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AN

EPILOGUE,

INTENDED FOR

MRS. BULKLEY.

THERE is a place, so Ariosto sings,

A treasury for loft and miffing things:

Loft human wits have places there affign'd them,
And they, who lose their senses, there may find them.
But where's this place, this ftorehouse of the age?
The Moon, fays he :-but I affirm the Stage:
At least in many things, I think, I fee
His lunar, and our mimic world agree.
Both fhine at night, for but at Foote's alone,
We fcarce exhibit till the fun goes down.
Both prone to change, no fettled limits fix,

And fure the folks of both are lunatics.
But in this parallel my beft pretence is,
That mortals vifit both to find their fenfes.
To this ftrange spot, Rakes, Macaronies, Cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.

The

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The gay coquet, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who fighs for Operas, and'doats on dancing,
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the Ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The Gamefter too, whofe wits all high or low,
Oft rifques his fortune on one defperate throw,
Comes here to faunter, having made his bets,
Finds his loft fenfes out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk too—with angry phrases stor'd,
As "Dam'me, Sir," and "Sir, I wear a sword;"
Here leffon'd for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here come the fons of fcandal and of news,
But find no fenfe-for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,
Our Author's the least likely to grow wifer;
Has he not feen how you your favour place,
On fentimental Queens and Lords in lace?
Without a ftar, a coronet or garter,

How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?

No high-life fcenes, no fentiment :-the creature

Still ftoops among the low to copy nature.

Yes, he's far gone :-and yet some pity fix,
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics. *

* This Epilogue was given in M.S. by Dr. Goldsmith to Dr. Percy; (now Bishop of Dromore ;) but for what comedy it was intended is not remembered.

THE

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON,

POETICAL EPISTLE,

ΤΟ

LORD CLARE:

FIRST PRINTED IN M,DCC,LXV.

THE

HAUNCH OF VENISON,

A

POETICAL EPISTLE,

ΤΟ

LORD CLARE.

THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or

fatter

Never rang'd in a forest, or smoak'd in a platter;
The haunch was a picture for painters to ftudy,
The fat was so white, and the lean was fo ruddy;
Though my ftomach was fharp, I could fcarce help
regretting,

To spoil fuch a delicate picture by eating;

I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view,
To be fhewn to my friends as a piece of virtu;
As in fome Irish houfes, where things are fo fo,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show:
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as foon think of eating the pan it is fry'd in.

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