THERE is a place, so Ariosto fings,
A treasury for loft and missing 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 storehouse 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 thine at night, for but at Foote's alone,
We scarce 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 best pretence is,
That mortals vifit both to find their fenfes.
To this strange spot, Rakes, Macaronies, Cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.
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 Gamester too, whose wits all high or low,
Oft risques his fortune on one defperate throw,
Comes 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 leffon'd for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here come the fons of scandal and of news,
But find no fenfe for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribe here wanting an advifer,
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 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 fome 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.
FIRST PRINTED IN M, DCC,LXV.
THANKS, my lord, for your venifon, for finer or
Never rang'd in a forest, or smoak'd in a platter;
The haunch was a picture for painters to study,
The fat was fo white, and the lean was so ruddy;
Though my ftomach was sharp, I could fcarce help
To fpoil fuch a delicate picture by eating;
I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view,
To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtu;
As in fome Irish houses, where things are so so,
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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