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PROLOGUE.

WRITTEN BY A FRIEND.

IN former times, when wit was no offence,
And men submitted to be pleas'd with sense-
Then was the stage fair virtue's fav'rite school,
Scourge of the knave, and mirror of the fool.
Here oft the villain's conscious blush would rise,
And fools become, by viewing fully, wise.
Our bard, as then, despises song and dance,
The notes of italy, and jigs of France:
With home distress he nobly hopes to move,
And fire each bosom with its country's love-
So much a Briton-that he scorns to roam
To foreign climes, to fetch his hero home-
Conscious that in these scenes is clearly shown
Britain can boast true heroes of her own.
Murder avow'd by law he boldly paints,
Heroes and patriots, hypocrites and saints;
Rebellion fighting for the public good,
And treason smiling in a monarch's blood.
Party, be dumb in each pathetic scene,
Our muse, to-night, asserts an honest mean;

PROLOGUE.

Shows you a prince triumphant o'er his fate,
Glorious in death, as in misfortunes great;
By nature virtuous, tho' misled by slaves,
By tools of power, by sycophants and knaves.
When Charles submits to faction's deadly blow,
What loyal heart but shares the monarch's woe?

Nor less Maria's grief, ye gentle fair,
Claims the sad tribute of a tender tear.
From British scenes to-night we hope applause,
And Britons sure will aid a British cause.

SCENE, partly at St. James's, and partly at Whitehall.

KING CHARLES I.

ACT I. SCENE I.

Enter Bishop JUXON and Duke of RICHMOND.
Juxon.

Good day, my lord, if, in a time like this, - Aught that is fortunate or good can happen; When desolation, wedded to despair,

Strides o'er the land, and marks her way with ruin :
Plenty is fled with justice; rage and rapine
Have robb'd the widow'd matron, England, quite,
And left her now no dowry-but her tears.

Rich. Is it then certain that the lawless commons.
Have form'd a court of justice (so they call it)
To bring the king to trial?

Juxon. 'Tis most true;

And though the lords refus'd to join the bill,
Yet they proceed without them. Lawless mant
Whither, at last, will thy impieties,
Thy daring insolence extend, when kings

Feel from a subjet hand the scourge of pow'r?