Prologue

I Speak a Prologue!—What strange whim, I wonder, Could lead the author into such a blunder?— I ask'd the man as much—but he (poor devil!) Fancied a Manager might make you civil. "Garrick (says he) can with a Prologue tame "The Critic's rage—Why can't you do the same?" Because (quoth I) the case is diff'rent quite; Garrick, you know, can Prologues speak, and write; If like that Roscius I could write, and speech it, I might command applause, and not beseech it. But, sure, for one who, all his live-long days, Has dealt in Crotchets, Minims, and Sol-fa's, A Singer, to stand forth in Wit's defence, And plead 'gainst Sound the solemn cause of Sense; Persuade an audience that a play has merit, Without a single Air to give it spirit; 'Tis so much out of character—so wrong— No Prologue, sir, for me,—unless in Song.

The fame (quoth I) you poets reap, And all your gains, are owing, To sounds that even measure keep, And stanzas smoothly flowing: But me the lyre wou'd better suit Than verses of Apollo; The fiddle, hautboy, horn, or flute, I'm always us'd to follow.

"Sir (says he) you'll mar "My verse and meaning too"— Sir, must I turn fool, To humour such as you? I'll sing it if you please— "Sing! cries he, in huff, "Of you and your Sol-fa's "The town has had enough"— Oh! then I bounc'd and swore— Was I much to blame? Had you been in my place, Why you'd have done the same.

If for old-fashion'd tunes he's not too nice, I'd give him fifty of 'em in a trice, With words more fitted to his purpose here, Than all the rhimes he'd jingle in a year. He challeng'd me to shew a single sample Of what I bragg'd—I did—as for example!

The scene is prepar'd, the Critics are met, The judges all rang'd—a terrible shew! E're tryal begins the Prologue's a debt, A debt on demand—so take what we owe.

And this is the way, Mr. Author, To trick a plain muse up with art, In modish Fal-lal's you must cloathe her, And warm a cold Critic's hard heart. With a Fal-lal-lal, &c.

Wherefore I thus entreat, with due submission, Between the bard and me you'd make decision.

The whole now on your arbitration we rest, And Prologues henceforward shall surely be drest, In what mode soever your taste shall like best, Which none of us dare deny.

For, howe'er cruel critics and witlings may sneer, That at times I, alas! somewhat dunny appear, If to you, my best friends, I e'er turn my deaf ear, May you your indulgence deny!

Then, for his sake and mine, (for we're both in a fright) Till a treat of more goût shall your palates delight, Let a poor humble Comedy please you to-night; Which surely you will not deny.