PROLOGUE To the TRAGEDY of CLEMENTINA. Spoken by Mr. BENSLEY. March, 1771

In these our moral and religious days, Men dread the crying sin of writing Plays; While some, whose wicked wit incurs the blame, Howe'er they love the trespass, fly the shame.

If, a new holy war with vice to wage, Some Preacher quits the Pulpit for the Stage, The Rev'rend Bard, with much remorse and fear, Attempts to give his Evening Lecture here: The work, engender'd, to the world must rise; But yet the father may elude our eyes. The parish on this trick of youth might frown, And thus, unown'd, 'tis thrown upon the town. At our Director's door he lays the sin, Who sees the Babe, relents, and takes it in; To swathe and dress it first unstrings his purse, Then kindly puts it out to you—to nurse.

Should some Young Counsel, thro' his luckless star, By writing Plays turn truant to the Bar. Call'd up by you to this High Court of Wit, With non inventus we return the Writ. No Latitat can force him to appear, Whose failure and success cause equal fear; Whatever fees his clients here bestow, He loses double in the courts below.

Grave, solemn Doctors, whose prescribing pen Has, in the trade of Death, kill'd many men, With vent'rous quill here tremblingly engage To slay Kings, Queens, and Heroes, on the stage. The Great, if great men write, of shame afraid, Come forth incog.—and Beaux, in masquerade. Some Demireps in wit, of doubtful fame, Tho' known to all the town, withhold their name.

Thus each by turns ungratefully refuse To own the favours of their Lady Muse; Woo'd by the Court, the College, Bar, and Church, Court, Bar, Church, College, leave her in the lurch.

'Tis your's to night the work alone to scan: Arraign the Bard, regardless of the Man! If Dullness wave her Poppies o'er his play, To Critick fury let it fall a prey; But if his art the tears of Pity draws, Ask not his name—but crown him with applause.