y dearest Johnny, husband, spouse, protector,
Take pity on your helpless babes and me,
Save us from ruin, you from bankruptcy--
Look to your business, leave these cursed plays,
And try again your old industrious ways.'

Jack, who was always scared at the Gazette,
And had some bits of scull uninjured yet,
Promised amendment, vow'd his wife spake reason,
'He would not see another play that season--'

Three stubborn fortnights Jack his promise kept,
Was late and early in his shop, eat, slept,
And walk'd and talk'd, like ordinary men;
No _wit_, but John the hatter once again--
Visits his club: when lo! one _fatal night_
His wife with horror view'd the well-known sight--
John's _hat, wig, snuff-box_--well she knew his tricks--
And Jack decamping at the hour of six.
Just at the counter's edge a playbill lay,
Announcing that 'Pizarro' was the play--
'O Johnny, Johnny, this is your old doing.'
Quoth Jack, 'Why what the devil storm's a-brewing?
About a harmless play why all this fright?
I'll go and see it, if it's but for spite--
Zounds, woman! Nelson's[26] to be there to-night.'

[Footnote 19: Four _easy_ lines.]

[Footnote 20: For which the _heroine died_.]

[Footnote 21: In _Spain_!!]

[Footnote 22: Two _neat_ lines.]

[Footnote 23: Or _you_.]

[Footnote 24: Or _our_, as _they_ have altered it.]

[Footnote 25: Antithesis!!]

[Footnote 26: "A good clap-trap. Nelson has exhibited two or three times
at both theatres--and advertised himself."]

PROLOGUE TO GODWIN'S TRAGEDY OF "FAULKENER"

(1807)

An author who has given you all delight,
Furnish'd the tale our stage presents to-night.
Some of our earliest tears He taught to steal
Down our young cheeks, and forc'd us first to feel.
To solitary shores whole years confin'd,
Who has not read how pensive _Crusoe_ pin'd?
Who, now grown old, that did not once admire
His goat, his parrot, his uncouth attire,
The stick, due-notch'd, that told each tedious day
That in the lonely island wore away?
Who has not shudder'd, where he stands aghast
At sight of human footsteps in the waste?
Or joy'd not, when his trembling hands unbind
Thee, _Friday_, gentlest of the savage kind?
The genius who conceiv'd that magic tale
Was skill'd by native pathos to prevail.
His stories,