EPILOGUE.* SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY. As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure Go, ask your manager.'- Who, me? Your pardon; *The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at Oxford, deferred writing one himself till the very last hour. What is here offered, owes all its success to the graceful manner of the actress who spoke it. Our author's friends, thus placed at happy distance While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug, He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace; SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER; OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. A COMEDY. She Stoops to Conquer was represented for the first time, March 15, 1773. It was very successful, and became a stock play. Goldsmith originally entitled it, The Old House a New Inn. DEDICATION. TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL. D. DEAR SIR-By inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean so much to compliment you as myself. It may do me some honor to inform the public, that I have lived many years in intimacy with you. It may serve the interests of mankind also to inform them that the greatest wit may be found in a character, without impairing the most unaffected piety. I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality to this performance. The undertaking a comedy, not merely sentimental, was very dangerous; and Mr. Colman, who saw this piece in its various stages, always thought it so. However, I ventured to trust it to the public; and, though it was necessarily delayed till late in the season, I have every reason to be grateful. I am, dear Sir, Your most sincere friend and admirer, OLIVER GOLDSMITH. DRAMATIS PERSONÆ. MEN, Sir Charles Marlow. Young Marlow (his son.) Hardcastle. Hastings. Tony Lumpkin. Diggory. WOMEN. Mrs. Hardcastle. Miss Hardcastle Miss Neville. Maid. Landlord, Servants, etc. SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER ; OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT. PROLOGUE. BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ. Enter Mr. Woodward, dressed in black, and holding a hundkerchief to his eyes. Excuse me, sirs, I pray — I can't yet speak - And if she goes, my tears will never stop; I'd rather - shall lose my bread but that's nothing — lose - lose my head. When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier, Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here. To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed, Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed. Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents; We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments: Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up, |