168

E PILOGU E.

Spoken by Mrs CLIVE.

APOET bould, unless his fate be guest,

Write for each play two Epilogues at least; For how to empty benches can we fay,

"What means this mighty crowding bere to-day?"
Or foou'd the pit with flattery be cramm'd,

How can we fpeak it, when the play is damn'd?
Damn'd, did I fay?-

-be furely need not fear it;

His play is fafe when none will come to bear it.
English is now below this learned town;

None but Italian warblers will go

dozun.

Tho' courts were more polite, the English ditty
Cou'd heretofore at leaft content the city:

That, for Italian now has let us drop;

And Dimi Cara rings thro' ev'ry shop.

What glorious thoughts must all our neighbours nourifo
Of us, where rival operas can flourifb!

Let France win all our towns: we need not fear
But Italy will fend her fingers here;
We cannot buy them at a price too dear.
Let us receive them to our peaceful shore,
While in their own the angry cannons roar:
Here they may fing in fafety, we reward 'em;
Here no Vifconti threatens to bombard 'em.

Orpheus drew flones with his enchanting fong;
Thefe can do more, they draw our gold along

-But tho' our angry poets rail in spite,
Ladies, I own, I think your judgment right:
Satire, perhaps, may wound fome pretty thing;
Thofe foft Italian warblers have no fting;
Tho' your foft hearts the tuneful charm may win,
You're fill fecure to find no harm within.
Wifely from thefe rude places you abftain,
Where fatire gives the wounded hearer pain.
'Tis hard to pay them who our faults reveal,
As boys are forc'd to buy the rods they feel.
No, let' em farve, who dare to lafh the age,
And, as you've left the pulpit, leave the flage.

THE

Spoken by Mr KING.

HITHER, in days of yore, from Spain or France,
Came a dread forcerefs; ber name Romance.

O'er Britain's ifle her wayward spells fhe caft,
And common fenfe in magic chain bound fafi.
In mad fublime did each fond lover woo,
And in beroics ran each billet-doux:
High deeds of chivalry their fale delight,
Each fair a maid diftreft, each frain a knight.
Then might Statira Oroondates fee,
At tilts and tournaments, arm'd cap-a-pee.
She too, on milk-white palfrey, lance in hand,
A dwarf to guard ber, pranc'd about the land.
This fiend to quell, his fword Gervantes drew,
A trufty Spanish blade, Toledo true:

Her talifmans and magic wand he broke-
Knights, genii, caftles vanifb'd into smoke.
the dear delight of later years,

But now,

The younger fifter of Romance, appears:

Р

Lef

Lefs folemn is ber air, her drift the fame,
And Novel her enchanting, charming name.
Romance might firike our grave forefathers pomp,
But Novel for our buck and lively romp!
Caffandra's folios now no longer read;
See two neat pocket-volumes in their flead!
And then fo fentimental is the ftyle,
Sa chafte, yet fo bewitching all the while!
Plot and elopement, passion, rape, and rapture,
The total fum of ev'ry dear-dear-chapter.

'Tis not alone the fmall-talk and the smart, 'Tis novel moft beguiles the female beart.

Mifs reads fhe melts she fighs—love steals upon her-
And then-alas, poor girl!—good night, poor honour !-

"Thus of our Polly having lightly spoke,
"Now for our author! but without a joke,
"Though wits and journals, who neʼer fibb'd before,
"Have laid this bantling at a certain door,
"Where, lying fore of faults, they'd fain beap more;
"I now declare it as a ferious truth,
"'Tis the first folly of a fimple youth,
"Caught and deluded by our barlot plays

"Then crufb not in the fbell this infant Bayes;

"Exert your favour to a young beginner,

"Nor ufe the ftripling like a batter'd finner.”

SCENE, An Apartment in HONEYCOMBE's House.

POLLY, with a Book in her Hand.

W ELL faid, Sir George!-O the dear man!But fo "With these words the enraptur'd "baronet (reading) concluded his declaration of love." -So! But what heart can imagine, (reading), "what tongue defcribe, or what pen delineate, the amiable confufion of Emilia ?"-Well, now for it.

