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The Theatrical Candidates

A Musical Prelude, Upon the Opening and Alterations of the Theatre

Garrick, David (1717-1779)

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Enter Mercury.
Mercury.
I, God of Wits and Thieves—birds of a feather,
(For Wit and Thieving often go together)
Am sent to see this House's transformation,
Ask if the Critics give their approbation,
Or as in other cases—“Yawn at alteration.”
Old Lady Drury, like some other ladies,
To charm by false appearances, whose trade is,
By help of paint, new boddice, and new gown,
Hopes a new face to pass upon the town:
By such like art, stale toasts and Maccaronies,
Have made out many a Venus and Adonis:
To business now—Two Rival Dames above,
Have pray'd for leave to quit their father Jove;

And hearing in the papers—we have there,
Morning and Evening as you have 'em here;
Juno loves scandal, as all good wives do,
If it be fresh, no matter whether true;
Momus writes paragraphs, and I find squibs,
And Pluto keeps a press to print the fibs:
Hearing this house was now made as good as new,
And thinking each that she was sure of you;
They came full speed, these Rival Petticoats,
To canvas for your int'rest and your votes:
They will not join, but sep'rate beg your favour,
To take possession and live here for ever.
Full of their merits, they are waiting near;
Is it your pleasure that they now appear?
I'll call 'em in; and while they urge their claims,
And Critics, you examine well the dames,
I'll to Apollo, and beg his direction;
The God of Wisdom's new at an election!
SONG.

Hark! the pipe, the trumpet, drum;
See, the Sister Muses come!
'Tis time to haste away!
When the female tongues begin,
Who has ears to hear the din,
And wings to fly, will stay?
I'll away, I'll away.

When the female tongues begin,
Who has ears to hear the din,
And wings to fly, will stay?

[runs off.

Enter Tragedy and Followers to a March.
Trag.

Britons, your votes and int'rest, both I claim,
They're mine by right,—Melpomene my name.

SONG.

If still your hearts can swell with glory,
Those passions feel, your Sires have known;
Can glow with deeds of ancient story,
Or beat with transport at your own!
Success is mine,
My rival must resign,
And here I fix my empire, and my throne!

My nobler pow'rs shall Britons move,
If Britons still they are;
And softer passions melt the fair,
To pity, tenderness and love!

My merits told—who dares contend with me?

Enter Comedy and Followers.
Com.
I dare, proud Dame; my name is Comedy!
Think you, your strutting, straddling, puffy pride,
Your rolling eyes, arms kimbo'd, tragic stride,
Can frighten me?—Britons, 'tis yours to chuse,
That murd'ring lady, or this laughing muse?
Now make your choice;—with smiles I'll strive to win ye:
If you chuse Her, she'll stick a dagger in ye!

SONG.

'Tis wit, love, and laughter, that Britons controul,
Away with your dungeons, your dagger and bowl;
Sportive humour is now on the wing!
'Tis true comic mirth,
To pleasure gives birth,
As sunshine unfolds the sweet buds of the spring:
No grief shall annoy,
Our hearts light as air,
In full tides of joy,
We drown sorrow and care:

Away with your dungeons, &c.

Trag.
Such flippant flirts, grave Britons will despise,

Com.
No but they wont;—they're merry and are wise:

Trag.
You can be wise too; nay a thief can be!
Wise with stale sentiments all stol'n from me:
Which long cast off, from my heroic verses,
Have stuff'd your motley, dull sententious farces:
The town grew sick!

Com.
For all this mighty pother,
Have you not laugh'd with one eye, cry'd with t'other?

Trag.
In all the realms of nonsense, can there be,
A monster, like your comic-tragedy?

Com.
O yes, my dear!—your tragic-comedy.

DUETTO.
Trag.
Wou'd you lose your pow'r and weight?
With this flirt-gill, laugh and prate.

Com.
Let this lady rage and weep;
Wou'd you chuse to go to sleep?

Trag.
You're a thief, and whip'd shou'd be.

Com.
You're a thief, have stoln from me.

Both.
Ever distant will we be.
Never can, or will agree.

Trag.
I beg relief—such company's a curse!

Com.
And so do I—I never yet kept worse?

Trag.
Which will you chuse?

Com.
Sour Her, or smiling Me?
There are but two of us.

Enter Harlequin, &c.
Har.
O yes, we're three!
Your votes and int'rest, pray, for me!

[to the pit.]
Trag.
What fall'n so low to cope with thee?

Har.
Ouy, Ouy!

Com.
Alas, poor We!

[shrugs her shoulders and laughs.]
Har.
Tho' this maid scorns me, this with passion flies out,
Tho' you may laugh, and you may cry your eyes out;
For all your airs, sharp looks, and sharper nails,
Draggled you were, till I held up your tails:
Each friend I have above, whose voice so loud is,
Will never give me up for two such dowdies;
She's grown so grave, and she so cross and bloody,
Without my help, your brains will all be muddy:

Deep thought, and politicks, so stir your gall,
When you come here, you should not think at all;
And I'm the best for that; be my protectors!
And let friend Punch here talk to the electors.

I.

Shou'd Harlequin be banish'd hence,
Quit the place to wit and sense,
What wou'd be the consequence?
Empty houses,
You and spouses,
And your pretty children dear,
Ne'er wou'd come,
Leave your home,
Unless that I came after;
Frisking here,
Whisking there;
Tripping, skipping, ev'ry where,
To crack your sides with laughter.

II.

Tho' Comedy may make you grin,
And Tragedy move all within,
Why not poll for Harlequin?
My patch'd jacket,
Makes a racket,
O, the joy when I appear!
House is full!
Never dull!
Brisk, wanton, wild and cleaver!
Frisking here,
Whisking there,
Tripping, skipping, every where,
Harlequin for ever!

Enter Mercury, out of breath.
Mer.

Apollo, God of wisdom and this Isle,
Upon your quarrel Ladies deigns to smile,
With your permission, Sirs, and approbation,
Determines thus, this sister altercation.—

You, Tragedy, must weep, and love and rage,
And keep your turn, but not engross the stage;
And you, gay madam, gay to give delight,
Must not, turn'd prude, encroach upon her right:
Each sep'rate charm: you grave, you light as feather,
Unless that Shakespear bring you both together;
On both by nature's grant, that Conq'ror seizes,
To use you when, and where and how he pleases:

For you, Monsieur! (to Har.)
whenever farce or song,
Are sick or tir'd—then you, without a tongue,
Or with one if you please—in Drury-Lane,
As Locum Tenens, may hold up their train.

Thus spoke Apollo—but he added too,
Vain his decrees untill confirm'd by you!

[to the audience.]
SONG AND CHORUS.
Mercury.

The Muses may sing and Apollo inspire,
But fruitless their song and his lyre,
Till you shall their raptures proclaim:

'Tis you must decree,
For your praise is the key,
To open the Temple of Fame.

Melpomene.
My thunders may roll, and my voice shake the stage;
But fruitless my tears and my rage,
Till you shall my triumphs proclaim!
'Tis you must decree, &c.

Thalia.
Tho' poignant my wit, and my satire is true,
My fable and characters new;
'Tis you must my genius proclaim!
'Tis you must decree, &c.

Harlequin.

With heels light as air, tho' about I may frisk,
No monkey more nimble and brisk,
Yet you must my merits proclaim;

'Tis you must decree,
You may send me to be,
Tom Fool to the Temple of Fame.

FINIS.