EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF THE
SISTER.1
WHAT? five long acts-and all to make us wiser!
Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.
Had she consulted me, she should have made
Her moral play a speaking masquerade ;
Warm'd up each bustling scene, and, in her rage,
Have emptied all the green room on the stage.
My life on't, this had kept her play from sinking;
Have pleas'd our eyes, and sav❜d the pain of
thinking.
Well, since she thus has shown her want of skill,
What if I give a masquerade? — I will.
But how? ay, there's the rub! [pausing]—I've got my cue:
The world's a masquerade! the masquers, you, [To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery. Lud! what a group the motley scene discloses! False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!
Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside 'em, Patriots in party-colour'd suits that ride 'em.
1 The Sister] A comedy by Mrs. Charlotte Lennox, 1769, taken from the authoress's own novel, Henrietta.' It was performed only one night. The author of the Biographia Dramatica says that this epilogue is the best that has appeared the last thirty years.'
There Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more
To raise a flame in Cupids of threescore;
These in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen.
Miss, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Flings down her sampler, and takes up the woman;
The little urchin smiles, and spreads her lure,
And tries to kill, ere she's got power to cure.
Thus 'tis with all: their chief and constant care
Is to seem every thing — but what they are.
Yon broad, bold, angry spark, I fix my eye on,
Who seems to have robb'd his vizor from the lion;
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round
Looking, as who should say,
Strip but this vizor off, and sure I am
You'll find his lionship a very lamb.
Yon politician, famous in debate,
Perhaps, to vulgar eyes, bestrides the state;
Yet, when he deigns his real shape t' assume,
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.
Yon patriot, too, who presses on your sight,
And seems, to every gazer, all in white,
If with a bribe his candour you attack,
He bows, turns round, and whip the man's in
Yon critic, too, but whither do I run?
If I proceed, our bard will be undone!
Well, then, a truce, since she requests it too:
Do you spare her, and I'll for once spare you.
EPILOGUE TO THE GOOD-NATURED MAN.1
As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure
To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure,
Thus, on the stage, our playwrights still depend
For Epilogues and Prologues on some friend,
Who knows each art of coaxing up the town,
And makes full many a bitter pill go down.
Conscious of this, our bard has gone about,
And teas'd each rhyming friend to help him out.
'An Epilogue,—things can't go on without it;
It could not fail, would you but set about it.'
'Young man,' cries one, (a bard laid up in clover,)
‘Alas, young man, my writing days are over;
Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I;
Your brother Doctor there, perhaps, may try.'
What, I dear Sir,' the Doctor interposes;
'What, plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses!
No, no, I've other contests to maintain ;
To-night I head our troops at Warwick-lane.2
1 The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at Oxford, deferred writing one himself till the very last hour. What is here offered owes all its success to the graceful manner of the actress who spoke it.-Goldsmith.
2 Where the College of Physicians then stood.
Go ask your manager.'—'Who, me! Your pardon :
These things are not our forte at Covent-Garden.'
Our author's friends, thus plac'd at happy distance,
Give him good words indeed, but no assistance.
As some unhappy wight at some new play,
At the pit door stands elbowing away,
While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug,
He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug;
His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes,
Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise;
He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace;
But not a soul will budge to give him place.
Since then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform
"To bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,"
Blame where you must, be candid where you can,
And be each critic the Good-natur'd Man.
EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF SHE
STOOPS TO CONQUER.'
WELL, having stoop'd to conquer with success,
And gain'd a husband without aid from dress,
Still, as a barmaid, I could wish it too,
As I have conquer'd him, to conquer you:
And let me say, for all your resolution,
That pretty barmaids have done execution.
Our life is all a play, compos'd to please;
'We have our exits and our entrances.'
The first act shows the simple country maid,
Harmless and young, of every thing afraid;
Blushes when hir'd, and, with unmeaning action,
'I hope as how to give you satisfaction.'
Her second act displays a livelier scene,
Th' unblushing barmaid of a country-inn,
Who whisks about the house, at market caters,
Talks loud, coquets the guests, and scolds the
waiters.
Next the scene shifts to town, and there she soars,
The chop-house toast of ogling connoisseurs.
On 'squires and cits she there displays her arts,
And on the gridiron broils her lovers' hearts ;
And as she smiles, her triumphs to complete,
Even common-councilmen forget to eat.
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