OCCASIONAL EPILOGUE, On the Departure of the MANAGER of the THEATRE ROYAL COVENT-GARDEN, May 26, 1774. Spoken…

Of mortal men how equal is the date! Kings and Mock Kings submit alike to Fate. Abroad, in state, one mighty monarch lies; While here, his Majesty of Brentford dies.

Hung be the Stage with black! and Juliet's Bell, 'Midst flashing Resin, toll our monarch's knell! While we with tragick plumes and mournful verse, In slow procession all attend his hearse. First, in dead march the musick—unbrac'd drums— Then with a monstrous purse the Treasurer comes. The hugeness of the bag your fancy cozens! Prick it! and out come ORDERS by whole Dozens! Swell'd as it is, no substance sure enough; No cash—but like a bladder blown—all puff! Two tiny Fairies bear an Epitaph; Two Printers next, with each a Paragraph; Both boasting of Applause that ne'er was shown, And crouded Houses that were never known. Big as a Sybil's Self, or something bigger, Old Mother Shipton comes, a noble figure! Full horribly she grins with ghastly charms, Our Monarch's baby-image in her arms. Then follow Sylphs, Ghosts, Witches in Macbeth, A gouty Harlequin, a Prompter out of breath; A white-glov'd Housekeeper with whiter wand, An empty box-book in the other hand; One, like Lord Chamberlain, his office graces; The other shews you there are store of places. Six Beggar's-Opera Ladies tend the bier, Parted, like Hector's wife, 'twixt Smile and Tear; Elfrida's Virgins too proceed before us, A Modern-Antient, English-Grecian, Chorus. Scene-shifters, Candle-snuffers, and Stage-keepers, Bill-stickers, Pickpockets, and Chimney-sweepers, The Mob without doors, and the Mob within, Close the Procession, and complete the din.

Thus having buried him let's waive Dissection! 'Tis now too late to give his faults correction. Peace—if peace may be—to his shade! He died Felo de se, poor soul! a Suicide: Yet he confess'd with his departing breath, And in the very article of death, Oft did your favour cherish his pretences, Which now defrays his Funeral Expences.