EPILOGUE

TÓ

DO U G L A
Spoken by Mr. BARRY.

AN Epilogue I afk'd; but not one word

S.

Our bard will write. He vows 'tis moft abfurd

With comic wit to contradict the ftrain

Of tragedy, and make your forrows vain.
Sadly he fays, that pity is the best,

The nobleft paffion of the human breast:
For when its facred ftreams the heart o'er-flow,
In gushes pleasure with the tide of woe;
And when its waves retire, like thofe of Nile,
They leave behind them fuch a golden foil,
That there the virtues without culture grow,
There the fweet bloffoms of affection blow.
These were his words;-void of delufive art
I felt them; for he spoke them from his heart.
Nor will I now attempt, with witty folly,
To chace away celeftial melancholy.

A

OTHE

By the AUTHOR.

R. S.

N Epilogue, through cuftom, is your right,
But ne'er perhaps was needful till this night:
To night the virtuous falls, the guilty flies,
Guilt's dreadful clofe our narrow fcene denies.
In hiftory's authentic record read

What ample vengeance gluts Demetrius' shade;
Vengeance fo great, that when his tale is told,
With pity fome ev'n Perfeus may behold.

Perfeus furviv'd, indeed, and fill'd the throne,
But ceafelefs cares in conqueft made him groan :

Ner

Nor reign'd he long; from Rome fwift thunder flew,
And headlong from his throne the tyrant threw :
Thrown headlong down, by Rome in triumph led,
For this night's deed his perjur'd bofom bled:
His brother's ghoft each moment made him start,
And all his father's anguish rent his heart.

When, rob'd in black, his children round him hung,
And their rais'd arms in early forrow wrung;
The younger fmil'd, unconscious of their woe;
At which thy tears, O Rome! began to flow;
So fad the scene: what then muft Perfeus feel,
To fee Jove's race attend the victor's wheel:
To fee the flaves of his worst foes increase,
From fuch a fource !-An emperor's embrace?
He ficken'd foon to death; and, what is worse,
He well deferv'd, and felt, the coward's curse;
Unpity'd, fcorn'd, infulted his laft hour,
Far, far from home, and in a vaffal's power:
His pale cheek rested on his shameful chain,
No friend to mourn, no flatterer to feign;
No fuit retards, no comfort fooths his doom,
And not one tear bedews a monarch's tomb.
Nor ends it thus-dire vengeance to complete,
His antient empire falling, fhares his fate :
His throne forgot! His weeping country chain'd!
And nations afk-Where Alexander reign'd?
As public woes a prince's crimes purfue,
So public bleffings are his virtue's due.
Shout, Britains, fhout-aufpicious fortune blefs!
And cry, Long live-Our title to fuccefs!

EPILOGUE

EDWARD

то

THE BLACK PRINCE.

Spoken by Mrs. CLIVE.

AGAINST fuch odds if Edward could fucceed,

Our English warriors once were great indeed : But, mournful thought! we furely must complain, 'They're fadly alter'd from King Edward's reign:

Yet

Yet fome there are, who merit ev'ry praise,
Stems of that stock, and worthy of those days;
Illuftrious Heroes !-How unlike to thofe,

Whofe valour, like their wit, lies only in their clothes?
Such arrant Beaux, so trim, so degagée,

That ev'n French Ladies wou'd not run away.
They'll huff, indeed, and ftrut, look proud, and fwear,
And all this they can do-because they dare.
But know, poor fouls, all this implies no merit,
Ev'n women foon difcern a man of spirit;
Judges alike of warriors and of wooers:
The mightiest talkers are the poorest doers,
Such to fubdue, requires no martial fire,
One Joan of Arc wou'd make 'em all retire.
But hold-I wander,-Poitiers be my ftory,
And warm my breaft with British love of glory;
When each bold Briton took his country's part,
And wore her freedom blazon'd on his heart.
Such were our Sires-But now, O dire disgrace!
Lo, half their offspring loft in filk and lace.
Ye, Britons, from this lethargy arise,
Burst forth from folly's bondage, and be wife:
Once more let virtue, dignity be priz'd,
Nor copy what your ancestors defpis'd.
Each falfe refinement ftudy to disdain,
And harden into manhood back again :
So fhall our Britain's honours mount on high,
And future fields with that of Poitiers vie.

