Epilogue

I Had an Epilogue to speak to night, But I'm so hurried, put in such a fright, Deuce take me!—if I ha'nt forgot it quite. To see my name in first night's play-bill printed, A character quite new, in time quite stinted; An Epilogue, besides, to get by heart, 'Tis most unmerciful, too long a part— But they so coax'd and wheedled me to duty, Lest I should fret—for fretting spoils one's beauty, That, in obedience to the kind command, A suppliant to your favour, here I stand: And hope, instead of what had been prepar'd, Some nonsense of my own, may now be heard.

Well! I have had a great escape, I own, From being made the jest of all the town; For from the court end I could claim no pity, Nor had I more to hope for, from the city; Such matches rarely answer either side, For industry is suited ill with pride.

But, to divert your censure, let me shew A folly more compleat, a city beau! What contrast can there be so strong in nature, As English plainness apeing petit-maître! And yet poor I, by missing such a lover, May wait, 'till all my dancing days are over!

Next, shift the scene—behold a virtuoso! An old illiterate, feeble amoroso! What weakness can the human heart discover, More shameful, than a climacteric lover? Men, who have turn'd the period of threescore, Become mere virtuoso's—in amour.

Nor does Aunt Bridget merit better quarter, Who, scorning to abide by female charter, Invades a province, to our sex deny'd, Aiming at knowledge with a pedant's pride; When, after all our boast, we find, at length, To know our weakness is our surest strength, One path of science only, wise men say, Is left for female learning—to obey.—

If characters like these your mirth excite, And furnish some amusement for the night, If nought offend the maxims of the stage, Or shock the nicer morals of the age, If only venial errors here you find, Critics be dumb—ye men of candour, kind.