But I will rally, and combat the ruiner :

Not a look, nor a fmile fhall my paffion discover
She that gives all to the falfe one pursuing her,
Makes but a penitent, and lofes a lover.

PROLOGUE

PROLOGUE

TO

ZOBEIDE:

A TRAGEDY.

WRITTEN BY

JOSEPH CRADDOCK, Esa.

ACTED AT THE

THEATRE ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN,

M DCC LXXII.

SPOKEN BY MR. QUICK.

IN thefe bold times, when Learning's fons explore

The diftant climates, and the favage fhore;
When wife aftronomers to India fteer,
And quit for Venus many a brighter here;

While botanifts, all cold to fmiles and dimpling,
Forfake the fair, and patiently-go fimpling,
Our bard into the general spirit enters,

And fits his little frigate for adventures.
With Scythian ftores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way fteers his courfe, in hopes of trading-
Yet ere he lands he's order'd me before,

To make an obfervation on the fhore,

Where are we driven? our reckoning fure is loft!
This feems a rocky and a dangerous coaft.
Lord, what a fultry climate am I under!
Yon ill foreboding cloud feems big with thunder:

[Upper gallery. There mangroves fpread, and larger than I've feen

'em

[Pit.

Here trees of ftately fize-and billing turtles in 'em

Here ill-conditioned oranges abound

[Balconies. [Stage.

And apples, bitter apples ftrew the ground:

[Tafting them.

The inhabitants are canibals I fear :

I heard a hiffing-there are ferpents here!

O, there the people are-beft keep my diftance;
Our Captain (gentle natives) craves affiftance;

Our fhip's well ftor'd-in yonder creek we've laid her,

His honour is no mercenary trader.

This is his firft adventure, lend him aid,

And we may chance to drive a thriving trade.

His goods, he hopes, are prime, and brought from

far,

Equally fit for gallantry and war.

What, no reply to promises so ample?
I'd beft ftep back-and order up á fample.

EPILOGUE

EPILOGUE

SPOKEN BY

MR. LEE LEWES,

IN THE CHARACTER OF HARLEQUIN, AT HIS

BENEFIT.

HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your

nonsense ;

I'd speak a word or two, to ease my confcience.
My pride forbids it ever should be said,

My heels eclips'd the honours of my head ;
That I found humour in a pyeball vest,

Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.

[Takes off his mask.

Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature difowns, and reason fcorns thy mirth,
In thy black afpéct every paffion fleeps,

The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.
How haft thou fill'd the fcene with all thy brood,
Of fools pursuing, and of fools purfu'd!

Whofe ins and outs no ray of fense discloses,
Whofe only plot it is to break our nofes;