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.

    At length our mighty bard’s victorious lays
  Fill the loud voice of universal praise,
  And baffled spite, with hopeless anguish dumb,
  Yields to renown the centuries to come. 
  With ardent haste, each candidate of fame
  Ambitious catches at his tow’ring name: 
  He sees, and pitying sees, vain wealth bestow: 
  Those pageant honours which he scorn’d below;
  While crowds aloft the laureat dust behold,
  Or trace his form on circulating gold. 
  Unknown, unheeded, long his offspring lay,
  And want hung threat’ning o’er her slow decay. 
  What tho’ she shine with no Miltonian fire,
  No fav’ring muse her morning dreams inspire;
  Yet softer claims the melting heart engage,
  Her youth laborious, and her blameless age: 
  Hers the mild merits of domestic life,
  The patient suff’rer, and the faithful wife. 
  Thus grac’d with humble virtue’s native charms
  Her grandsire leaves her in Britannia’s arms,
  Secure with peace, with competence, to dwell,
  While tutelary nations guard her cell. 
  Yours is the charge, ye fair, ye wife, ye brave! 
  ’Tis yours to crown desert—­beyond the grave!