Florizel and Perdita A Dramatic Pastoral, In Three Acts |
PROLOGUE TO THE WINTER's TALE, AND CATHARINE and PETRUCHIO.
(Both from Shakespear.) Written and Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.
|
 | 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
 | Florizel and Perdita |  |
PROLOGUE TO THE WINTER's TALE, AND CATHARINE and PETRUCHIO. (Both from Shakespear.) Written and Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.
To
various Things the Stage has been compar'd,
As apt Ideas strike each humorous Bard:
This Night, for want of better Simile,
Let this our Theatre a Tavern be:
The Poets Vintners, and the Waiters we.
So (as the Cant, and Custom of the Trade is)
You're welcome Gem'min, kindly welcome Ladies.
To draw in Customers, our Bills are spread;
[Shewing a Play Bill.
You cannot miss the Sign, 'tis Shakespear's Head.
From this same Head, this Fountain-head divine,
For different Palates springs a different Wine!
In which no Tricks, to strengthen, or to thin 'em—
Neat as imported—no French Brandy in 'em—
Hence for the choicest Spirits flow Champaign;
Whose sparkling Atoms shoot thro' every Vein,
Then mount in magic Vapours, to th' enraptur'd Brain!
Hence flow for martial Minds Potations strong;
And sweet Love Potions, for the Fair and Young.
For you, my Hearts of Oak, for your Regale,
[To the Upper Gallery.
There's good old English Stingo, mild and stale.
For high, luxurious Souls with luscious smack;
There's Sir John Falstaff, is a Butt of Sack:
And if the stronger Liquors more invite ye;
Bardolph is Gin, and Pistol Aqua Vitæ.
But shou'd you call for Falstaff, where to find him,
He's gone—nor left one Cup of Sack behind him.
Sunk in his Elbow Chair, no more he'll roam;
No more, with merry Wags, to Eastcheap come;
He's gone,—to jest, and laugh, and give his Sack at Home.
As for the learned Critics, grave and deep,
Who catch at Words, and catching fall asleep;
Who in the Storms of Passion—hum,—and haw!
For such, our Master will no Liquor draw—
So blindy thoughtful, and so darkly read,
They take Tom Durfy's, for the Shakespear's Head.
As apt Ideas strike each humorous Bard:
This Night, for want of better Simile,
Let this our Theatre a Tavern be:
The Poets Vintners, and the Waiters we.
So (as the Cant, and Custom of the Trade is)
You're welcome Gem'min, kindly welcome Ladies.
To draw in Customers, our Bills are spread;
[Shewing a Play Bill.
You cannot miss the Sign, 'tis Shakespear's Head.
From this same Head, this Fountain-head divine,
For different Palates springs a different Wine!
In which no Tricks, to strengthen, or to thin 'em—
Neat as imported—no French Brandy in 'em—
Hence for the choicest Spirits flow Champaign;
Whose sparkling Atoms shoot thro' every Vein,
Then mount in magic Vapours, to th' enraptur'd Brain!
Hence flow for martial Minds Potations strong;
And sweet Love Potions, for the Fair and Young.
For you, my Hearts of Oak, for your Regale,
[To the Upper Gallery.
There's good old English Stingo, mild and stale.
For high, luxurious Souls with luscious smack;
There's Sir John Falstaff, is a Butt of Sack:
And if the stronger Liquors more invite ye;
Bardolph is Gin, and Pistol Aqua Vitæ.
But shou'd you call for Falstaff, where to find him,
He's gone—nor left one Cup of Sack behind him.
Sunk in his Elbow Chair, no more he'll roam;
No more, with merry Wags, to Eastcheap come;
He's gone,—to jest, and laugh, and give his Sack at Home.
As for the learned Critics, grave and deep,
Who catch at Words, and catching fall asleep;
Who in the Storms of Passion—hum,—and haw!
For such, our Master will no Liquor draw—
So blindy thoughtful, and so darkly read,
They take Tom Durfy's, for the Shakespear's Head.
A Vintner once acquir'd both Praise and Gain,
And sold much Perry for the best Champaign.
Some Rakes, this precious Stuff did so allure;
They drank whole Nights—what's that—when Wine is pure?
“Come fill a Bumper, Jack—, I will my Lord—
“Here's Cream!—Damn'd fine!—immense!—upon my Word!
“Sir William, what say you?—The best, believe me—
“In this—Eh Jack!—the Devil can't deceive me.”
Thus the wise Critic too, mistakes his Wine,
Cries out with lifted Hands, 'tis great!—divine!
Then jogs his Neighbour, as the Wonders strike him;
This Shakespear! Shakespear!—Oh, there's nothing like him!
In this Night's various, and enchanted Cup,
Some little Perry's mixt for filling up.
The five long Acts, from which our Three are taken,
Stretch'd out to sixteen Years, lay by, forsaken.
Lest then this precious Liquor run to waste,
'Tis now confin'd and bottled for your Taste.
'Tis my chief Wish, my Joy, my only Plan,
To lose no Drop of that immortal Man!
And sold much Perry for the best Champaign.
They drank whole Nights—what's that—when Wine is pure?
“Come fill a Bumper, Jack—, I will my Lord—
“Here's Cream!—Damn'd fine!—immense!—upon my Word!
“Sir William, what say you?—The best, believe me—
“In this—Eh Jack!—the Devil can't deceive me.”
Thus the wise Critic too, mistakes his Wine,
Cries out with lifted Hands, 'tis great!—divine!
Then jogs his Neighbour, as the Wonders strike him;
This Shakespear! Shakespear!—Oh, there's nothing like him!
In this Night's various, and enchanted Cup,
Some little Perry's mixt for filling up.
The five long Acts, from which our Three are taken,
Stretch'd out to sixteen Years, lay by, forsaken.
Lest then this precious Liquor run to waste,
'Tis now confin'd and bottled for your Taste.
'Tis my chief Wish, my Joy, my only Plan,
To lose no Drop of that immortal Man!
| Florizel and Perdita | |