Prologue

From Dryden's period to our present days, Thus would be-critics censure modern plays; Some are too dull, without intrigue, or jest— And some mere speaking pantomimes at best; That living authors are by dead surpast, So he must write the worst, who writes the last— Still each new drama captiously they blame, And, though the town be pleas'd, deny it same. Should this decision be allow'd as just, The bays denied the Bard, may grace his bust! But if this taste for antiques we pursue, Age may improve wit, wine, and women too. One old opinion we would still retain, The right that England has to rule the main! Long as the sea shall fence our envied land, Long as our navy shall the sea command; So long shall Howe's, St. Vincent's, Duncan's name, Be grav'd by memory on the rock of same! The page of hist'ry shall their deeds repeat, With Britain's triumph, and the foe's defeat.

But ah! the pensive muse, with tearful eye, Views glory's brightest triumph with a sigh! And midst the shouts victorious fleets attend Mourns o'er the ashes of an honoured friend, Who in his country's quarrel fought and bled, By England numbered with her patriot dead! May war's alarms midst rival nations cease, And all embrace that lovely stranger—Peace, Whose olive branch once planted by her hand, Shall bless a loyal, brave, and happy land.

This night our Author's hopes on you are placed, His former efforts by your smiles were graced; To your decree submissively he bends, Trusting his judges will be found his friends.