An EPILOGUE, Design'd to be spoke at Alnwick, on resigning the Playhouse to a Party detach'd from the…

To Alnwick's lofty seat, a silvan scene! To rising hills from distance doubly green, Go—says the god of wit, my standard beat, These are the mansions of the great and fair, 'Tis my Olympus now, go spread my banners there,

Led by fond hope, the pointed path we trace, And thank'd our patron for the flowery place; Here—we behold a gently waving wood! There—we can gaze upon a wand'ring flood! The landscape smiles!—the fields gay fragrance wear! Soft scenes are all around—refreshful air! Slender repast indeed, and but cameleon fare!

A troop, at certain times, compel'd to shift, And from their northern mountains turn'd adrift; By tyrant managers a while consign'd, To fatten on what forage they can find; With lawless force our liberty invades, And fain would thrust us from these fav'rite shades; But we (since prejudice erects her scale, And puffs and petty artifice prevail) To stronger holds with cool discretion run, And leave the conquerors to be—undone.

With gratitude, still we'll acknowledge the favours So kindly indulg'd to our simple endeavours; To the great and the fair we rest thankfully debtors, And wish we cou'd say, we gave place to our betters.