PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE.

A TRAGEDY.

WRITTEN BY JOSEPH CRADOCK, ESQ. ACTED AT THE THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN, M.DCC.LXXII.

KEN BY MR. QUICK,

SPO

In these bold times, when learning's sons explore
The distant climates, and the savage shore;
When wise astronomers to India steer,

And quit for Venus many a brighter here;
While botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling;
Our bard into the general spirit enters,
And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading;
Yet, ere he lands, he has order'd me before
To make an observation on the shore.

Where are we driven? our reckoning sure is lost!
This seems a rocky and a dangerous coast.
Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!
Yon ill-foreboding cloud seems big with thunder.
(Upper gallery.)

There mangroves spread, and larger than I've

And apples, bitter apples, strew the ground:

(Tasting them.)

The inhabitants are cannibals, I fear;

I heard a hissing

- there are serpents here! Oh, there the people are best keep my distance. Our captain (gentle natives) craves assistance; Our ship's well stor❜d—in yonder creek we've laid her,

His honour is no mercenary trader.

This is his first adventure, lend him aid,

And we may chance to drive a thriving trade. His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from far,

Equally fit for gallantry and war.

What, no reply to promises so ample?
I'd best step back, and order up a sample.

EPILOGUE SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES,

IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN,

AT HIS BENEFIT.

HOLD! prompter, hold! a word before your non

sense:

I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,
My heels eclips'd the honours of my head;
That I found humour in a pieball vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.

[Takes off his mask.

Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns, thy mirth;
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,

The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood
Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu❜d!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses ;
Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilst from below the trapdoor demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities:
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?
May rosin'd lightning blast me if I do!

No I will act, I'll vindicate the stage: Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage. Off! off, vile trappings! a new passion reigns; The maddening monarch revels in my veins.

Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme: 'Give me another horse! bind up my wounds! soft'twas but a dream.'

Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating:

If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.

'Twas thus that Æsop's stag, a creature blameless, Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless, Once on the margin of a fountain stood,

'And cavill'd at his image in the flood.

'The deuce confound,' he cries, 'these drumstick shanks!

They never have my gratitude nor thanks; They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead! But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head:

How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow! My horns- I'm told horns are the fashion now.' Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to his view, Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen

drew.

'Hoicks! hark forward!' came thundering from behind:

He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind;
He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze.
At length his silly head, so priz'd before,
Is taught his former folly to deplore;

Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,
And at one bound he saves himself.
like me.

[Taking a jump through the stage-door.

EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF THE
SISTERS.

WHAT? five long acts—and all to make us wiser!
Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.
Had she consulted me, she should have made
Her moral play a speaking masquerade;
Warm'd up each bustling scene, and, in her rage,
Have emptied all the green room on the stage.
My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking;
Have pleas'd our eyes, and sav'd the pain of
thinking.

Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill,
What if I give a masquerade?—I will.
But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing]—I've
got my cue:

you, you.

The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, [To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses! False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!

Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em, Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em.

1 The Sisters] A comedy by Mrs. Charlotte Lennox, 1769, taken from the authoress's own novel, Henrietta.' It was performed only one night. The author of the Biographia Dramatica says that this epilogue is the best that has appeared the last thirty years.'