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?" How can we fpeak it, when the play is damn'd? -be furely need not fear it; His play is fafe when none will come to bear it. None but Italian warblers will go dozun. Tho' courts were more polite, the English ditty That, for Italian now has let us drop; And Dimi Cara rings thro' ev'ry shop. What glorious thoughts must all our neighbours nourifo Let France win all our towns: we need not fear Orpheus drew flones with his enchanting fong; -But tho' our angry poets rail in spite, THE Spoken by Mr KING. HITHER, in days of yore, from Spain or France, O'er Britain's ifle her wayward spells fhe caft, Her talifmans and magic wand he broke- But now, The younger fifter of Romance, appears: Р Lef Lefs folemn is ber air, her drift the fame, '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- "Thus of our Polly having lightly spoke, "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 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 |