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More lasting rapture from his works shall rise, While converts thank their poet in the skies.

EPILOGUE

TO THE

COMEDY OF THE SISTERS.

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

Have pleased our eyes, and saved the pain of thinking.

Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill,

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 masquers 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!

Statesmen with bridles on; and close beside

'em,

Patriots in party-colour'd 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, 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 : Thus 'tis with all-their chief and constant care Is to seem every thing-but what they are. Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on, Who seems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion;

Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round
parade,
Looking, as who should say, dam'me! whose
afraid? [Mimicking.]

Strip but this 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;
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,
He bows, turns round, and whip-the man is
black!

Yon critic, too-but whither do I run?
If I proceed, our bard will be undone !

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AIR.-A bonny young Lad is my Jockey.

I'll sing to amuse you by night and by day, And be unco merry when you are but gay; When you with your bagpipes are ready to play, My voice shall be ready to carol away

With Sandy, and Sawney, and Jockey, With Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey. Mrs Bulkl. Ye Gamesters, who so eager in pursuit,

Make but of all your fortune one va toute : Ye Jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, "I hold the odds.-Done, done, with you, with you."

Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace,

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AN

EPILOGUE,

INTENDED

FOR MRS BULKLEY.

THERE is a place, so Ariosto sings,

A treasury for lost and missing things: Lost human wits have places there assigned 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 the 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 wits 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 "Dam'me, 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 come 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 favour place
On sentimental 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 crea-

ture

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.*

This Epilogue was given in MS. by Dr Goldsmith to Dr Percy (now Bishop of Dromore,) for what Comedy it was intended is not remembered.

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ter;

The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy;

Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help regretting

To spoil such a delicate picture by eating: I had thoughts, in my chambers to place it in view,

To be shown to my friends as a piece of virtû; As in some Irish houses, where things are so so, One gammond of bacon hangs up for a show; But for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,

They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fried in.

But hold-let me pause-don't I hear you pronounce,

This tale of the bacon's a damnable bounce? Well, suppose it a bounce-sure a poet may try, By a bounce now and then, to get courage to fly.

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But hang it to poets who seldom can eat, Your very good mutton's a very good treat; Such dainties to them their health it might hurt,

It's like sending them ruffles, when wanting a shirt.

While thus I debated, in reverie centred,

An acquaintance, a friend, as he called himself, enter'd;

An under-bred, fine-spoken fellow was he, And he smiled as he look'd at the venison and

me.

"What have we got here?-Why this is good eating!

Your own, I suppose or is it in waiting?" "Why, whose should it be?" cried I with a flounce,

"I get these things often "--but that was a bounce;

"Some lords, my acquaintance, that settle the nation,

Are pleased to be kind-but I hate ostentation."

"If that be the case then," cried he, very gay, "I'm glad I have taken this house in my way, To-morrow you take a poor dinner with me; No words-I insist on't-precisely at three; We'll have Johnson, and Burke, all the wits will be there;

My acquaintance is slight, or I'd ask my lord Clare.

And, now that I think on't, as I am a sinner! We wanted this venison to make out a dinner. What say you-a pasty? it shall, and it must, And my wife, little Kitty, is famous for crust. Here, porter-this venison with me to Mileend:

No stirring-I beg-my dear friend-my dear friend!"

Thus snatching his hat, he brush'd off like the wind,

And the porter and eatables follow'd behind. Left alone to reflect, having emptied my shelf,

And "nobody with me at sea but myself;"* Tho' I could not help thinking my gentleman hasty,

Yet Johnson and Burke, and a good venison pasty,

Were things that I never disliked in my life, Tho' clogg'd with a coxcomb, and Kitty his wife.

So next day in due splendour to make my approach,

I drove to his door in my own hackney-coach. When come to the place where we all were to dine;

(A chair-lumber'd closet, just twelve feet by nine :)

See the letters that passed between his Royal High

ness Henry Duke of Cumberland, and Lady Grosvenor-12ino 1769.

My friend bade me welcome, but struck me quite dumb,

With tidings that Johnson and Burke would

not come;

"For I knew it," he cried, "both eternally fail,

The one with his speeches, and t'other with Thrale;

But no matter, I'll warrant we'll make up the party

With two full as clever, and ten times as hearty.

The one is a Scotchman, the other a Jew, They both of them merry, and authors like you: The one writes the Snarler, the other the Scourge ;

Some thinks he writes Cinna-he owns to Panurge:"

While thus he described them by trade and by

name,

They enter'd, and dinner was served as they

came.

At the top, a fried liver and bacon were seen, At the bottom was tripe in a swinging tureen; At the sides there was spinnage, and pudding made hot;

In the middle a place where the pasty was not. Now, my lord, as for tripe, it's my utter aversion, And your bacon I hate like a Turk or a Persian; So there I sat stuck like a horse in a pound, While the bacon and liver went merrily round: But what vex'd me most was that d Scottish rogue,

-'d

With his long-winded speeches, his smiles, and his brogue,

And "Madam," quoth he, "may this bit be my poison,

A prettier dinner I never set eyes on: Pray, a slice of your liver, though may I be curst,

But I've eat of your tripe till I'm ready to burst."

“The tripe,” quoth the Jew, with his chocolate cheek,

"I could dine on this tripe seven days in a week:

I like these here dinners, so pretty and small; But your friend there, the doctor, eats nothing at all."

"O-ho!" quoth my friend, "he'll come on in a trice,

He's keeping a corner for something that's nice; There's a pasty"-" A pasty!" repeated the Jew, "I don't care if I keep a corner for't too." "What the de'il, mon, a pasty!" re-echo'd the Scot,

"Tho' splitting, I'll still keep a corner for that." "We'll all keep a corner," the lady cried out; "We'll all keep a corner," was echo'd about. While thus we resolv'd, and the pasty delay'd, With looks that quite petrified, enter'd the maid:

A visage so sad, and so pale with affright, Waked Priam in drawing his curtains by night.

But we quickly found out, for who could mis- | Howe'er from this time, I shall ne'er see your

graces,

take her ? That she came with some terrible news from As I hope to be saved! without thinking on

the baker:

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Edinburgh, 1753.

EPITAPH

ON

EDWARD PURDON.*

HERE lies poor NED PURDON, from misery freed,

Who long was a bookseller's hack;

He led such a damnable life in this world,
I don't think he'll wish to come back.

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