EPILOGUE
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SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER’ THERE is a place, so Ariosto sings,A treasury for lost and missing things;Lost human wits have places assign’d them,And they, who lose their senses, there may find them.But where’s this place, this storehouse of the age? 5The Moon, says he:—but _I_ affirm the Stage:At least in many things, I think, I seeHis lunar, and our mimic world agree.Both shine at night, for, but at Foote’s alone,We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down. 10Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,And sure the folks of both are lunatics.But in this parallel my best pretence is,That mortals visit both to find their senses.To this strange spot, Rakes, Macaronies, Cits 15Come thronging to collect their scatter’d wits.The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.Hither the affected city dame advancing,Who sighs for operas, and dotes on dancing, 20Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,Quits the _Ballet_, and calls for _Nancy Dawson._The Gamester too, whose wit’s all high or low,Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,Comes here to saunter, having made his bets, 25Finds his lost senses out, and pay his debts.The Mohawk too—with angry phrases stored,As ‘D— —, Sir,’ and ‘Sir, I wear a sword’;Here lesson’d for a while, and hence retreating,Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating. 30Here come the sons of scandal and of news,But find no sense—for they had none to lose.Of all the tribe here wanting an adviserOur Author’s the least likely to grow wiser;Has he not seen how you your favour place, 35On sentimental Queens and Lords in lace?Without a star, a coronet or garter,How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?No high-life scenes, no sentiment:—the creatureStill stoops among the low to copy nature. 40Yes, he’s far gone:—and yet some pity fix,The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.
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