Epilogue

Lord, how I tremble! every atom shaking. What! speak an Epilogue of my own making! A task for me—presumptuous and absurd— But I have promis'd, and must keep my word. Yes, I did promise, with a solemn face, Tadaress my patrons here, and sue for grace; For your past favours had so warm'd my heart, I thought to tell them needed little art. How vain the thought! for pondering day and night, I found, though I might speak, I cou'd not write. Distress'd, to Garrick then I fly for aid: You can assist me, Sir, for wit's your trade. When of your epilogues I speak a line, Each side-box cries, Oh charming, vastly fine, Its quite delightful, monstrously divine! The pit, alive to every comic stroke, With laughter loud anticipates the joke: All but the modern fop, to feeling dead, With heart of adamant and brains of lead, Languid and lifeless, lolling, yawns, takes snuff; And cries, As gad's my judge 'tis flimsy stuff. Heaven knows I monstrously abhor a play, It's a vile bore—what dragg'd me here to-day? Dear lady Mary, how can you attend? Will Garrick's nonsense never have an end? Not so, Sir Mac, who just has cross'd the Tweed, Cries, Vary weel, ridiculous indeed! The cheeld has parts; ah, he'd been muckle keen, If bred at Glasgow, or at Aberdeen! Sir Paddy lays, "My jewel, that's mighty pretty: "Faith Garrick, you were once in Dublin city; "In sweet Smock-alley, you have cut a figure, "Oh, you'd be great were you a little bigger." Thus na ions, parties, all in this agree: And humour's palm, oh Garrick! yield to thee: Then, good Sir, scribble something new for me. To Garrick thus in flattering strains I sue, But all in vain, nor prayers nor flattery do. Since thus obdurate, all their aid refuse, I, a mere novice, must invoke the Muse. Oh would immortal Shakespear's muse of fire, Heave in my breast, each kindling thought inspire; Or cou'd I mount on the Moeonian wing, Or chant such songs as raptur'd Seraphs sing; To you, my kind protectors, wou'd I raise My fullest, loudest, warmest notes of praise: The great, the brave, the fair, who now appear In bright array to grace this circle here, My Muse to late stages should proclaim, Their worth record, and consecrate their fame; While gratitude on rapturous pinions soars, And echoes loud the virtues she adores.