MRS. BULKLEY.

Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring, We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?

MISS CATLEY.

And that our friendship may remain unbroken, What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken?

Agreed.

MRS. BULKLEY.

MISS CATLEY.

Agreed.

MRS. BULKLEY.

And now, with late repentance,

Unepilogued the poet waits his sentence.

Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit

To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit.

[Exeunt.

ANOTHER INTENDED EPILOGUE TO "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER."

TO BE SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY.

THERE is a place so Ariosto sings
A treasury for lost and missing things;

Lost human wits have places there assign'd them,
And they who lose their senses, there may find

them.

But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?
The moon, says he but I affirm, the stage:
At least, in many things, I think I see
His lunar and our mimic world agree.
Both shine at night; for, but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down;
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
But, in this parallel, my best pretence is,
That mortals visit both to find their senses.
To this strange spot, rakes, macaronies, cits,
Come thronging to collect their scattered wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for operas, and dotes on dancing,
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the Ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The gamester, too, whose wit's all high or low,
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,

Come here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk, too, with angry phrases stor❜d,
As 'Dam'me, sir,' and 'Sir, I wear a sword,'
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here come the sons of scandal and of news,
But find no sense for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,
Our author's the least likely to grow wiser;
Has he not seen how you your favour place
On sentimental queens and lords in lace?
Without a star, a coronet, or garter,

How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
No high-life scenes, no sentiment: the creature
Still stoops among the low to copy nature.
Yes, he's far gone: and yet some pity fix;
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.1

1 Presented in MS., among other papers, to Dr. Percy, by the Poet, and first printed in Miscellaneous Works, 1801.-P. C.

POEMS

EXTRACTED FROM THE PROSE WORKs of goldsmith.

(See Citizen of the World, L. 85.) It is the business of the stage-poet to watch the appearance of every new player at his own house, and so come out next day with a flaunting copy of newspaper verses. In these, nature and the actor may be set to run races, the player always coming off victorious; or nature may mistake him for herself; or old Shakespeare may put on his winding-sheet, and pay him a visit; or the tuneful Nine may strike up their harps in his praise; or, should it happen to be an actress, Venus, the beauteous Queen of Love, and the naked Graces, are ever in waiting. The lady must be herself a goddess bred and born; she must but you shall have a specimen of one of these poems, which may convey a more precise idea:

ON SEEING MRS.

PERFORM IN THE

CHARACTER OF

FOR you, bright fair, the Nine address their lays,
And tune my feeble voice to sing thy praise.
The heartfelt power of every charm divine,
Who can withstand their all-commanding shine?
See how she moves along with every grace,
While soul-brought tears steal down each shining
face.

She speaks! 'tis rapture all, and nameless bliss,
Ye gods! what transport e'er compar'd to this!
As when, in Paphian groves, the Queen of Love
With fond complaint address'd the listening Jove;
'Twas joy and endless blisses all around,

And rocks forgot their hardness at the sound.
Then first, at last even Jove was taken in,
And felt her charms, without disguise, within.

(V. Citizen of the World, L. 106.) I am amazed that none have yet found out the secret of flattering the worthless, and yet of preserving a safe conscience. I have often wished for some method by which a man might do himself and his deceased patron justice, without being under the hateful reproach of self-conviction. After long lucubration, I have hit upon such an expedient, and send you the specimen of a poem upon the decease of a great man, in which the flattery is perfectly fine, and yet the poet perfectly innocent.

ON THE DEATH OF THE RIGHT HON.

YE Muses, pour the pitying tear

For Pollio snatch'd away;

Oh! had he liv'd another year,

He had not died to-day.

Oh! were he born to bless mankind

In virtuous times of yore,

Heroes themselves had fallen behind

Whene'er he went before.