EPILOGUE

то

GIL BLA S.
WRITTEN BY MR, GARRICK.
Spoken by Mrs. PRITCHAR D.

As the fuccefs of Authors is uncertain,

Till all is over, and down drops the curtain ;

Poets are puzzled in our dangerous times,
How to addrefs you in these after-rhymes.

If

If they implore and beg, with abject mind,
Their meanness rather makes you fick than kind;
And if they bounce and huff it to the town,
Then you are up-and take the bullies down.
Of beaux and politicks, and fuch like stuff,
And ev❜n of tawdry too, you've had enough-
On all degrees, from Courtier to the Cit,
Such ftale dull jokes have been so often writ,
That nothing can be new-but decency and wit,
Thus far our Bard-The rest is mine to fay;
I am his Friend, fo, will attack his play.
How could his thoughtless head with any truth
(If Spanish Dons are like our English youth)
Make his wild rake so fink from upper life,
To quit his mistress for a lawful wife!
The Author might have married him-but then
He should have had his mistress back again.
This is the scheme our English Dons purfue,
Tho' one's too much, there's tafte in having two.
As for the lady-I dislike her plan,

With you I'm fure, fhe had not pass'd for man-
Had the with our young bloods contriv'd this freak,
She had been blown and ruin'd in a week.

And if of virtue they could not have trick'd her,

They'd damn'd her for a fool- perhaps have kick'd her. But jeft apart for all our Bard has wrote,

Our most alluring bait's the petticoat.

Before that magic fhrine the proudest fall,

"Tis that enchanting circle draws in all,

Let fools fay what they will, experience teaches, 'Tis beft to marry firft-then wear the breeches.

PROLOGUE

TO THE

SAME.

Spoken by Mr. WOODWARD.

In the Character of a Critic, with a Catcall in his Hand.

A

RE you all ready? Here's your mufic! here! *
Author, fneak off, we'll tickle you, my dear.
Blowing his Catcall.

The

The fellow flop'd me in a hellish fright

Pray, Sir, fays he, muft I be damn'd to-night
Damn'd!-furely friend-Don't hope for our compliance,
Zounds, Sir!-a fecond play's downright defiance,
Tho' once, poor rogue, we pity'd your condition,
Here's the true recipe-for repetition.

Well, Sir, fays he, e'en as you pleafe, fo then,
I'll never trouble you with plays again.

But hark ye, Poet!-won't you tho', fays I?
"Pon honour Then we'll damn you, let me die.
Shan't we, my Bucks? Let's take him at his word—
Damn him-or by my foul, he'll write a third.
The man wants money, I fuppofe-But mind ye
Tell him you've left your charity behind ye
A pretty plea, his wants to our regard!
As if we bloods had bowels for a Bard!
Befides, what men of fpirit, now-a-days,
Come to give fober judgments of new plays?
It argues fome good nature to be quiet-
Good nature!-Ay-But then we lofe a riot.
The fcribbling fool may beg and make a fuís,
"Tis death to him-What then?-'Tis fport to us.
Don't mind me tho'-For all my fun and jokes,
The Bard may find us Bloods, good natur'd Folks.
No crabbed criticks-Foes to rifing merit

Write but with fire-and we'll applaud with fpirit
Our Author aims at no difhoneft ends,

He knows no enemies, and boafts fome friends;
He takes no methods down your throats to cram it,
So if you like it, fave it, if not-damn it.

Written and Spoken by Mr. GARRICK.

Enter-Interrupting the Band of Mufic.
MOMENT ftop your tuneful fingers, pray,

A While here, as ufual, I my duty pay.

C

[To the audience.

Don't