Micio's mild virtue and mad Demea's rage,
With bursts alternate fhook the echoing ftage;
And from these models 'tis your poet draws
His beft, his only hope of your applaufe,
A tale it is to chafe that angry spleen,
Which forms the mirth and moral of his fcene;
A tale for noble and ignoble ear,

Something for fathers and for fons to hear:
And fhould you on your humbler bard bestow,
That grace which Rome to her's was pleas'd to show,
Advantage with the modern fairly lies,
Who, lets deferving, gains as great a prize.

EPILOGUE

ΤΟ THE

ROMAN

FATHER

L

Spoken by Mrs. PRITCHARD.

ADIES, by me our courteous Author fends
His compliments to all his female friends:
And thanks them from his foul for every bright
Indulgent tear, which they have fhed to-night.
Sorrow in Virtue's caufe proclaims a MIND,
And gives to beauty graces more refin’d.
O who could bear the lovelieft form of art,
A Cherub's face, without a feeling heart!
'Tis there alone, whatever charms we boaft,
Tho' men may flatter, and tho' men will toast,
'Tis there alone they find the joy fincere,
The wife, the parent, and the friend are there.
All elfe, the verieft rakes themselves must own,
Are but the paltry play-things of the town;

The painted clouds, which glittering tempt the chace;
Then melt in air, and mock the vain embrace,.
Well then; the private views, 'tis confeft,

Are the foft inmates of the female breast.
But then, they fill fo full that crouded space,
That the poor Public feldom finds a place.
And I fufpect there's many a fair-one here,
Who pour'd her forrows on HORATIA's bier,

That fill retains fo much of flesh and blood,
She'd fairly hang the brother, if she could.
Why, Ladies, to be fure, if that be all,
At your tribunal he muft ftand or fall.
Whate'er his country, or his fire decreed,
You are his judges now, and he must plead.
Like other culprit youths, he wanted grace;
But could have no felf-intereft in the cafe.
Had he been wife, or mistress, or a friend,
It might have answered some convenient end :
But a mere fifter, whom he lov'd--to take
Her life away, and for his country's fake!
Faith, Ladies, you may pardon him; indeed
There's very little fear the crime fhould fpread.
True Patriots are but rare among the men,
And really might be useful now and then.
Then do not check, by your disapprobation,
A fpirit which once rul'd the British nation,
And still might rule-would you but fet the fashion.

EPILOGUE

то THE

JEALOUS

WIFE,

L

WRITTEN BY MR. LLOYD.

Spoken by Mrs. CLIVE.

ADIES! I've had a fquabble with the poet-
About his character-and you shall know it:
Young man, faid I, reftrain your faucy fatire!
My part's ridiculous-falfe-out of nature.
Fine draughts indeed of ladies! fure you hate 'em :
Why, Sir!-my part is fcandalum magnatum.

Lord, ma'am, faid he, to copy life my trade is,
And poets ever have made free with ladies :
One Simon- the duce take fuch names as thefe!
A hard Greek name. ·O-ay-Simonides-

He flow'd our freaks, this whim, and that defire,
Rofe first from earth, fea, air, nay fome from fire;

Or

Or that we owe our perfons, minds, and features,
To birds forfooth, and filthy four-legg'd creatures.
The dame, of manners various, temper fickle,
Now all for pleasure, now the conventicle!

Who prays, then raves, now calm, now all commotion,
Rifes another Venus, from the ocean.

Constant at ev'ry fail, the curious fair,
Who longs for Drefden, and old China ware;
Who doats on pagods, and gives up vile man
For niddle noddie figures from Japan;
Critic in jars and joffes, fhews her birth,
Drawn, like the brittle ware itself, from earth.
The flaunting fhe, fo ftately, rich, and vain,
Who gains her conquests, by her length of train;
While all her vanity is under fail,

Sweeps a proud peacock with a gaudy tail.

Hufband and wife, with fweets! and dears! and loves! What are they, but a pair of cooing doves?

But feiz'd with spleen, fits, humours, and all that,
Your dove and turtle, turn to dog and cat.

