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HEN lovely woman stoops to folly,And finds too late that men betray,What charm can soothe her melancholy,What art can wash her guilt away? The only art her guilt to cover, 5To hide her shame from every eye,To give repentance to her lover,And wring his bosom, is—to die. EPILOGUE TO ‘THE GOOD NATUR’D MAN’ As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procureTo swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure;Thus on the stage, our play-wrights still dependFor Epilogues and Prologues on some friend,Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, 5And make 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.’ 10‘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 15‘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:Go, ask your manager.’ ‘Who, me? Your pardon;Those things are not our forte at Covent Garden.’ 20Our 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 a way,While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, 25He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug;His simp’ring 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. 30Since 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 SISTER’ WHAT! five long acts—and all to make us wiser!Our authoress sure has wanted an adviser.Had she consulted _me_, she should have madeHer moral play a speaking masquerade;Warm’d up each bustling scene, and in her rage 5Have 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. 10But how? ay, there’s the rub! (_pausing_)—I’ve got my cue:The world’s a masquerade! the maskers, you, you, you.(_To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery._)——, what a group the motley scene discloses!False wits, false wives, false virgins, and false spouses!Statesmen with bridles on; and, close beside ’em, 15Patriots, in party-coloured suits, that ride ’em.There Hebes, turn’d of fifty, try once moreTo raise a flame in Cupids of threescore.These in their turn, with appetites as keen,Deserting fifty, fasten on fifteen, 20Miss, 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 25Is to seem everything 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 parade,Looking as who should say, D——! who’s afraid? 30(_Mimicking_) Strip but his vizor off, and sure I amYou’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, 35He 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 a black! 40Yon 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. PROLOGUE TO ‘ZOBEIDE’ IN these bold times, when Learning’s sons exploreThe distant climate and the savage shore;When wise Astronomers to India steer,And quit for Venus, many a brighter here;While Botanists, all cold to smiles and dimpling, 5Forsake the fair, and patiently—go simpling;When every bosom swells with wond’rous scenes,Priests, cannibals, and hoity-toity queens:Our bard into the general spirit enters,And fits his little frigate for adventures: 10With Scythian stores, and trinkets deeply laden,He this way steers his course, in hopes of trading—Yet ere he lands he ’as ordered me before,To make an observation on the shore.Where are we driven? our reck’ning sure is lost! 15This seems a barren and a dangerous coast.—— what a sultry climate am I under!Yon ill foreboding cloud seems big with thunder.(_Upper Gallery._)There Mangroves spread, and larger than I’ve seen ’em—(_Pit._)Here trees of stately size—and turtles in ’em— 20(_Balconies._)Here ill-condition’d oranges abound—(_Stage._)And apples (_takes up one and tastes it_), bitter applesstrew the ground.The place is uninhabited, I fear!I heard a hissing—there are serpents here!O there the natives are—a dreadful race! 25The men have tails, the women paint the face!No doubt they’re all barbarians.—Yes, ’tis so,I’ll try to make palaver with them though;(_Making signs._)’Tis best, however, keeping at a distance.Good Savages, our Captain craves assistance; 30Our ship’s well stor’d;—in yonder creek we’ve laid her;His honour is no mercenary trader;This is his first adventure; lend him aid,Or you may chance to spoil a thriving trade.His goods, he hopes are prime, and brought from far, 35Equally fit for gallantry and war.What! no reply to promises so ample?I’d best step back—and order up a sample. THRENODIA AUGUSTALIS:
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