Go to him, give my compliments,

Affure him why thou com'ft, and whence;
Tell all thy tale, nay, do not linger,

And beg he'll wear thee on his finger.

EPILOGUE to the SISTER.

Written by Dr. GOLDSMITH.

Spoken by Mrs. BULKLEY.

WHAT five long acts and all to make us wifer!

Our authorefs fure has wanted an adviser.

Ilad the confulted me, the should have made
Her moral play a speaking masquerade;

Warm'd up each burtling fcene, and, in her rage,
Have emptied all the green-100m on the stage.

My life on't, this had kept her play from finking ;
Have pleas'd our eyes, and fav'd the pain of thinking.
Well, fince the thus has fhewn her want of skill,
What if I give a mafqerade? I will.

But how! Ay, there's the rub! [pausing] I've got my cue;
The world's a mafquerade! the mafquers you, you, you..
[To boxes, pit, and galleries.
Lud! what a groupe the motley fcene discloses!

Falle wits, falfe wives, falfe virgins, and falfe fpoufes;
Stateîmen with bridles on; and, close befide 'em,
Patriots in party-colour'd fuits, that ride 'em.

There's Hebes, turn'd of fifty, try once more
To raife a flame in Cupids of threefcore.
Thefe in their turn, with appetites as keen,
Deferting fifty, faften on fifteen.

Mifs, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon,
Flings down her fampler, and takes up the woman:
The little urchin fmiles, and fpreads her lure,
And tries to kill ere fhe's got pow'r to cure.
Thus 'tis with all their chief and conftant care
Is to feem ev'ry thing-but what they are.
Yon broad, bold, angry fpark, I fix my eye on,
Who feems t' have robb'd his vizor from the lion;
Who frowns, and talks, and swears, with round parade,
Looking, as who should fay, Damme! who's afraid?

Strip but this vizor off, and fure I am
You'll find his lionship a very lamb.
Yon politician, famous in debate,
Perhaps to vulgar eyes beftrides the state;
Yet, when he deigns his real fhape t'affume,
He turns old woman, and bestrides a broom.

Entimicking

Yon patriot, too, who preffes on your fight,
And feems to ev'ry gazer, all in white;
If with a bribe his candour you attack,

He bows, turns round, and whip-the man is black!
Yon critick, too--but whither do I run?
If I proceed, our bard will be undone!
Well then, a truce, fince the requests it too;
Do you fpare her, and I'll for once fpare you.

EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mr. HAVARD, on his leaving the Stage.

BATTER'D with war in many an hard campaign,

Though the maim'd foldier quits the martial plain,

Fancy restores him to the battle's rage
And temporary youth inflames his age;
Again he fights the foe, counts o'er his fears!
-Tho' Chelfea's now the feat of all his wars-
And, fondly hanging on the lengthen'd tale,
Re-flays his thousands-o'er a pot of ale.
So I-(long fince accuftom'd to engage
In all the noify buftle of the ftage)
Have been employ'd in ev'ry poft of state,
And feen the revolutions of the great;

Seen patriot Quin with falling Rome expire-
And Alexander-fet the world on fire!

Heard plaintive Cibber dignify distress,

And well-earn'd plaudits Pritchard's pow'rs confefs:
Have heard the theatre's inceffant roar,

When comic Clive Thalia's ftandard bore:
Myfelf, unworthy, made a little ftand

Where gen'ral Garrick holds the first command;
My humble merits did his choice approve-
I was his friend in war-his friend in love ;
And now-as in the various fcenes we've past-
He proves his friendship to me to the laft:
For now, alas! infirmity denies

A longer ftay-and fage difcretion cries,
،، Retire, retire-unable now to pleafe,
"Enjoy your Chelfea pittance, and your eafe."
But oh! my heart! how warmly doft thou beat
To thofe who give that pittance-that retreat!
No tudied phrafe of gratitude can pay-.
"Tis extafy of thanks!-'tis-more than I can fay!

The want of words the full fraught mind reveals,
And the tongue faulters when the heart most feels!

To a YOUNG LADY.

WHEN firft, in Fate's malignant hour,

I view'd thy form, and felt its pow'r,

Hopeless in fighs I spent the day,
And groan'd the fleepless night away.
From awful love's acuter fmart
Thy lively converfe eas'd my heart;
Chain'd with lefs rigour than before,
I fear'd thee lefs, but lov'd thee more.
When with licentious boldness fir'd,
I dar'd to clafp what I admir'd;
Dar'd round thy neck my arms to twine,
And prefs thy balmy lips to mine;
Then through my foul fharp poifon ran,
"Twas then my keeneft pangs began;
Since by the dang'rous blifs half flain,
I drag a life of ceafelefs pain.
Ah! fly not, cruel as thou art,
Ah! leave not thus my mangled heart;
Grant, to the forrows I endure,

By speedy death, a speedy cure;
Repeat the fatal, dear delight,
Give one
kifs more-and kill

me quite,

EPILOGUE. Spoken by Mrs. CLIVE, on her quitting the Stags,

Written by Mr. WALPOLE.

