PROLOGUESEWELL. Spoken by Mr. WILKS.

Shakespear who gave our English Stage its Birth,
Here makes a medley Scene of War, and Mirth.
He knew his Countrymens free Spirit best,
We laugh in Earnest—but ne'er fight in Jest.
Now, he in easy Scenes of Nature Charms,
And now, your Hearts, with Martial Fury, warms:
Proving that Rival Nations must submit,
To English Courage—as to English Wit.

If sometimes, devious from old Rules be strays,
And treads a-wry from Aristotle's ways,
Tis but to show—he dar'd to give offence,
And laugh'd at slavish Ties—in any Sence.
Free, and at ease, the mettl'd Sportsman rides,
And by his Game alone, his Motion guides,
Dogs beat upon the Scent—but he pursues,
Seizes the Prey—and mocks at distanc'd Views.

Thus Shakespear passes Nations in his Flight,
And leaves the lagger'd Genius out of Sight.
Yet reins his Pegasus in full Career,
They frighten Danger, who no Danger fear.

Yet you great Judges, sometimes wink at Crimes,
Most were not his, but Errors of the Times!
Sometimes—yet half-asham'd of what he Writ!
He quibbl'd, like an errant Pulpit Wit.
Like wanton Fencers, some rude Stroaks he made,
To show the strength and toughness of his Blade.
But all Apologies for him are wrong,
He proves his Value, by his lasting long.
And now with Pleasure, his bright Fame surveys,
Fresher in GEORGE's, than Eliza's Days.

Design'd to be Spoke.WRITTEN By

PROLOGUEG. ROUSSILLON.

To touch the ungenerous Breast with conscious Shame.
To warm the Heart with Love of virtuous Fame,
To check the raging Passions of the Mind,
To move the Soul, and civilize Mankind,
To lash the Crimes of a degenerate Age,
Were the first Labours of the infant Stage:
For this the ancient buskin'd Heroes fought,
And Terence, and immortal Shakespear wrote.

To Night our Author on the Stage will bring
A just, a wise, a prudent, pious King;
Who here invited came to free the State,
And save the People from a cruel Fate.

His Priests indeed soon left him in the Lurch,
And talk'd about the Danger of the Church;
Rail'd, threatned, and rebell'd, but as for fighting
Their leading Bishop never took delight in,
But Prelate like, first battl'd with his Tongue,
Gave up his Cause, and then devoutly swung.

A Prince of Wales does next ascend the Throne,
Whose God-like Acts thro' all the World are known;
Tho' now to Pleasure he devotes his Time,
And seems in Indolence to wast his Prime.
Soon will the Heroe try his Sword and Lance,
And win the Daughter and the Crown of France.

With something Comical to entertain
Here's Falstaffe too, a very Rogue in grain.
A Rogue! For what? He'll bully, swear, and roar,
Loves Sack and Sugar, and a pretty Whore.
If these must be accounted heinous Crimes,
The Lord have mercy on these wicked Times.
When cheating, lying, cozening are in Fashion,
And each one strives to bubble all the Nation,
When Men all thoughts of Honesty forsake:
And grave Directors their Engagements break.

Oh! let our Entertainment find the Praise
It always met with in your Father's Days,
Be tempted hence by no perswasive Note,
Or Quavers warbled thro' an Eunuch's Throat:
Spite of the Fasbion let some few be found
Who value Sense above an empty Sound.

Written by Mr

EPILOGUESEWELL. Spoken by Mr. PENKETHMAN.
In the Character of Feeble.

Was not my Part an odd one for the Stage—
A Womans Taylor—and at Pinkey's Age?
For me, whose vigorous days of Youth are past,
To—fiddle—faddle—round a Lady's Wast,
To check the full-blown Breast, and fix the Stays—
Were things I might have done in former Days.
But now 'tis showing of a Sick-man Meat,
When he wants power and appetite to Eat.
Time was I wanted no such Provocation
To show my self—a Man of Occupation.
Then knew I how my Lady's Maid to wheedle,
And show her—la menage—of Thread and Needle.

And yet how many Copies are of me
Who are not that—which they pretend to Be?
What is the batter'd Beau in Life's decay?
The Thing in earnest—I am in the Play.
Fond of the Race when all his Strength is gone,
He shows a List—of former Plates he won;
Such Prizes only prove his Case the worse,
—What are old Trophies to a Three-heat Course?
Your sleeping Citizen, that jealous Jaylor,
Is nought but Feeble—an unworking Taylor,
A sort of Guardian Invalid of Beauty,
Who keeps his Post—tho' he performs no Duty.

When such, ye fair ones, would your Loves disgrace,
Scorn them—and think of Taylor Feeble's Case.
Many may be, if you their Actions scan,
A Woman's Taylor—not a Woman's Man.

Dramatis Personæ.

MEN.

WOMEN.

[Gentleman], [Lord Bardolph], [Gower], [Drawer], [Messenger], [Sir John Colville], [Cambridge], [Ambassador], [Earl of Northumberland]

Ambassadors, Lords, Gentlemen, and Soldiers.

King Henry the Fourth.	Mr. Booth.
Henry Prince of Wales	Mr. Wilks.
Prince John of Lancaster.	Mr. Walker.
Duke of Gloster [Prince Humphrey of Gloucester].	Mr. Oates.
Duke of Clarence [Thomas].	Mr. Theo. Cibber.
Westmorland [Earl of Westmoreland].	Mr. Williams.
Lord Chief Justice.	Mr. Boman.
Archbishop of Canterbury.	Mr. Corey.
Bishop of Ely.	Mr. Rogers.
Archbishop of York [Scroop]	Mr. Thurmond Rebel.
Mowbray Duke of Norfolk [Lord Mowbray].	Mr. W. Mills Rebel.
Lord Hastings.	Mr. Watson Rebel.
Poins.	Mr. W. Wilks.
Sir John Falstaff.	Mr. Mills.
Justice Shallow.	Mr. Cibber.
Justice Silence.	Mr. Miller.
Bardolfe [Bardolph].	Mr. Shepard.
Pistol.	Mr. Norris.
Davy Justice Shallow's Man.	Mr. Wright.
Feeble a Womans Taylor.	Mr. Penkethman.
Shadow.	Mr. Ray.
Wart.	Mr. Cole.
Mouldy.	Mr. Wilson.
Bull-calfe [Bullcalf].	Mr. Wetherelt.
Falstaffe's Boy [Page].	Miss. Lindar.
Hostess [Mrs. Quickly].	Mrs. Willis.
Doll. Tearsheet [Doll Tearsheet].	Mrs. Willis, jun.

The SEQUEL of HENRY the Fourth, With the Humours of Sir John Falstaffe and Justice Shallow.

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