Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring, We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?
And that our friendship may remain unbroken, What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken?
And now,
Unepilogued the poet waits his sentence.
with late repentance,
Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit
To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit.
EPILOGUE INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY.
THERE is a place so Ariosto sings
A treasury for lost and missing things;
Lost human wits have places there assign'd them, And they who lose their senses, there may find
But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?
The moon, says he; – but I affirm, the stage:
At least, in many things, I think I see
His lunar and our mimic world agree.
Both shine at night; for, but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down;
Both 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,
Come thronging to collect their scattered 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,
Taught 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,
Come here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk, too, with angry phrases stor'd,
As 'Dam'me, 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.
Here 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 adviser,
Our author's the least likely to grow wiser;
Has he not seen how you your favour place
On 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 creature
Still stoops among the low to copy nature.
Yes, he's far gone: and yet some pity fix,
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.1
1 This Epilogue was given in MS. by Dr. Goldsmith to Dr. Percy (now Bishop of Dromore); but for what comedy it was intended is not remembered.
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.
The fourth act shows her wedded to the 'squire,
And madam now begins to hold it higher;
Dotes upon dancing, and, in all her pride,
Swims round the room, the Heinel of Cheapside;
Ogles and leers with artificial skill,
Till, having lost in age the power to kill,
She sits all night at cards, and ogles at spadille.
Such, through our lives, the eventful history!
The fifth and last act still remains for me:
The barmaid now for your protection prays,
Turns female barrister, and pleads for bays,
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