A treasury for loft and miffing things:
Loft human wits have places there affign'd them,
And they, who lose their fenfes, there may find them.
But where's this place, this ftorehouse of the age?
The Moon, fays he :-but I affirm the Stage:
At least in many things, I think, I see
His lunar, and our mimic world agree.
Both fhine at night, for but at Foote's alone,
We scarce exhibit till the fun goes down.
Both prone to change, no fettled limits fix,
And fure the folks of both are lunatics.
But in this parallel my best pretence is;
That mortals vifit both to find their fenfes.
To this strange spot, Rakes, Macaronies, Cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.
The gay coquet, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who fighs for Operas, and doats on dancing,
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the Ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The Gamester too, whofe wits all high or low,
Oft rifques his fortune on one defperate throw,
Comes here to faunter, having made his bets,
Finds his loft fenfes out, and pays his debts.
The Mohawk too-with angry phrases ftor'd,
As "Dam'me, Sir," and "Sir, I wear a fword;"
Here leffon'd for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here come the fons of scandal and of news,
But find no fenfe-for they had none to lofe.
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser,
Our Author's the leaft likely to grow wifer;
Has he not feen how you your favour place,
On fentimental Queens and Lords in lace?
Without a ftar, a coronet or garter,
How can the piece expect or hope for quarter?
No high-life fcenes, no fentiment :-the creature
Still ftoops among the low to copy nature.
Yes, he's far gone :-and yet fome pity fix,
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics. *
*This Epilogue was given in M.S. by Dr. Goldsmith to Dr. Percy; (now Bishop of Dromore ;) but for what comedy it was intended is not remembered.
FIRST PRINTED IN M,DCC,LXV.
THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or
Never rang'd in a foreft, or fmoak'd in a platter;
The haunch was a picture for painters to ftudy,
The fat was fo white, and the lean was fo ruddy;
Though my ftomach was fharp, I could fcarce help
regretting,
To spoil fuch a delicate picture by eating;
I had thoughts, in my chambers, to place it in view,
To be shewn to my friends as a piece of virtu ;
As in fome Irish houses, where things are so so,
One gammon of bacon hangs up for a fhow:
But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in,
They'd as foon think of eating the pan it is fry'd in.
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