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Aetat. 38.]
A Prologue by Johnson.
209


But Lovat's fate[1] indifferently we view,
True to no King, to no religion true:
No fair forgets the ruin he has done;
No child laments the tyrant of his son;
No tory pities, thinking what he was;
No whig compassions, for he left the cause;
The brave regret not, for he was not brave;
The honest mourn not, knowing him a knave[2]!'

This year his old pupil and friend, David Garrick, having become joint patentee and manager of Drury-lane theatre, Johnson honoured his opening of it with a Prologue[3],* which for just and manly dramatick criticism, on the whole range of the English stage, as well as for poetical excellence[4],

  1. In the original end.
  2.  These verses are somewhat too severe on the extraordinary person who is the chief figure in them, for he was undoubtedly brave. His pleasantry during his solemn trial (in which, by the way, I have heard Mr. David Hume observe, that we have one of the very few speeches of Mr. Murray, now Earl of Mansfield, authentically given) was very remarkable. When asked if he had any questions to put to Sir Everard Fawkener, who was one of the strongest witnesses against him, he answered, ' I only wish him joy of his young wife.' And after sentence of death, in the horrible terms in cases of treason, was pronounced upon him, and he was retiring from the bar, he said, 'Fare you well, my Lords, we shall not all meet again in one place.' He behaved with perfect composure at his execution, and called out 'Dulce et decorum est pro patriâ mori.'
    ['What joys, what glories round him wait,

    Who bravely for his country dies!'

    Francis. Horace, Odes-, iii. 2. 13.] Boswell.


    'Old Lovat was beheaded yesterday,' wrote Horace Walpole on April 10, 1747, 'and died extremely well: without passion, affectation, buffoonery, or timidity; his behaviour was natural and intrepid.' Letters, ii. 77.

  3. See Post, 1780, in Mr. Langton's Collection.
  4.  My friend, Mr. Courtenay, whose eulogy on Johnson's Latin Poetry has been inserted in this Work [ante, p. 72], is no less happy in praising his English poetry.
    But hark, he sings ! the strain ev'n Pope admires;
    Indignant virtue her own bard inspires.

I.—14
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