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For he, our bard, with frenzy-rolling eye,
Swears you Man't laugh, when he has made you cry.
At which I gave his Neeve a gentle pull,
Suppose they should not cry, and should be dull:
In such a case, 'twould surely do no harm,
A little lively nonsense taken warm :
On critic ftomachs delicate and queasy,
'Twill even make a heavy meal fit easy,
I be town hates Epilogues-it is not true,
I answer'd that for you,
and you—and you-

2 (To pit, boxes, and in 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 noi, they'll play the devil; Out of this house, Sir, and to you alone, They'll smile, cry Bravo ! Charming !-Here they groan: A single critic will not frown, look big, Harmless and pliant as a single 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 ; Kiss me, my dear-how do

you 2-Charming-creature! What mape! what bloom! what spirit in each feature! You flatter me!- 'pon honor, no. You do My friendmy dear--fincerely yours-adieu! But when at routs, the dear friends change their toneI speak 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 design'd, To purge the paslions, purify the mird; To which I say, to strike those blockheads dumb, With phyfic, always give a sugar plumb; I love these sugar plumbs in prose or rhimes; No one is merrier than myself some times; Yet I, poor I, with tears and constant moan, Am melted down alınost to skin and bone : This night, in fighs and sobs I drew my breath ; Love, marriage, treason, prison, poifon, death, Were scarce fùfficient 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 last a little joking?
If they will not make new laws, for mirth's fake-break

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

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Spoken by a Little Girl of Five Years old.


ADIES and gentlemen, they've sent me out

But I'm afraid to teil you what about ;
Because 'twere bold in me, perhaps you'll say,
To come to ask you how you like the play:
Yet that's my business ; nay, more free to maken,
I'm come to beg you'd like it for my fake.

The author took me in his arms just now,
My dear, lays he-he kissid me too I vow
If you'll go out and make the audience clap,
I'll give you ribbons and a fine new cap :
Besides, he promis’d me, next time he comes
Behind the scenes, to bring me sugar-plumbs.
But whatsoe'er you think the play to be,
When you go home I'm sure you'll talk of me.

Says Lady Sțingo to Sir Gilbert mild,
" At Foot's, Sir Gilbert, have you seen the child?
“ 'Tis really a curosiły to view her :
« Our little Betsy is a mountain to her!
" Such action, such a tongue-and yet I query
“ If the be five years old-a very fairy!"
Sir Gilbert answers, with a reevith nod,
P'haw! let the little husey have a rod.
" There are old folks enough to play the fool :
Children, my lady, should be sent to school."
And so they shou'd, the naughty ones, no doubt,
Who'll neither books nor needle learn without:
But I am come of no such idle breed ;
As four years old, I cou'd both write and read;

To be at work my fingers still are itching-
These flowers here are all of my own stitching.

(Taking up and freewing her frock.
But, is my prate dislik'd, for after all,
1 am but young, 'tis true, and somewhat small;
And taller Ladies, I must needs confess,
Might speak an epilogue with more address.
However, some few things I have to plead :
First, ’pon my word and credit, I'm a maid.
Will that pass here for merit? I don't know-
I'm a new face-which generally does so.
And if you want me louder, taller, bolder,
Have patience--I shall mend, as I grow older.

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Lik hand,

IKE fam'd La Mancha's knight ; who, launce in

Mounted his steed to free th' enchanted land,
Oor Quixote hard sets forth a monster-taming,
Arm'd at all points, to fight that hydra-gaming.
Aluft on Pegasus he waves his pen,
And hurls defiance at the caiciff's den,
The first on fancy'd giants spent his rage,
But this has more than windmills to engage.
He combats paflion, rooted in the soul,
Whose pow'rs at once delight ye and controul ;
Whose magic bondage each oft slave enjoys,
Nor wishes freedom, though the spell destroys.
To save our land from this Magician's charms,
And rescue maids and matrons from his arms,
Our knight poetic comes. And oh! ye fair!
This black Enchanter's wicked arts beware!
His subtle poison dims the brightest eyes,
And at his touch, each grace and beauty dies.
Love, gentleness, and joy, to rage give way,
And the soft dove a bird of prey.


May this our bold advent'rer break the spell,
And drive the dæmon to his native hell!

Ye llaves of passion, and ye dupes of chance,
Wake all your pow'rs from this destructive trance !
Shake off the hackles of this tyranc vice :
Hear other calls than those of cards and dice:
Be learn'd in nobler arts than arts of play,
And other debts than those of honour pay.
No longer live insensible to shame,
Loft to your country, families and fame.

Cou'd our romantic muse this work atchieve,
Wou'd there one honelt heart in Britain grieve ?
Th' attempt, though wild, would not in vain be made,
If ev'ry honeft hand wou'd lend its aid.

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SCENE, an Assembly.
Several Perfons at Cards, at different Tables; aming te

reft Col. Trill, Lord Minum, Mrs. Quaver, Jin Pas-
trick Mahony.

At the Quadrille Table.
Col. T. ADIES, with leave -

2d. Lady. Pass!
3d. Lady. Pals!

Mrs. Qu, You must do more.
Col. T. Indeed I can't.
Mrs. Qu. I play in hearts.

Col. T. Encore !
2d Lady. What luck!

Col. T. To-night at Drury-Lane is play'd
A comedy, and route nouvelle-a spade !
Is not Miss Crochet at the play?

Mrs. Qu. My niece
Has made a party, fir, to damn the piece.

At ibe Whift Table.
Ld. Min, I hate a playhouse_Trump-It makes me sicka


ul Lady. We're two by honours, ma'am.

Ld. Min. And we th' odd trick. Pray do you know the author, colonel Trill? Col. T. I know no poets, heav'n be prais’d-Spadille ! 1 Lady. I'll tell you who, my lord ! (Whispers my lord. .

Ld. Min. What, he again? " And dwell such daring fouls in little men ?" Be whose it will, they down our throats will

cram it! Col. T. O, no, - I have a club the belt. We'll

damn it. Mrs. Q4. O bravo, colonel! music is my fame. Ld. Min. And mine, by Jupiter !~We've won the game. Col. T. What, do you

love all music!

Mrs. Qu. No, not Handel's.
And nasty plays-
Ld. Min. Are fit for Goths and Vandals,

[Rise from the table, and pay.

From the Piquette Table. Sir Pat. Well, faith and troth! that Shakespeare was

no fool ! Col. T. I'm glad you like him, fir! So ends the pool !

(Pay and rise from table.
SONG by the Colonel.
I hate all their nonsense,

Their Shakespeares and Johnsons,
Their plays, and their playhouse, and bards:

'Tis singing, not saying ;

A fig for all playing,
But playing, as we do, at cards !

I love to see Jonas,

Am pleas'd too with Comus ;
Each well the spectator rewards.

So clever, so neat in

Their tricks, and their cheating!

Like them we would fain deal our cards.
Sir Pat. King Lare is touching !-And how fine to see

Ould Hamlet's ghoft!To be, or not to be.”
What are your op’ras to Othello's roar ?

Oh, he's an angel of a blackmoor !
Ld. Min. What, when he choaks his wife ? -

Col. T. And call'd her whore !

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