Mr. Lauder could never separate the idea of the author of Paradise Lost, and the enemy of King Charles. Lauder has great reading, but greater ill nature; and Mr. Douglas has shewn how much his evidence is invalidated by some interpolations which Lauder has since owned. It is pity so much classical knowledge should have been thus prostituted by Lauder, which might have been of service to his country; but party-zeal seldom knows any bounds. The ingenious Moses Brown, speaking of this man's furious attack upon Milton, has the following pretty stanza. The Owl will hoot that cannot sing, Spite will displume the muse's wing, Tho' Phoebus self applaud her; Still Homer bleeds in Zoilus' page A Virgil 'scaped not the Maevius' rage, And Milton has his Lauder.[4] But if Lauder is hot and furious, his passion soon subsides. Upon hearing that the grand-daughter of Milton was living, in an obscure situation in Shoreditch, he readily embraced the opportunity, in his postscript, of recommending her to the public favour; upon which, some gentlemen affected with the singularity of the circumstance, and ashamed that our country should suffer the grand-daughter of one from whom it derives its most lasting and brightest honour, to languish neglected, procured Milton's Comus to be performed for her benefit at Drury Lane, on the 5th of April, 1750: upon which, Mr. Garrick spoke a Prologue written by a gentleman, who zealously promoted the benefit, and who, at this time, holds the highest rank in literature. This prologue will not, we are persuaded, be unacceptable to our readers. A PROLOGUE spoken by Mr. GARRICK, Thursday, April 5, 1750. at the Representation of COMUS, for the Benefit of Mrs. ELIZABETH FOSTER, MILTON's Grand-daughter, and only surviving descendant. Ye patriot crouds, who burn for England's fame, Ye nymphs, whose bosoms beat at Milton's name, Whose gen'rous zeal, unbought by flatt'ring rhimes, Shames the mean pensions of Augustan times; Immortal patrons of succeeding days, Attend this prelude of perpetual praise! Let wit, condemn'd the feeble war to wage With close malevolence, or public rage; Let study, worn with virtue's fruitless lore, Behold this theatre, and grieve no more. This night, distinguish'd by your smile, shall tell, That never Briton can in vain excel; The slighted arts futurity shall trust, And rising ages hasten to be just.