Epilogue

BY MR. COLMAN:

Spoken by Lady Teazle.

I, who was late so volatile and gay,

Like a trade wind must now blow all one way
Bend all my cares, my studies, and my vows,
To one dull rusty weathercock-my spouse!
So wills our virtuous bard-the motley Bayes
Of crying epilogues and laughing plays!
Old bachelors, who marry smart young wives,
Learn from our play to regulate your lives:
Each bring his dear to town, all faults upon her-
London will prove the very source of honour.
Plunged fairly in, like a cold bath it serves,
When principles relax, to brace the nerves :
Such is my case; and yet I must deplore-
That the gay dream of dissipation 's o'er.
And say, ye fair! was ever lively wife,
Born with a genius for the highest life,
Like me, untimely blasted in her bloom?
Like me,
condemn'd to such a dismal doom?
Save money-when I just knew how to waste it!
Leave London-just as I began to taste it!

Must I, then, watch the early crowing cock,
The melancholy ticking of a clock;

In a lone rustic hall for ever pounded,

With dogs, cast, rats, and squalling brats surrounded?

With humble curate can I now retire,

(While good Sir Peter boozes with the squire,)

And at backgammon mortify my soul,

That pants for loo, or flutters at a vole?
Seven's the main! Dear sound, that must expire,
Lost at hot cockles round a Christmas fire!
The transient hour of fashion too soon spent,
Farewell the tranquil mind, farewell content!
Farewell the plumed head, the cushion'd tête,
That takes the cushion from its proper seat!
That spirit-stirring drum!-card-drum I mean!
Spadille-odd trick-pam-basto-king and queen
And you, ye knockers, that, with brazen throat,
The welcome visiters' approach denote;
Farewell all quality of high renown,

Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious town!
Farewell! your revels I partake no more,

And Lady Teazle's occupation's o'er!

All this I told our bard; he smiled, and said'twas clear,
I ought to play deep tragedy next year,

Meanwhile he drew wise morals from his play,
And in these solemn periods stalk'd away :

Blest were the fair like you; her faults who stopt,
And closed her follies when the curtain dropt!
No more in vice or error to engage,

Or play the fool at large on life's great stage.

FAG. What! Thomas!-Sure, 'tis he!-What, Thomas! Thomas!

COACH. Hey? odds life!-Mr. Fag, give us your hand, my old fellow servant!

FAG. Excuse my glove, Thomas; I'm devilish glad to see you, my lad! why, my prince of charioteers, you look as hearty!-but who the deuce thought of seeing you in Bath?

COACH. Sure, master, madam Julia, Harry, Mrs. Kate, and the postillion be all come.

FAG. Indeed!

COACH. Ay: master thought another fit of the gout was coming to make him a visit, so he'd a mind to gi't the slip-an whip! we were all off at an hour's warning.

FAG. Ay, ay; hasty in every thing, or it would not be Sir Anthony Absolute.

COACH. But tell us, M. Fag, how does young master? Odds! Sir Anthony will stare to see the captain here! FAG. I do not serve Captain Absolute now. COACH. Why, sure!

3.

FAG. At present, I am employed by Ensign Beverley.

COACH. I doubt, Mr. Fag, you ha'nt chang'd for the better.

FAG. I have not chang'd, Thomas.

COACH. No! why, didn't you say you had left young master?

FAG. No.-Well, honest Thomas. I must puzzle.you no further;-briefly then-Captain Absolute and Ensign Beverley are one and the same person.

COACH. The devil they are: do tell us, Mr Fag, the meaning on't.

FAG. Why, then the cause of all this is love-love, Thomas, who has been a masquerader ever since the days of Jupiter.

COACH. But, pray, why does your master pass only for ensign?-now, if he had shammed general, indeed

FAG. Ah, Thomas! there lays the mystery o'the matter!-Hark ye, Thomas, my master is in love with a lady of a very singular taste-a lady who likes him better as a half-pay ensign, than if she knew he was son and heir to Sir Antony Absolute, a baronet, of three thousand a year.

COACH. That is an odd taste, indeed!-But has she got the stuff, Mr. Fag? is she rich, eh?

FAG. Rich! why, I believe she owns half the stocks: -Z-s, Thomas, she could pay the national debt as easily as I could my washerwoman!-She has a lap-dog that eats out of gold-she feeds her parrot with small pearls, and all her thread-papers are made of banknotes!

COACH. Bravo, faith-Odd! I warrant she has a set of thousands at least; but does she draw kindly with the captain?

FAC. As fond as pigeons.

COACH. May one hear her name?

FAG. Miss Lydia Languish :-but there is an old tough aunt in the way, though by-the bye, she has never seen my master-for he got acquainted with miss while on a visit to Gloucestershire.

COACH. Well, I wish they were once harnessed together in matrimony. But pray, Mr. Fag, what kind of a place is this Bath? I ha' heard a great deal of it;— here's a mort o'merry making, eh?

FAG. Pretty well, Thomas, pretty well-'tis a good lounge-but damn the place, I'm tired of it: their regular hours stupefy me-not a fiddle or a card after eleven! however, Mr. Faulkland's gentleman and I keep it up a little in private parties; I'll introduce you there. Thomas, you'll like him much. But Thomas, you must polish a little-indeed you must:-Here, now, this wig; what the devil do you do with a wig, Thomas? none of the London whips, of any degree of ton, wear wigs

now.

COACH. More's the pity, more's the pity, I say, Mr. Fag-Odds life! when I heard how the lawyers and doctors had took to their own hair, I thought how 'twould go next. Odd rabbit it! when the fashion had got foot on the bar, I guessed 'would mount to the box! but 'tis all out of character, believe me, Mr. Fag: and look ye, I'll never give up mine, the lawyers and doctors may do as they will.

FAG. Well, Thomas, we'll not quarrel about that. But hold, mark-mark, Thomas.

COACH. Zooks, 'tis the captain! Is that the lady with him?

FAG. No, no, that is madam Lucy, my master's mistress's maid: they lodge at that house-but I must after him, to tell him the news.

COACH. Odd, he's giving her money!-Well, Mr. Fag

FAC. Good bye, Thomas; I have an appointment in Gyde's porch, this evening, at eight; meet me there, and we'll make a little party.

[Exeunt THOMAS, R. Fag, L.

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