Epilogue

I SPEAK the Epilogue! Lud, how they teaze one! They write so dull—so—seldom they can please one: I never read 'em—Well—I'll trust to chance, And now before 'em, frighten'd, I'll advance.

Ladies and Gents—behold—that is—our play We hope will—Lud, I don't know what to say! To entertain the cit, the belle, the beau, With India—Stamps—or, Race at Fontainbleau. In days of yore—bright days, with conquest crown'd! The French we beat, and beat on their own ground; We conquer still by valour or by cunning, On their own ground we beat'em now—in running. I'll try, as Mercury did, a small deception, It may secure, at least, a good reception.— How do I look? If I can trust my glass, I think for Venus I may safely pass; (I'm sure found out to say I'm any other;) No more Miss Archer now—the archer's mother! Nay, never wonder, doubt, nor start, nor stare, Don't you perceive the Goddess in my air? Yon low'ring brow says, No—Well!—if you doubt me, I'll drop the Goddess,—here's enough without me: Each scarlet Mars above, though e'er so dainty, May leer around—there's Venus's in plenty; Or aim his glass beneath, upon the pit, He'll see his Venus by her Vulcan sit: There Bacchus woos his Venus all divine! He nectar asks—but she—a pint of wine! And you can never want the Queen of Love, I speak to you, ye roaring Gods above;— Momus is surely there, from all this racket, Yonder he sits—he's in a sailor's jacket; Thrice happy God, who lives but in a joke! His Venus laughs, too—in her hat and cloak. Where have I got to?—Lud, how glib my tongue! Am I Miss Archer, Venus, or Miss Younge? Be what I will, among my friends I rank ye, Applaud Miss Archer, and Miss Younge shall thank ye.