'Twas thus that Efop's ftag-a creature blameless, Yet fomething vain, like one that shall be nameless Once on the margin of a fountain stood, And cavil'd at his image in the flood: 'The deuce confound,' he cries, 'thefe drumstick shanks, They never have my gratitude nor thanks; 'They're perfectly difgraceful! ftrike me dead!'But, for a head—yes, yes, I have a head. 'How piercing is that eye! how fleek that brow! 'My horns! I'm told horns are the fashion now.' Whilft thus he spoke, aftonish'd! to his view, Near and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew; 'Hoicks! hark forward!' came thund'ring from behind, He bounds aloft, outftrips the fleeting wind: He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways; He ftarts, he pants, he takes the circling maze. At length his filly head, so priz'd before, Is taught his former folly to deplore; Whilft his ftrong limbs confpire to set him free, And at one bound he faves himself-like me. (Taking a jump through the stage-door.) EPILOGUE TO THE COMEDY OF THE SISTERS. WHAT! five long acts—and all to make us wifer! Our authorefs fure has wanted an adviser. Had the confulted me, she should have made Warm'd up each bustling scene, and in her rage Have emptied all the green-room 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 she thus has fhewn her want of skill, What if I give a masquerade?—I will. Buthow? ay, there's the rub! (pausing) I've got my cue. The world's a mafquerrde! the mafquers, you, you, you.. (To Boxes, Pit, and Gallery.) Lud! what a group the motley fcene difcloses! Mifs, not yet full fifteen, with fire uncommon, Strip but this vizor off, and fure I am Yon patriot, too, who presses on your fight, He bows, turns round, and whip-the man in black! If I proceed, our bard will be undone; THE CLOWN'S REPLY. JOHN TROTT was defir'd by two witty peers, • Howe'er from this time I shall ne'er fee your graces, • As I hope to be fav'd, without thinking on affes.' EPITAPH ON EDWARD PURDON.* HERE lies poor Ned Purdon, from mifery freed, Who long was a bookfeller's hack He led fuch a damnable life in this world, I don't think he'll wish to come back. * Who tranflated Voltaire's Henriade. FINIS. |