on, I should have been happy in its fate, and might with truth have boasted, that it had done more real service in its failure, than the successful morality of a thousand stage-novels will ever effect.

It is usual, I believe, to thank the performers in a new play, for the exertion of their several abilities. But where (as in this instance) their merit has been so striking and uncontroverted, as to call for the warmest and truest applause from a number of judicious audiences, the poet's after-praise comes like the feeble acclamation of a child to close the shouts of a multitude. The conduct, however, of the principals in a theatre cannot be so apparent to the public. I think it therefore but justice to declare, that from this theatre (the only one I can speak of from experience) those writers who wish to try the dramatic line will meet with that candour and liberal attention, which are generally allowed to be better calculated to lead genius into excellence, than either the precepts of judgment, or the guidance of experience.

The AUTHOR

* * * * * * *

DRAMATIS PERSONAE

As originally acted at COVENT GARDEN THEATRE in 1775

  Sir ANTHONY ABSOLUTE
  CAPTAIN ABSOLUTE
  FAULKLAND
  ACRES
  Sir LUCIUS O'TRIGGER
  FAG
  DAVID
  THOMAS
  Mrs. MALAPROP
  LYDIA LANGUISH
  JULIA
  LUCY
  Maid, Boy, Servants, &c.

SCENE—Bath.

Time of action—Five hours.

* * * * * * *

PROLOGUE
By the AUTHOR

[Enter SERJEANT-AT-LAW, and ATTORNEY following, and giving a paper.]

SERJEANT
  What's here!—a vile cramp hand! I cannot see
  Without my spectacles.

ATTORNEY
                        He means his fee.
  Nay, Mr. Serjeant, good sir, try again. [Gives money.]

SERJEANT
  The scrawl improves! [more] O come, 'tis pretty plain.
  Hey! how's this? Dibble!—sure it cannot be!
  A poet's brief! a poet and a fee!

ATTORNEY
  Yes, sir! though you without reward, I know,
  Would gladly plead the Muse's cause.

SERJEANT
                                      So!—so!

ATTORNEY
  And if the fee offends, your wrath should fall
  On me.

SERJEANT
        Dear Dibble, no offence at all.

ATTORNEY
  Some sons of Phoebus in the courts we meet,

SERJEANT
  And fifty sons of Phoebus in the Fleet!

ATTORNEY
  Nor pleads he worse, who with a decent sprig
  Of bays adorns his legal waste of wig.

SERJEANT
  Full-bottom'd heroes thus, on signs, unfurl
  A leaf of laurel in a grove of curl!
  Yet tell your client, that, in adverse days,
  This wig is warmer than a bush of bays.

ATTORNEY
  Do you, then, sir, my client's place supply,
  Profuse of robe, and prodigal of tie—
  Do you, with all those blushing powers of face,
  And wonted bashful hesitating grace,
  Rise in the court, and flourish on the case. [Exit.]

SERJEANT
  For practice then suppose—this brief will show it,—
  Me, Serjeant Woodward,—counsel for the poet.
  Used to the ground, I know 'tis hard to deal
  With this dread court, from whence there's no appeal;
  No tricking here, to blunt the edge of law,
  Or, damn'd in equity, escape by flaw:
  But judgment given, your sentence must remain;
  No writ of error lies—to Drury Lane:
    Yet when so kind you seem, 'tis past dispute
  We gain some favour, if not costs of suit.
  No spleen is here! I see no hoarded fury;—
  I think I never faced a milder jury!
  Sad else our plight! where frowns are transportation.
  A hiss the gallows, and a groan damnation!
  But such the public candour, without fear
  My client waives all right of challenge here.
  No newsman from our session is dismiss'd,
  Nor wit nor critic we scratch off the list;
  His faults can never hurt another's ease,
  His crime, at worst, a bad attempt to please:
  Thus, all respecting, he appeals to all,
  And by the general voice will stand or fall.

* * * * * * *

Prologue
By the AUTHOR

SPOKEN ON THE TENTH NIGHT, BY MRS. BULKLEY.

  Granted our cause, our suit and trial o'er,
  The worthy serjeant need appear no more:
  In pleasing I a different client choose,
  He served the Poet—I would serve the Muse.
  Like him, I'll try to merit your applause,
  A female counsel in a female's cause.
    Look on this form—where humour, quaint and sly,
  Dimples the cheek, and points the beaming eye;
  Where gay invention seems to boast its wiles
  In amorous hint, and half-triumphant smiles;
  While her light mask or covers satire's strokes,
  Or hides the conscious blush her wit provokes.
  Look on her well—does she seem form'd to teach?
  Should you expect to hear this lady preach?
  Is grey experience suited to her youth?
  Do solemn sentiments become that mouth?
  Bid her be grave, those lips should rebel prove
  To every theme that slanders mirth or love.
    Yet, thus adorn'd with every graceful art
  To charm the fancy and yet reach the heart—
  Must we displace her? And instead advance
  The goddess of the woful countenance—
  The sentimental Muse!—Her emblems view,
  The Pilgrim's Progress, and a sprig of rue!
  View her—too chaste to look like flesh and blood—
  Primly portray'd on emblematic wood!
  There, fix'd in usurpation, should she stand,
  She'll snatch the dagger from her sister's hand:
  And having made her votaries weep a flood,
  Good heaven! she'll end her comedies in blood—
  Bid Harry Woodward break poor Dunstal's crown!
  Imprison Quick, and knock Ned Shuter down;
  While sad Barsanti, weeping o'er the scene,
  Shall stab herself—or poison Mrs. Green.
    Such dire encroachments to prevent in time,
  Demands the critic's voice—the poet's rhyme.
  Can our light scenes add strength to holy laws!
  Such puny patronage but hurts the cause:
  Fair virtue scorns our feeble aid to ask;
  And moral truth disdains the trickster's mask
  For here their favourite stands, whose brow severe
  And sad, claims youth's respect, and pity's tear;
  Who, when oppress'd by foes her worth creates,
  Can point a poniard at the guilt she hates.

* * * * * * * * * * *

THE RIVALS

* * * * * * * * * * *

ACT I

* * * * * * *

Scene I.—A street. [Enter THOMAS; he crosses the stage; FAG follows, looking after him.]

FAG
What! Thomas! sure 'tis he?—What! Thomas! Thomas!

THOMAS
Hey!—Odd's life! Mr. Fag!—give us your hand, my old fellow-servant.

FAG Excuse my glove, Thomas:—I'm devilish glad to see you, my lad. Why, my prince of