Epilogue

Secrets worth knowing—Shall I tell you one? Don't frown, or our poor Bard will be undone. Change to a grin his present woeful phiz, Last year he cur'd your Heart Ache, now cure his.

But leaving him, as we're left here alone, Suppose I tell a secret of my own. Know then, I think—tho' women will be craving. Your men-folks at the best are scarce worth having. No more entire—they go about by halves, Like legs consumptive, that have lost their calves; What with their crops, slouched gait, and short surtouts, Half heads, half tails, half manners, and half boots.

A wife, or an old maid! Aye, that's the question; Both bitter pills, and bad for our digestion; The prim old maid detests all amorous hussies, Her nursery's confin'd to pups and pussies; Pug's her gallant, and her dear fondled baby, Master Grimalkin, or grey-ey'd miss Tabby. "Man, what an animal! to love to hug, "Puppies they are; but not like my sweet pug, "Prating as parrots, obstinate as donkies; "We'd better all lead apes than follow monkies."

The wife poor thing, at first so blithe and chubby, Scarce knows again her lover in her hubby; No more—"my charming dear! my sweetest life," 'Tis—"stir that fire, give me some coffee, wife." "There —now you've burnt my fingers;—what a ninny "My dog's more nouse than you, I'll bet a guinea!" He flies about to swallow port by dozens; She stays at home, to mope with aunts and cousins.

Some wives there are, perhaps as well intentioned, More spirited than such as I have mentioned; Flirt at the opera, gamble at quadrille, Run down a character, run up a bill; Should spouse not be at dinner to say grace, Can find a substitute to fill his place; Invade man's province, bluster and look big, Nor wear the breeches only, but the wig.

Enchanting taste! each day we change our hue, White, auburn, grizzle, tye-wig, scratch or queue. The red-hair'd lass, to hide her golden nob, Tucks up her tresses in a nut-brown bob. And full blown dames, thro' time a little flaxen, Conceal that outrage by a coal-black caxen, Nay, prosing belies, however bald the pate, Can by this means insure a tête-a-tête.

To shew I prize the mode, and would not mock it, I carry all my graces in my pocket, These are the native charms with which I shine, (takes out a wig.)) A stampt receipt will prove that they are mine. (puts on the wig.) How do I look? Methinks 'tis grand to move (walks about with wig on.) Beneath the covert of this curly grove. It shields one too; for, should some wag, in scoff, Assault my scratch, he can but scratch it off. Shall I, in future, then, this helmet wear? Decree, and I'll obey you to a Hair.