EPILOGUE TO TIMANTHES, Spoken by Mrs. YATES. February, 1770. HAT horrors fill the Tragick Poet's brain! his train; He pants for miseries, delights in ills, The blood of Fathers, Mothers, Children, spills; Our gentler Poet, in foft Opera bred, Winds to a profperous end the fine-drawn tale, Woman, whate'er fhe be-Maid, Widow, Wife- I And And yet, alas, poor Prince! I could not blame him- But what a barb'rous law was this of Thrace! Ladies, to you alone our Author fues: 'Tis yours to cherish, or condemn his Mufe. The Theatre's a Mirror, and each Play Should be a very Looking-Glafs, they fay; His Looking-Glass reflects no moles or pimples, But fhews you full of graces, fmiles, and dimples. If you approve yourselves, resolve to spare, And, Criticks! then attack him, if ye dare! PROLOGUE To the TRAGEDY of CLEMENTINA. N these our moral and religious days, Men dread the crying fin of writing Plays; While fome, whofe wicked wit incurs the blame, Howe'er they love the trespass, fly the shame. If, a new holy war with vice to wage, Some Preacher quits the Pulpit for the Stage, The Rev'rend Bard, with much remorfe and fear, Attempts to give his Evening Lecture here: The work, engender'd, to the world must rise But yet the father may elude our eyes. ९ ૐ The parish on this trick of youth might frown, to nurse. Should fome Young Counsel, thro' his lucklefs ftar, By writing Plays turn truant to the Bar. Call'd Call'd up by you to this High Court of Wit, No Latitat can force him to appear, Whofe failure and fuccefs cause equal fear; He lofes double in the courts below. 1 Grave, folemn Doctors, whose prescribing pen Has, in the trade of Death, kill'd many men, With vent'rous quill here tremblingly engage To flay Kings, Queens, and Heroes, on the stage. Tho' known to all the town, withhold their name. Thus each by turns ungratefully refufe 'Tis your's to night the work alone to scan: But if his art the tears of Pity draws, Afk not his name-but crown him with applause. EPILOGUE TO CLEMENTINA, FRO Spoken by Mrs. YATES. ROM Otway's and immortal Shakespear's page, Here the Rialto often has difplay'd At once a Bridge, a Street, and Mart of Trade; To night in Venice we have plac'd our scene, Where I have been,-liv'd-died-as you have seen. Yet that my travels I may not difgrace, Let me, fince now reviv'd-describe the place! The City's felf-a wonder, all agree- Horfes |