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Yes, the Epilogue, my dear.
Sure you mistake, ma'am. The Epilogue I bring it.
Excuse me, ma'am. The author bid me sing it,
Ye beaux and belles, that form this splendid ring,
Suspend your conversation while I sing.
Why sure the girl's beside herself: an Epilogue of singing,
A hopeful end indeed to such a bless'd beginning.
Besides, a singer in a comic set !
Excuse me, ma'am, I know the etiquette.
What if we leave it to the House ?
And she, whose party's largest, shall proceed.
And first I hope, you'll readily agree,
I've all the critics and the wits for me.
They, I am sure, will answer my commands,
Ye candid-judging few, hold up your hands;
What, no return ? I find too late, I fear,
That modern judges seldom enter here.
I'm for a different set.- Old men, whose trade is
Still to gallant and dangle with the ladies.
Who mump their passion, and who, grimly smiling,
Still thus address the fair with voice beguiling:
Turn, my fairest, turn, if ever
Strephon caught thy ravished eye;
Pity take on your swain so clever,
Who without your aid must die.
Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu,
Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho,
Let all the old pay homage to your merit:
Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit.
Ye travelled tribe, ye macaroni train
Of French friseurs, and nosegays, justly vain,
Who take a trip to Paris once a year
To dress, and look like awkward Frenchwn here;
Lend me your hands.-O fatal news to tell,
Their hands are only lent to the Heinel.
Ay, take your travellers—travellers indeed!
Give me the bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed.
Where are the chiels? Ah! Ah, I well discern
The smiling looks of each bewitching bairn.
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.
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“My Lord:-your Lordship misconceives the case.” Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner“I wish I'd been called in a little sooner," Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, Come end the contest here, and aid my party,
Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack,
in this woful attack; 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.
Well, madam, what if, after all this sparring,
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?
And that our friendship may remain unbroken,
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken ?
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.
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 fis,
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 scattered 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 wit's 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 “Damme, Sir!” and “Sir, I wear a sword !"-
Here lessoned 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 creature
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.?
EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER.” WELL, having Stooped to Conquer with success, And gained a husband without aid from dress, Still as a barmaid, I could wish it too, As I have conquered him, to conquer you:
LINES ATTRIBUTED TO DR. GOLDSMITH.
And let me say, for all your resolution,
That pretty barmaids have done execution.
Our life is all a play, composed to please,
"We have our exits and our entrances.'
The first Act shows the simple country maid,
Harmless and young, of every thing afraid ;
Blushes when hired, and with unmeaning action,
'I hopes as how to give you satisfaction.'
Her second Act displays a livelier scene-
The unblushing barmaid of a country inn,
Who whisks about the house, at market caters,
Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the waiters.
Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soais,
The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs.
On 'squires and cits she there displays her arts,
And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts-
And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete,
Even common-councilmen forget to eat.
The fourth Act shows her wedded to the 'squire,
And madam now begins to hold it higher;
Pretends to taste, at operas cries caro,
And quits her Nancy Dawson for Che faro;
Dotes upon dancing, and in all her pride,
Swims round the room the Heinel of Cheapside;
Ogles and leers with artificial skill,
'Till having lost in age the power to kill,
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille.
Such, through our lives, the eventful history-
The fifth and last Act still remains for me.
The barmaid now for your protection prays ;
Turns female barrister, and pleads for Bayes.
LINES ATTRIBUTED TO DR. GOLDSMITH, INSERTED IN THE MORNING CHRONICLE OF APRIL 3, 1800. E’EN have you seen, bathed in the morning dew,
The budding rose its infant bloom display; When first its virgin tints unfold to view,
It shrinks, and scarcely trusts the blaze of day:
So soft, so delicate, so sweet she came,
Youth's damask glow just dawning on her cheek;
I gazed, I sighed, I caught the tender flame,
Felt the fond pang, and drooped with passion weak.