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EPILOGUE

Spoken by Mrs CLIVE.
A POET soould, unless bis fate be gues,

Write for each play two Epilogues at least;
For how to empty benches can we say,
Wbat means this mighty crowding bere to-day?
Or foou'd the pit with flattery be cramm'd,
How can we

Speak it, when the play is damn'd?
Damn’d, did I say? -be surely need not fear it;
His play is fafe- when none will come to bear its
Englisb is now below this learned town;
None but Italian warblers will

go

down.
Tho' courts were more polite, the English ditty
Cou'd heretofore at least content the city:
That, for Italian now has let us drop;
And Dimi Cara rings thro' ev'ry flop.
Wbat glorious thoughts must all our neighbours nourish
Of us, where rival operas can flourish!
Lot France win all our towns: we need not fear
But Italy will send her fingers bere;
We cannot buy them at a price too dear.
Let us receive them to our peaceful sbore,
While in their own the angry cannons roar:
Here they may fing in safety, we reward’em;"
Here no Visconti threatens to bombard'em.

Orpheus drew fones with bis enchanting song:
These can do more, they draw our gold along.

-But tho' our angry poets rail in spite,
Ladies,.I own, I think your judgment right:
Satire, perhaps, may wound some pretty thing;
Tbofe Joft Italian warblers have no fling;
Tho' your poft hearts the tuneful charm may win,
You're still secure to find no harm witbin.
Wisely

from these rude places you abftain,
Where faiire gives the wounded bearer pain.
'Tis hard to pay them who our faults reveal,
As boys are fore’d to buy the rods tbey feel.
No, let 'em siarve, who dare to las the age,
And, as you've left the pulpit, leave the flage.

THE

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Spoken by Mr KING. HITHER, in days of yore, from Spain or France,

Came a dread sorceress; ber name Romance.
O'er Britain's ise her wayward

spells fbe cast,
And common sense in magic chain bound faft,
In mad sublime did each fond lover wo0,
And in beroics ran cach billet-doux:
High deeds of chivalry their fole delight,
Each fair a maid diftreft, each fwain a knight.
Then might Statira Oroondates fee,
At tilts and tournaments, arm'd cap-a-pee.
Sbe too, on milk-white palfrey, lance in hand,
A dwarf to guard ber, pranc'd about the land.

This fiend to quell, bis sword Cervantes drew,
A trusty Spanish blade, Toledo true:
Her talismans and magic wand be broke
Knights, genii, castles zvanisl'd into smoke.

the dear delight of later years, The younger fifter of Romance, appearsi

P

But now,

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Les folemn is ber vir, her drift the same,
And Novel ber enchanting, charming name.
Romance might frike our grave forefathers pomp,
But Novel for our buck and lively romp!
Cassandra's folios now no longet read;
See two neat pocket-volumes in their flead!
And then so sentimental is the style,
So chaste, yet so bewitching all the wbile!
Plot and elopement, paffion, rape, and rapture,
The total sum of ev'ry dear-dear-chapter.

'Tis not alone the small-talk and the smart, *Tis novel mofi beguiles the female heart. Miss readsm-fbe melts-foe

fighsm-love feals upon ber--And then-alas, poor girl!--good night, poor bonour !

« * Thus of our Polly having lightly Spoke, Now for our author! but without a joke, Though wits and journals, who ne'er fibb'd

before, Have laid this bantling at a certain door, Where, lying fore of faults, they'd

fain beap more; " I now declare it as a serious truth, 'Tis the first felly of a simple youth,

Caught and deluded by our barlot playamana 6. Then crush not in the foell this infant Bayes; Exert your favour to a young beginner, Nor use the ftripling like a batter'd

finner."

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Scene, An Apartment in Honeycombe's House.

POLLY, with a Book in her Hand.
ELL faid, Sir George!- the dear man!

But so “ With these words the enraptur'd " baronet (reading) concluded his declaration of love." -So! But what heart can imagine, (reading), “ what tongue describe, or what pen delineate, the "s amiable confusion of Emília ?"-Well, now for it.

