Eager to fight, to conquer, or to fall,
From first to hindmoft-Pioneers and all.
Nervelefs and finewlefs their arms, 'tis true;
But yet 'tis glory to contend for you.
As fome low hind, whofe poverty's confefs'd,
Receives beneath his roof fome mighty gueft,
Dried winter fruits, alas! his only cheer,
His only liquor fome October beer,
Makes up in welcome what he wants in ftore,
Wishing his morfel better, riches more,
Spreads with a willing heart his humble board,
And freely empties all his little hoard;
So we too, confcious of our homely fare,
Truft to your fmiles to fnatch us from defpair.
Fall on with hearty ftomachs to regale,
Let not nice tafte, but appetite, prevail;
While we, plain landlords, a kind welcome give,
Blefs'd if we please you, whom to please we live!
PROLOGUE,
To the revived Comedy called EASTWARD HOE.
Spoken by MR. KING.
'N Charles the Second's gay and wanton days,
When lords had wit and gentlemen wrote plays, A rural 'fquire was term'd a country Put, And the grave City was a standing butt. To town, like oxen, honeft knights were led, To fhew in droves, huge antlers on their head. Gallants in queft of game, cried Eastward Hoe! And oft fprung Pufs within the found of Bow; While ev'ry 'prentice in the galleries chuckled At London Alderman dubb'd London Cuckold.
But now the times are chang'd, and chang'd the jeft; For Horns, fome fay, fprout nobly in the West. The murrain 'mongft horn'd cattle fpreads fo far, It rages on each fide of Temple-bar.
The modifh citizen o'erleaps his ward,
And the gay Cit plants Horns upon My Lord; While Beaux, whofe wives of flattery chew the cud, Are dupes full-blown, or Cuckolds in the bud.
Artists, who furnish'd pictures for the ftage,
In good Queen Befs's memorable age,
With a juft pencil City-portraits drew,
Mark'd ev'ry vice, and mark'd each virtue too:
The City Madam's vanities difplay'd,
Prais'd honeft gains, but damn'd the tricks of trade.
Artists like thefe, (Old Ben the chief) to-night
Bring Idleness and Industry to light,
Their Sketch, by Time perhaps impair'd too much,
A female hand has ventur'd to retouch.
Hence too our Hogarth drew, nor fcorn'd to glean
The Comick ftubble of the Moral Scene;
Hence Fellow-Prentices he brought to life,
And fhew'd their manners, and their fate, at ftrife;
Shew'd to what ends both Good and Evil ftretch-
To Honour one, and t'other to Jack Ketch;
Turn'd ridicule 'gainft folly, fraud, and pride,
And fought with Humour's lance on Virtue's fide.
Such be henceforth each Comick Artift's aim,
Poets, or Painters, be their drift the fame!
Such are the leffons which To-Night we read;
And may next feffions prove that we fucceed!
PROLOGUE,
On opening the New THEATRE ROYAL at MANCHESTER. Spoken by MR. YOUNGER.
N days of old, they fay, the Poet's Lays
Cities could build, and mighty temples raife.
When Orpheus play'd fo powerful was his fong,
He drew ftocks, ftones, and favage beafts along.
Amphion harp'd; obedient to his call,
The moving quarry jump'd into a wall.
Verfe of fair government first taught the plan,
Religion, Laws, and Arts, in Verse began.
Thus fables tell; and myftick truths they hide,
For Arts and Freedom with the Muse abide,
When fogs of ignorance o'erfpread the land,
Grim Perfecution rules with iron hand.
The focial Arts to kinder climates fly,
The Mufes' Temples all in Ruins lie.
But let the ray of Science chafe the gloom,
The plough, the fail, the shuttle, and the loom,
Plied by the fons of Industry, bring in
The kindred Arts, and Freedom's joys begin.
Meanwhile well-pleas'd their triumphs to proclaim,
The Mufes celebrate, and fhare their fame;
And while their grateful incense seeks the skies,
Temples and Theatres in fplendor rife.
Such be your boaft! here let the Muse retreat,
Where Pallas long has fixt her fav'rite feat!
If you upon our humble labour fmile,
In happy hour to Shakespeare rofe this Pile.
But, if you frown, our fplendid Scenes decay,
And all our bafelefs fabrick melts away.
Our cloud-capt tow'rs, our gorgeous palaces,
Our mounts, our woods, our rivers, and our feas,
Our folemn temples, and each folemn robe
That ftuffs this wooden O, this little globe,
Shall fade! and like the insubstantial wind,
Or empty dreams, leave not a rack behind.
Smile then, and for your clemency be prais'd,
And, oh! fupport the Building you have rais'd!
On that foundation must we reft alone,
Your patronage our Prop, our Corner-Stone.
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