66

"Reader, if thou art a courtly reader, thou haft "feen, at polite tables, iced cream crimsoned with raf"berries; or, if thou art an uncourtly reader, thou haft "feen the rofy-finger'd morning dawning in the golden "caft."-Dawning in the golden caft! Very pretty.

Thou

*Thefe lines were added by Mr Garrick, on its being reported that he was author of this piece; and, however humorous and poetical, contain as strict matter of fact as the dulleft profe.

"Thou haft feen perhaps (reading) the artificial ver"milion on the cheeks of Cleora, or the vermilion of "nature on thofe of Sylvia; thou haft feen-in a word, "the lovely face of Emila was overfpread with blushes.”

This is a moft beautiful paffage, I proteft! Well, a novel for my money!-Lord, Lord, my ftupid papa has no tafte. He has no notion of humour and character, and the fenfibility of delicate feeling, (affectedly.) And then mama- -But where was I-Oh, here"Overspread with blushes, (reading.)— -Sir George, "touched at her confufion, gently feized her hand, "and foftly preffing it to his bofom, (acting it as he "reads), where the pulfes of his heart beat quick, throb"bing with tumultuous paffion, in a plaintive tone of "voice breathed out, Will you not anfwer me, Emilia. -Tender creature! "She, half raifing (reading and acting) her downcaft eyes, and halfinclining her averted head, faid in faultering accents "-Yes, Sir."-Well, now!" Then gradually reco

"

vering, with ineffable fweetnefs fhe prepared to ad"drefs him; when Mrs Jenkins bounced into the room, "threw down a fet of china in her hurry, and ftrewed "the floor with porcelain-fragments: then turning E* milia round and round, whirled her out of the apart❤ment in an instant, and struck Sir George dumb with "aftonishment at her appearance. She raved; but the "baronet refuming his accuftomed effrontery.".

Enter Nurfe.

Oh, norfe, I am glad to fee you!-Well, and how
Nur. Well, chicken?

Pol. Tell me, tell me all this inftant. Did your fee him? Did you give him my letter? Did he write? Will he come? Shall I fee him? Have you got the answer in your pocket? Have you

Nur. Bleffings on her, how her tongue runs!

Pol. Nay, but come, dear nurfee, tell me, what did he fay?

Nur. Say? why, he took the letter

Pol. Well!

Nur. And kifs'd it a thousand times, and read it a thousand times, and

Pol. Oh charming!

Nur. And ran about the room, and bleft himself,— and, Heav'n preserve us, curft himself, and

Pol. Very fine, very fine!

Nur. And vowed he was the most miserable creature upon earth, and the happiest man in the world, and— Pol. Prodigioufly fine! excellent!My dear, dear nurfee! (Kiffing her.) Come, give me the letter. Nur. Letter, chicken! what letter?

Pol. The answer to mine.- -Come then! (Impatiently.)

Nur. I have no letter. He had fuch a peramble to write, by my troth I could not stay for it.

Pol. Píha!

Nur. How foon you're affronted now! He faid he'd fend it fome time to-day.

Pol. Send it fome time to-day!-I wonder now (as if mufing) how he will convey it. Will he fqueeze it, as he did the laft, into the chicken-houfe in the garden? Or will he write it in lemon-juice, and fend it in a book like blank paper? Or will he throw it into the houfe inclosed in an orange? Or will he

Nur. Heavens bless her, what a fharp wit she has! Pol. I have not read fo many books for nothing. Novels, nurfee, novels! A novel is the only thing to teach a girl life, and the way of the world, and elegant fancies, and love to the end of the chapter.

Nur. Yes, yes; you are always reading your fimple flory-books; the Ventures of Jack this, and the Hiftory of Betfy t'other, and Sir Humphrys, and women with hard Chriftian names. You had better read your prayer. book, chicken.

Pol. Why fo I do; but I'm reading this now(Looking into the book.) "She raved; but the baronet"

-I really think I love Mr Scribble as well as Emilia did Sir George.-Do you think, nurfee, I fhould have had fuch a good notion of love fo early if I had not read novels? Did not I make a conqueft of Mr Scribble in a fingle night at a dancing? but my crofs papa will hardly ever let me go out. And then, I know life as well as if I had been in the beau-monde all my days. can tell the nature of a masquerade as well as if I had been at twenty. I long for a mobbing scheme with Mr

I

Scribble