W Still in

ITH glory fatiate, from the buftling stage,
Still in his prime-and much about my age-

Imperial Charles (if Robertfon fays true)
Retiring, bade the jarring world adieu!

Thus I, long hononr'd with your partial praise,
A debt my fwelling heart with tears repays,
-Scarce can I fpeak-forgive the grateful paufe
Refign the nobleft triumph, your applause.

Content with humble means, yet proud to own
I owe my pittance to your fmiles alone;
To private fhades I bear the glorious prize,
The meed of favour in a nation's eyes;
A nation, brave, and fenfible, and free-
Poor Charles! how little, when compar'd to me
His mad ambition had difturb'd the globe,
And fanguine, which he quitted, was the robe.

Too bleft, cou'd he have dar'd to tell mankind,
When pow'r's full goblet he forbore to quaff,
That confcious of benevolence of mind,
For thirty years he had but made them laugh?

Ill was that mind with fweet retirement pleas'd:
The very cloyfter that he fought, he teaz'd;
And fick at once both of himfelf and peace,
He dy'd a martyr to unwelcome ease.

Here ends the parallel-My generous friends,
My exit no fuch tragic fate attends;

I will not die-let no vain panic feize

you

If I repent-I'll come again, and please you.

ODE for his MAJESTY'S BIRTH-DAY, June 4, 1759.

ATRON of arts, at length by thee

PA

Their home is fix'd: thy kind decree
Has plac'd their empire here.

No more unheeded shall they wafte
Their treasures on the fickle tafte
Of each fantastic year.

Judgment fhall frame each chafte defign,
Nor e'er from Truth's unerring line
The sportive artist roam :

Whether the breathing buft he forms,
With nature's tints the canvas warms,

Or fwells, like heav'n's high arch, th' Imperial dome,
Fancy, the wanderer, fhall be taught

To own feverer laws :

Spite of her wily wanton play,

Spite of thofe lovely errors, which betray
Th' enchanted foul to fond applause,
Ev'n fhe, the wanderer, fhall be taught
That nothing truly great was ever wrought
Where Judgment was away.

Through offer twigs th' Acanthus rofe:
Th' idea charms! th' artift glows!
But 'twas his kill to pleafe
Which bade the graceful foliage spread
To crown the ftately column's head
With dignity and ease.

When great Apelles, pride of Greece,

Frown'd on the almoft-finish'd piece,

Defpairing to fucceed,

What through the mifile vengeance pass'd

From his rafh hand, the random caft

Might dash the foam, but skill had form'd the fteed.

Nor

1

Nor lefs the Phidian arts approve
Labour and patient Care,
Whate'er the fkilful artifts trace,
Laocoon's pangs, or foft Antinous' face.
By fkill, with that diviner air,
The Delian god does all but move;
'Twas kill gave terrors to the front of Jove,
To Venus er'ty grace.

-And shall each facred feat,

The vales of Arno, and the Tuscan stream,
No more be vifited with pilgrim feet?
No more on fweet Hymettus' fummits dream
The fons of Albion? or below,
Where Ilyffus' waters flow,

Trace with awe the dear remains
Of mould'ring urns, and mutilated fanes?
-Far be the thought. Each facred feat,
Each monument of ancient fame,
Shall ftill be vifited with pilgrim feet,

And Albion gladly own from whence the caught the flame.
Still fhall her ftudious youth repair,

Beneath their king's protecting care,
To ev'ry clime which art has known;
And rich with fpoils from every coaft
Return, 'till Albion learns to boast
An Athens of her own.

To a YOUNG GENTLEMAN, in Imitation of the 22d Ode of the 34
Book of CASIMIR'S LYRICS.

E not, my friend, by youth deceiv'd,
Not let the fyren be believ'd,

Though fmooth and foft her ftrain;
Away on whirling wheels fhe flies,
Swift as the guft that rides the skies,
Without or yoke or rein.

Youth must refign its blooming charms
To age, whofe cold and fhiv'ring arms
Will wither ev'ry joy;

'Tis brittle glafs, 'tis rapid ftream,
'Tis melting wax, 'tis air-drefs'd dream,
That time will foon destroy.

So finiles at morn the dewy rofe,
And to the genial breezes blows,
Evolving odours round;

But crush'd by ev'ning's rufhing rains,
It droops, it finks upon the plains,
Down trodden with the ground.

Hours