Blame where you must, be candid where you can, And be each critic the _Good-natured Man_. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT A COMEDY. DEDICATION. TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D. DEAR SIR, By inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean so much to compliment you as myself. It may do me some honour to inform the public, that I have lived many years in intimacy with you. It may serve the interests of mankind also to inform them, that the greatest wit may be found in a character, without impairing the most unaffected piety. I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality to this performance. The undertaking a Comedy not merely sentimental, was very dangerous; and Mr. Colman, who saw this piece in its various stages, always thought it so. However, I ventured to trust it to the public; and though it was necessarily delayed till late in the season, I have every reason to be grateful. I am, dear sir, Your sincere friend, and admirer, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. PROLOGUE, BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. _Enter_ MR. WOODWARD, Dressed in black, and holding a handkerchief to his eyes. Excuse me, sirs, I pray—I can't yet speak— I'm crying now—and have been all the week! _'Tis not alone this mourning suit_, good masters; _I've that within_—for which there are no plasters! Pray, would you know the reason why I'm crying? The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying! And if she goes, my tears will never stop; for as a play'r, I can't squeeze out one drop: I am undone, that's all—shall lose my bread—I'd rather—but that's nothing—lose my head When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, _Shuter_ and _I_ shall be chief mourners here. To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed, Who deals in _sentimentals_ will succeed! Poor _Ned_ and _I_ are dead to all intents, We can as soon speak _Greek_ as _sentiments_! Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up, We now and then take down a hearty cup. What shall we do?—If Comedy forsake us! _They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us._ But why can't I be moral?—Let me try— My heart thus pressing—fixed my face and eye— With a sententious look, that nothing means, (Faces are blocks, in sentimental scenes) Thus I begin—_All is not gold that glitters, Pleasure seems sweet, but proves a glass of bitters. When ignorance enters, folly is at hand; Learning is better far than house and land. Let not your virtue trip, who trips may stumble, And virtue is not virtue, if she tumble._