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25

30

5

This dog and man at first were friends;
But when a pique began,

The dog, to gain some private ends,

Went mad and bit the man.

Around from all the neighbouring streets
The wond'ring neighbours ran,

And swore the dog had lost his wits,
To bite so good a man.

The wound it seem'd both sore and sad
To every Christian eye;

And while they swore the dog was mad,
They swore the man would die.

But soon a wonder came to light,
That show'd the rogues they lied:
The man recover'd of the bite,
The dog it was that died.

SONG,

FROM THE VICAR OF WAKEFIELD.'

WHEN lovely Woman stoops to folly,
And finds too late that men betray,
What charm can soothe her melancholy,
What art can wash her guilt away?

The only art her guilt to cover,

To hide her shame from every eye,
To give repentance to her lover,
And wring his bosom, is-to die.

EPILOGUE TO THE GOOD NATUR'D MAN.'

As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure
To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure;
Thus on the stage, our play-wrights still depend
For Epilogues and Prologues on some friend,
Who knows each art of coaxing up the town,
And make full many a bitter pill go down.
Conscious of this, our bard has gone about,
And teas'd each rhyming friend to help him out.
'An Epilogue-things can't go on without it;

It could not fail, would you but set about it.'

'Young man,' cries one-a bard laid up in clover—

Alas, young man, my writing days are over;

Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw; not I: Your brother Doctor there, perhaps, may try.' 15 'What I? dear Sir,' the Doctor interposes; 'What, plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses! No, no; I've other contests to maintain; To-night I head our troops at Warwick-lane: Go, ask your manager.' 'Who, me? Your pardon ; Those things are not our forte at Covent-garden.' Our Author's friends, thus plac'd at happy distance, Give him good words indeed, but no assistance. As some unhappy wight, at some new play, At the Pit door stands elbowing a way,

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While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug,
He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug;

His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes,
Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise;

He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace; 30 But not a soul will budge to give him place.

Since then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform
'To 'bide the pelting of this pitiless storm'-
Blame where you must, be candid where you can;
And be each critic the Good Natur'd Man.

EPILOGUE TO THE SISTER.'

WHAT! five long acts—and all to make us wiser!
Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.
Had she consulted me, she should have made
Her moral play a speaking masquerade;

5 Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage
Have emptied all the green-room on the stage.
My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking;
Have pleas'd our eyes, and sav'd the pain of thinking.
Well since she thus has shown her want of skill,

10 What if I give a masquerade ?—I will.

But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing]—I've got my cue : The world's a masquerade! the maskers, you, you, you. (To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.)

Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses ! False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses! 15 Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em, Patriots, in party-coloured suits, that ride 'em.

There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore. These in their turn, with appetites as keen, 20 Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen,

Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman: The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure, And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure. 25 Thus 'tis with all-their chief and constant care Is to seem everything but what they are.

Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, Who seems to have robb'd his vizor from the lion; Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade, 30 Looking, as who should say, Dam'me! who's afraid? (mimicking.)

Strip but his vizor off, and sure I am
You'll find his lionship a very lamb.
Yon politician, famous in debate,

Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;
35 Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume,
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,
And seems to every gazer all in white,

If with a bribe his candour you attack,

40 He bows, turns round, and whip-the man's a black! Yon critic, too-but whither do I run?

If I proceed, our bard will be undone!
Well then a truce, since she requests it too:
Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you.

PROLOGUE TO ZOBEIDE.'

In these bold times, when Learning's sons explore
The distant climate and the savage shore;
When wise Astronomers to India steer,

And quit for Venus, many a brighter here;
5 While Botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling,
Forsake the fair, and patiently-go simpling;
When every bosom swells with wond'rous scenes,
Priests, cannibals, and hoity-toity queens:
Our bard into the general spirit enters,

10 And fits his little frigate for adventures:

With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,
He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading—
Yet ere he lands he 'as ordered me before,

To make an observation on the shore.

15 Where are we driven? our reck'ning sure is lost!
This seems a barren and a dangerous coast.
Lord, what a sultry climate am I under!

Yon ill foreboding cloud seems big with thunder.

(Upper Gallery.)

There Mangroves spread, and larger than I've seen 'em

20 Here trees of stately size-and turtles in 'em

(Pit.)

(Balconies.)

Here ill-condition'd oranges abound

(Stage.)

And apples (takes up one and tastes it), bitter apples

strew the ground.