They knew not, nor cared greatly, if they were spark or star; They knew to move is somewhat, although the goal be far; And larger light or lesser, this thing at least is clear, They served the Muses truly,--their service was sincere. This tattered page you see, Sir, this page alone remains (Yes,--fourpence is the lowest!) of all those pleasant pains; And as for him that read it, and as for him that wrote, No Golden Book enrolls them among its "Names of Note." And yet they had their office. Though they to-day are passed, They marched in that procession where is no first or last; Though cold is now their hoping, though they no more aspire, They too had once their ardour--they handed on the fire. PROLOGUES AND EPILOGUES. PROLOGUE TO ABBEY'S EDITION OF "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER." In the year Seventeen Hundred and Seventy and Three, When the GEORGES were ruling o'er Britain the free, There was played a new play, on a new-fashioned plan, By the GOLDSMITH who brought out the _Good-Natur'd Man_. New-fashioned, in truth--for this play, it appears, Dealt largely in laughter, and nothing in tears, While the type of those days, as the learned will tell ye, Was the CUMBERLAND whine or the whimper of KELLY. So the Critics pooh-poohed, and the Actresses pouted, And the Public were cold, and the Manager doubted; But the Author had friends, and they all went to see it. Shall we join them in fancy? You answer, So be it! Imagine yourself then, good Sir, in a wig, Either grizzle or bob--never mind, you look big. You've a sword at your side, in your shoes there are buckles, And the folds of fine linen flap over your knuckles. You have come with light heart, and with eyes that are brighter, From a pint of red Port, and a steak at the Mitre; You have strolled from the Bar and the purlieus of Fleet, And you turn from the Strand into Catherine Street; Thence climb to the law-loving summits of Bow, Till you stand at the Portal all play-goers know. See, here are the 'prentice lads laughing and pushing, And here are the seamstresses shrinking and blushing, And here are the urchins who, just as to-day, Sir, Buzz at you like flies with their "Bill o' the Play, Sir?" Yet you take one, no less, and you squeeze by the Chairs, With their freights of fine ladies, and mount up the stairs; So issue at last on the House in its pride, And pack yourself snug in a box at the side. Here awhile let us pause to take breath as we sit, Surveying the humours and pranks of the Pit,-- With its Babel of chatterers buzzing and humming, With its impudent orange-girls going and coming, With its endless surprises of face and of feature, All grinning as one in a gust of good-nature. Then we turn to the Boxes where TRIP in his lace Is aping his master, and keeping his place.