PROLOGUE, TO THE YOUNG QUAKER, A COMEDY written by Mr. O'KEEFFE, Spoken by Mr. PALMER. August, 1783

Old Crab, a Critick, looking o'er our Bill, Thus vents his angry Spleen, and rails his fill. " A Comedy!—The man's too bold by half— I can't bear Comedies that make me laugh. I doubt, my friend, he'll make both me and you sick— Farce is his province, and a Farce with Musick. Hay-market!—Zounds the Fellow makes me fret— Where's Mrs. Bannister, Miss George, and Brett? Edwin's songs, fal, lal, tag, rag, all Concetto! Charles Bannister's bold Bass, and droll Falsetto? Five Acts!—a bore!—and are his Scenes so long, There's no room edgeways to squeeze in a song? Make it two Farces! Cut it in the middle! Nor play a Solo thus without a Fiddle."

Our Bard 'tis true first woo'd the Publick here, And here their smiles have oft dispell'd his fear: Of sportive Farce he seem'd the fav'rite Child, And with a song your easy ears beguil'd. To-night, not dreaming of a grand essay, By some strange Meteor fancies led astray, He meant an Opera, and produc'd a Play.

Youthen whose breath and resin'd bows in league Have pip'd, and scrap'd whole hours without fatigue, Take breath, to-night! Cease wind, and cat-gut sleep! Your lungs, your nimble elbows, quiet keep! Your old friend comes for once in Masquerade— Yet, fear him not! for, constant to his Trade, Again he'll join your Band, again he'll court your aid. And you who sit in many an aweful Row Enthron'd above or on the Bench below; Good men and true of our Dramatick Pannel, Let not your mercy leave its ancient channel! If by some chance or impulse—Heav'n knows whence— Our Bard quits Sound, and wanders into Sense; If Wit and Humour on the surface flow, While solid Sense and Moral lurk below, Let him be pardon'd! nor your verdict dread, Tho' Farce, sometimes pops in her waggish head! By Mildness you shall teach him to succeed, And write hereafter—Comedies indeed!