 | The Tailors |  |
PROLOGUE.
Written by DAVID GARRICK, Esq.Spoken by Mr. FOOTE.
This night we add some heroes to our store,
Who never were as heroes known before:
No blust'ring Romans, Trojans, Greeks, shall rage,
No knights arm'd cap-à-pie shall croud our stage;
Nor shall our Henrys, Edwards, take the field,
Opposing sword to sword, and shield to shield:
With different instruments our troop appears,
Needles to thimbles shall, and sheers to sheers.,
With parchment gorgets, and in buckram arm'd,
Cold-blooded Tailors are to heroes warm'd,
And slip-shod slide to war. No lion's glare,
No eye-balls darting fire, shall make you stare;
Each outside shall belie the stuff within,
A Roman spirit in a Tailor's skin.
A cross-legg'd Cassius, Pompey, shall you see,
And the ninth part of Brutus strut in me.
What tho' no swords we draw, no daggers shake,
Yet can our warriors a “quietus make,
“With a bare bodkin.”—Then be dumb, ye railers,
And never, but in honour, call out Tailors!
Who never were as heroes known before:
No blust'ring Romans, Trojans, Greeks, shall rage,
No knights arm'd cap-à-pie shall croud our stage;
Nor shall our Henrys, Edwards, take the field,
Opposing sword to sword, and shield to shield:
With different instruments our troop appears,
Needles to thimbles shall, and sheers to sheers.,
With parchment gorgets, and in buckram arm'd,
Cold-blooded Tailors are to heroes warm'd,
And slip-shod slide to war. No lion's glare,
No eye-balls darting fire, shall make you stare;
Each outside shall belie the stuff within,
A Roman spirit in a Tailor's skin.
A cross-legg'd Cassius, Pompey, shall you see,
And the ninth part of Brutus strut in me.
What tho' no swords we draw, no daggers shake,
Yet can our warriors a “quietus make,
“With a bare bodkin.”—Then be dumb, ye railers,
And never, but in honour, call out Tailors!
But are these heroes tragic, you will cry?
Oh, very tragic—and I'll tell you why—
Should female artists with the male combine,
And Mantua-makers to the Tailors join,
Should all, too proud to work, their trades give o'er,
Not to be soften'd by the sixpence more,
What horrors would ensue!—First, you, ye beaux,
Would forfeit all existence with your cloaths.
Then you, ye fair, where would be your defence?
This is no golden age of innocence.
Should drunken Bacchanals the Graces meet,
And no police protect the naked street,
Beauty is weak, and passion bold and strong:
Oh! then—but modesty restrains my tongue.
Oh, very tragic—and I'll tell you why—
Should female artists with the male combine,
And Mantua-makers to the Tailors join,
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Not to be soften'd by the sixpence more,
What horrors would ensue!—First, you, ye beaux,
Would forfeit all existence with your cloaths.
Then you, ye fair, where would be your defence?
This is no golden age of innocence.
Should drunken Bacchanals the Graces meet,
And no police protect the naked street,
Beauty is weak, and passion bold and strong:
Oh! then—but modesty restrains my tongue.
May this night's bard a skilful Tailor be,
And like a well-made coat his Tragedy:
Tho' close, yet easy; decent, but not dull;
Short, but not scanty; without buckram, full!
And like a well-made coat his Tragedy:
Tho' close, yet easy; decent, but not dull;
Short, but not scanty; without buckram, full!
| The Tailors | |