When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back.
For you are always polite and attentive,

Still to amuse us inventive,

And death is your only preventive ;

Your hands and voices for me.

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

Miss C. And that our friendship may remain unbrok

en,

What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken?

Mrs. B. Agreed.

Miss C.

Agreed.

Mrs. B. And now with late repentance, Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence. Condemn the stubborn fool, who can't submit

To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit.

AN EPILOGUE

Exeunt.

INTENDED FOR 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 scatter'd wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither th' affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for Operas, and doats 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,
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk, too, with angry phrases stored
As, Damme, 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 comes 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 favor place
On sentimental queens, and lords in lace?
Without a star, a coronet, or garter,

6

6

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.

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR. LEE LEWES, IN THE CHARACTER OF

HARLEQUIN, AT HIS BENEFIT.

HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense I'd speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.

My pride forbids it ever should be said

My heels eclipsed the honors of my head;
That I found humor in a piebald vest,
Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.

[Takes off his mask.

Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?
Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth:
In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,
The joy that dimples, and the wo that weeps.
How hast thou fill'd the scene with all thy brood
Of fools pursuing and of fools pursued!
Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,
Whose only plot it is to break our noses;
Whilst from below the trap-door demons rise,
And from above the dangling deities:
And shall I mix in this unhallow'd crew?
May rosin❜d lightning blast me if I do!
No I will act — I'll vindicate the stage:
Shakspeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.
Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns!
The madd'ning monarch revels in my veins.
Oh! for a Richard's voice to catch the theme,

'Give me another horse! bind up my wounds!-soft 'twas but a dream.'

Ay, 'twas but a dream, for now there's no retreating,
If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.

'Twas thus that Æsop's stag, a creature blameless,
Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless,
Once on the margin of a fountain stood

And cavill'd at his image in the flood:

6

'The deuce confound,' he cries, these drumstick shanks,

They never have my gratitude nor thanks;

They're perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead!

But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head:

How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow!

My horns! I'm told that horns are the fashion now.' Whilst thus he spoke, astonish'd, to his view,

Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew;
'Hoicks! hark forward!' came thund'ring from behind:
He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind;

He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;
He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze :
At length, his silly head, so prized before,
Is taught his former folly to deplore;

Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,
And at one bound he saves himself

like me.

[Taking a jump through the stage door

THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS.*

BACRED TO THE MEMORY OF HER LATE ROYAL HIGHNESS THE

PRINCESS DOWAGER OF WALES.

SPOKEN AND SUNG IN THE GREAT ROOM IN SOHO-SQUARE,

Thursday, the 20th day of February, 1772.

ADVERTISEMENT.

THE following may more properly be termed a compilation than a poem. It was prepared for the composer in little more than two days: and may therefore rather be considered as an industrious effort of gratitude than of genius.

In justice to the composer, it may likewise be right to inform the public, that the music was adapted in a period of time equally short.

SPEAKERS Mr. Lee and Mrs. Bellamy.

SINGERS—Mr. Champnes, Mr. Dine, and Miss Jameson.

THE MUSIC PREPARED AND ADAPTED BY SIGNIOR VENTO.

* This poem was first printed in Chalmers' edition of the English Poets, from a copy given by Goldsmith to his friend, Joseph Cradock, Esq., author of the tragedy of Zobeide.