The goffip, prude, old maid, coquette, and trapes,
Are parrots, foxes, magpies, wafps, and apes:
But the, with ev'ry charm of form and mind,
Oh! fhe's, fweet foul-the phoenix of her kind.
The phoenix of her kind-upon my word
He's a fly wretch-pray-is there fuch a bird?
This his apology!-'tis rank abufe-

A fresh affront, inftead of an excufe!
His own fex rather fuch description suits:
Why don't he draw their characters-the brutes!
Ah let him paint thofe ugly monfters, men!-

Mean time-mend we our lives, he'll mend his pen.

L

E PI L O GUE

то

E L

VIR A.

WRITTEN BY MR. GARRICK.

Spoken by MRS. CIBBER.

ADIES and gentlemen-Tis fo ill bred-
We have no epilogue, becaufe I'm dead;

For he, our bard, with frenzy-rolling eye,
Swears you fhan't laugh, when he has made you cry.
At which I gave his fleeve a gentle pull,
Suppose they should not cry, and should be dull:
In fuch a cafe, 'twould furely do no harm,
A little lively nonsense taken warm :
On critic ftomachs delicate and queafy,
'Twill even make a heavy meal fit eafy,
The town bates Epilogues-it is not true,
I anfwer'd that for you-and you-and you-

[To pit, boxes, and 1ft gallery. They call for Epilogues, and Hornpipes too[To the upper gallery. Madam, the critics fay,-To you they're civil. Here if they have 'em not, they'll play the devil; Out of this houfe, Sir, and to you alone,

They'll fmile, cry Bravo! Charming!-Here they groan:
A fingle critic will not frown, look big,
Harmlefs and pliant as a fingle twig,

But crouded here they change, and 'tis not odd,
For twigs, when bundled up, become a rod.
Critics to bards, like beauties to each other,
When tete a tete their enmity they smother;
Kifs me, my dear-how do you ?-Charming-creature!
What shape! what bloom! what Spirit in each feature!
You flatter me!-'pen benor, no. You do-
My friend-my dear-fincerely yours—adieu!

But when at routs, the dear friends change their tone-
I fpeak of foreign ladies, not our own.

Will you permit, good Sirs, these gloomy folk,
To give all tragedy, without one joke?
They gravely tell us-tragedy's defign'd,
To purge the paflions, purify the mind;
To which I fay, to flrike thofe blockheads dumb,
With phyfic, always give a fugar plumb;

I love thefe fugar plumbs in profe or rhimes;

No one is merrier than myfelf fome times;
Yet I, poor I, with tears and conftant moan,
Am melted down aliñoft to fkin and bone :
This night, in fighs and fobs I drew my breath;
Love, marriage, treafon, prifon, poifon, death,
Were fcarce fufficient to complete my fate;
Two children were thrown in to make up weight.

With all these fuff'rings, is it not provoking,
To be deny'd at laft a little joking?

If they will not make new laws, for mirth's fake-break 'em,

Roar out for Epilogues, and let me fpeak 'em.

E PI L LOG U E

то

DOCTOR LAST IN HIS CHARIOT.

Spoken by a LITTLE GIRL of Five Years old.

L'

ADIES and gentlemen, they've fent me out-
But I'm afraid to tell you what about;
Becaufe 'twere bold in me, perhaps you'll fay,
To come to afk you how you like the play:
Yet that's my bufinefs; nay, more free to make,.
I'm come to beg you'd like it for my fake.

The author took me in his arms juft now,
My dear, fays he-he kifs'd me too I vow-
If you'll go out and make the audience clap,
I'll give you ribbons and a fine new cap:
Befides, he promis'd me, next time he comes
Behind the fcenes, to bring me fugar-plumbs.
But whatsoe'er you think the play to be,
When you go home I'm fure you'll talk of me.
Says Lady Stingo to Sir Gilbert mild,

"At Foor's, Sir Gilbert, have you feen the child? "'Tis really a curofity to view her :

"Our little Betfy is a mountain to her!

"Such action, fuch a tongue-and yet I query
"If the be five years old-a very fairy!"
Sir Gilbert anfwers, with a peevish nod,
"P'fhaw! let the little huffey have a rod.
"There are old folks enough to play the fool:
"Children, my lady, fhould be fent to fchool."
And fo they fhou'd, the naughty ones, no doubt,
Who'll neither books nor needle learn without:
But I am come of no fuch idle breed;

At four years old, I cou'd both write and read;.