An Occasional Prologue, Intended to Have Been Spoken at the Theatre-royal on Richmond-green, MDCCLXVII

By opposition lately sore affrighted, We own, with gratitude, we see, delighted, Our rivals disappointed of their ends, To alienate the favour of our friends.

What could their musing prologue-monger dream on, By his strange tale of Baucis and Philemon ; Of heathen Jove, and such-like idle stuff? True, to be sure! and probable enough! But were it real, 'tis a fine example, And of his taste, no doubt, a curious sample! Because Dan Ovid's Jove, a filthy rake, Once pleas'd his lodgings in a barn to take, You in the dirt as decently should grovel, And take your places, truly, in a hovel! Well must they know, who much frequented plays, Enacted up the hill, in former days, How oft the scene dragg'd on, nay, stood stock still, For want of something,—worse than want of skill. How ludicrous to see, altho in sport, The fields of Cressy and of Agincourt Scarce big enough t' admit a warriour's stride,— Your heroes always straddle four feet wide,— Where trumpets sound, swords clash, and pike-staves rattle, The shim-sham hurly-burly of a battle; Where bloodless victory sets whole armies shouting, A man should sure have room to stir about in!

How, else, can nimble Harlequin display His merry magic in the mimic fray; Flourish his wooden sword, or, driven hard, Escape pursuit by jumping—half a yard! Yet have we seen that motley child of fun Coop'd in a hutch, where he could skip nor run; But fidgetted, his wrigglings to confine From tripping up the tripping Columbine: The stage so spacious, that three steps, at most, Ran Agamemnon's nose against the post; While his fair consort, madam Clytemnestra, Hid, with her petticoat, the whole orchestra! Nor was the playhouse faultier than the play'rs; As that had its defects, so they had theirs. Oft, 'tis well known, the careless comic muse Forgot to laugh, — because forgot their cues. Nay, we have seen a whole performance undone, For want of chieftians not arriv'd from London; Base knights that fail'd distressed queens to meet; But tippling sat in Bow, or Russel-street. Mean while poor Tragedy was forc'd to cry And whimper sadly with a single eye; The other turn'd incessantly to look, Tearless and dry, intent upon the book: The actor's part by some pert 'prentice play'd, Too fond of buskins not to scorn his trade.

No wonder stage so small, play'rs so obedient, Should render a new theatre expedient; Where heroes might have room to strut and stare, And bullies to lug out, look big, and swear; Where Sir John Falstaff at his ease might swagger, Jaffier have elbow room to lift his dagger, Pistol to stalk, and Toby Belch to stagger.

On these accounts, and due consideration, We fix'd our thoughts on this our present station; Here rais'd our house; and having tightly built it, Just as you see, thus painted, carv'd, and gilt it. This for our theatre.—As for the rest, As actors we, at worst, will do our best; Presuming those whom Royal Grace secures, May, from their King's indulgence, hope for yours.