.“ Reader, if thou art a courtly reader, thou haft “ feen, at polite tables, iced cream crimsoned with raf“ berries; or, if thou art an uncourtly reader, thou haft “ seen the rosy-finger'd morning dawning in the golden “ eaft."-Dawning in the golden eaft !_Very pretty.

46 Thou * These lines were added by Mr Garrick, on its being reported that he was author of this piece; and, however humorous and poetical, contain as itrict mattor of fact as the dullest profe.

- Thou haft feen perhaps (reading) the artificial ver" milion on the cheeks of Cleora, or the vermilion of “ nature on those of Sylvia; thou haft seen-in a word, " the lovely face of Emila was overfpread with blushes." -This is a moft beautiful paffage, I protest! Well, a novel føt my money!-Lord, Lord, my ftupid papa has no tafte. He has no notion of humour and character, and the fenfibility of delicate feeling, (affectedly.) And then mama

But where was I?-Oh, here “Overspread with blushes, (reading.)—Sir George, “ touched at her confufion, gently feized her hand, " and softly preffing it to his bofon, (atting it as the reads), where the pulses, of his heart beat quick, throb** bing with tumultuous paflion, in a plaintive tone of “ voice breathed out, Will you not anfwer me, Emi* lia?"Tender creature ! " She, half railing ** freading and acting) her downcaft eyes, and half* inclining ber averted head, faid in faultering accents * — Yes, Sár."-Well, now. Then gradually reco#vering, with ineffable fweetness the prepared to ado “ dress him, when Mrs Jenkins bounced into the rooms, " threw down a fet of china in her burry, and ftrewed " the floor with porcelain-fragments: then turning E** milia round and round, whirled her out of the apart* ment in an instant, and struck Sir George dumb with “ astonishment at her appearance. She raved; but the * baronet refuming his accustomed effrontery."

Enter Norfe. Oh, surse, I am glad to fee you!

Well, and how Nur. Well, chicken? Pol. Tell me, tell me all this inftant. Did you fee him? Did you give him my letter? Did he write? Will he come? Shall I see him? Have you got the anfwer in your pocket ? Have you Nur. Blessings on her, how her tongue runs!

Pol. Nay, but come, dear nursee, tell me, what did he say?

Nur. Say? why, he took the letter
Pol. Well!

Nur. And kifs'd it a thousand times, and read it a whousand times, and Pok Od charming!

Nur.

P2

Nur. And ran about the room, and blest himself, and, Hear'n preserve us, curst himself, and

Pol. Very fine, very fine!

Nur. And vowed he was the most miserable creature upon earth, and the happiest man in the world, and

Pol. Prodigiously fine! excellent! My dear, dear nursee! (Kiling her.) Come, give me the letter. -Nur. Letter, chicken! what letter?

Pol. The answer to mine. -Come then! (Impatiently.)

Nür. I have no letter. He had such a peramble to write, by my troth I could not stay for it.

Pol. Pha!

Nur. How soon you're affronted now! He faid he'd send it some time to-day.

Pol. Send it some time to-day! I wonder now (as if musing) how he will convey it. Will he squeeze it, as he did the laft, into the chicken-house in the garden? Or will he write it in lemon-juice, and send it in a book like blank paper? Or will he throw it into the house inclosed in an orange? Or will he

Nur. Heavens bless her, what a sharp wit she has ! Pol. I have not read so many books for nothing. Novels, nursee, novels! A novel is the only thing to teach a girl life, and the way of the world, and elegant fancies, and love to the end of the chapter.

Nur. Yes, yes; you are always reading your fimple ftory-books; the Ventures of Jack this, and the Hiftory of Betsy t'other, and Sir Humphrys, and women with hard Christian names. You had better read your prayer. book, chicken.

Pol. Why so I do; but I'm reading this now(Looking into the book.) “She raved; but the baronet”

I really think I love Mr Scribble as well as Emilia did Sir George.--Do you think, nursee, I should have had such a good notion of love so early if I had not read novels? Did not I make a conquest of Mr Scribble in a fingle night at a dancing? but my cross papa will hardly ever let me go out. And then, I know life as well as if I had been in the beau-monde all my days. I can tell the nature of a masquerade as well as if I had been at twenty, I long for a mobbing scheme with Mr

Scribble

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