Epilogue

Oh! Lud! What authors have we now adays! A farmer this!—Ecod or what you please: He swears (tho' we've but just got thro' one sweat-o) He'll make us speak an epilogue duetto.— What say you Dragon?—Why's your tail so low?— Be not chop-fall'n—they can't damn you, you know:— What dumb my comrade?—terrible disaster; So I must puff for you, and for your master. Ye Gods be kind!—No cat-call interference! Believe, Tom Weston, 'tis his first appearance.—

You would not think it; but the rogue's so steady, He's in the privy-council here, already; The Prompter gives him merit universal, Because— his whistle calls him to rehearsal; Besides, he imitates no tragic brother,— Who makes him pull down one bill—post another; Tho' he's not sleek;—and has an hungry eye, (A poet's dog is never fed too high) Yet he is sound, Sirs, and in good condition; He has no whimsies—no indisposition: When e'er in letters large the bills he graces, You're sure of seeing him—if you have places; He'll top the bills, if to this text he sticks; A dog of parts—and have no puppy tricks?— Odzooks, I've lost his business in his praise; Oh!—here he's sent to guard his master's bays. A Dragon, once they say, kept watch and ward, Some curious golden fruit from thieves to guard. So to protect the poet's fruit from riot, Secure some guineas, and a better diet, He's sent this Dragon critics!—So be quiet: Sharp then's the word, my slender waisted cousins, He'll swallow macaronies by the dozens! Growling, and snarling,—don't let this dog catch ye, At all your tearing-work he'll over match ye; If by ill humours, you our bard wou'd puzzle, I've nothing else to do—but slip the muzzle! Tho' your so high You too he soon wou'd tame; DRAGON has wings, if I but shew him game.

But shou'd his master's sing-song melt your soul, He'll be as soft as—Signor Rosignol: Will with harmonious howlings swell each note, And bark sweet music—"only from his throat."