A Prologue on Opening the Theatre at Whitby, the Ensuing Season

O'er the wild waves, unwilling more to roam,
And by his kind affections call'd for home;
When the bold youth that ev'ry climate tries
'Twixt the blue bosoms—'Twixt the seas and skies—
When he beholds his native Albion near,
And the glad gale gives wings to his career,
What glowing extasies, by Fancy drest,
What filial sentiments expand his breast!
In the full happiness he forms on shore,
Doubts—dangers—and fatigues are felt no more.

Such are the joys that in our bosoms burn!
Such the glad hopes that glow at our return!
With such warm ardours, you behold us meet,
To lay—once more—our labours at your feet.

(Not without hopes your patronage will last)
We bend with gratitude for favours past.
That our light bark defy'd the rage of winter,
Rode ev'ry gale—nor started ev'n a splinter;
We bow to Beauty—('twas those smiles secur'd her)
And thank our patrons who so kindly moor'd her.
Still—still—extend your gentle cares to save her,
That she may anchor long in Whitby's—favour.