For sure I don't wrong you-you seldom are slack,
When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang back.
For you're always polite and attentive,
Still to amuse us inventive,

And death is your only preventive:
Your hands and your voices for me.

MRS BULKLEY.

Well, madam, what if, after all this sparring,
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?

MISS CATLEY.

And that our friendship may remain unbroken,
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken ?

MRS BULKLEY.

Agreed.

MISS CATLEY.

Agreed.

MRS BULKLEY.

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.

[Exeunt.

SONG.

AH ME! WHEN SHALL I MARRY ME?"

(Intended to have been sung in the Comedy of " She Stoops to Conquer.")

Ан me! when shall I marry me?

Lovers are plenty, but fail to relieve me.

He, fond youth, that could carry me,
Offers to love, but means to deceive me.

But I will rally, and combat the ruiner:

Not a look, nor a smile shall my passion discover. She that gives all to the false one pursuing her, Makes but a penitent, and loses a lover.

EPILOGUE,

SPOKEN BY MR LEE LEWIS, 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 honours of my head;
That I found humour 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 woe 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:
Shakespeare 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.

"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 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 thundering 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.

GOLDSMITH'S PLAYS.

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