frame, His works adorn'd each room, and spread his fame. The countrymen of taste admire and stare, " My Lady's leer! Sir John's majestick air! Miss Dimple's languish too!—extremely like! And in the style and manner of Vandyke!— Oh this new Limner's pictures always strike! Old, young, fat, lean, dark, fair; or big, or little; The very man or woman to a tittle!"

Foote and this Limner in some points agree, And thus, good sirs, you often deal by me. When, by the Royal Licence and Protection, I shew my small Academy's collection, The Connoisseur takes out his glass, to pry Into each Picture with a curious eye; Turns topsy-turvy my whole composition, And makes mere Portraits all my Exhibition, From various forms Apelles Venus drew: So from the million do I copy you. But still the copy's so exact, you say; Alas, the same thing happens every day! How many a modish well-drest fop you meet, Exactly suits his shape—in Monmouth-street! In Yorkshire Warehouses, and Cranborn-Ally, 'Tis wonderful how shoes and feet will tally! As honest Crispin understands his trade, On the true human scale his lasts are made, The measure of each sex and age to hit, And every shoe, as if bespoke, will fit.

My Warehouse thus for Nature's walks supplies Shoes for all ranks, and Lasts of every size. Sit still, and try them, sirs; I long to please ye; How well they fit! I hope you find them easy: If the Shoe pinches swear you cannot bear it, But, if well made—I wish you health to wear it.