Song the Last; or, Epilogue

The Wits were wont, in ancient times, To estimate their Age by Rhimes, A Ballad was their Schooling; We Moderns may, perhaps be wrong, If not likewise, also a Song May fit us for our Fooling.

Imprimis, there's the Men of State, But, hold! I'll let alone the Great, Lest I shou'd gain a Schooling, For Greatness was not form'd for sport, Tho' some folks greatly make their Court, By greatly, greatly Fooling.

We play the Fool, we act the Wise, We bare-fac'd walk, or wear disguise, As Hopes and Fears are ruling; And yet, with all our deep-laid wiles, From John o' Nokes to Tom o' Stiles, What is it all but Fooling?

If Men will think, if Men will see, That all this To, — or not to be, Is as we're hot, or cooling; To-day on Expectation's wing, To-morrow off, 'tis not the Thing, What is the Thing?—why Fooling.

Fool on, Fool on, for Life at best, Is but half-bred, 'twixt Cry and Jest, As Chance, not Reason's ruling; To Chance we owe our Rights and Wrongs, To CHANCE I dedicate these Songs, A Ballad-Maker's Fooling.