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THERE is a place, so Ariosto fings,
A treasury for lost and missing things :
Loft human wits have places there assign'd them,
And they, who lose their senses, there may

find them.
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 fenses.
To this strange spot, Rakes, Macaronies, Cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.

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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, whose wits all high or low,
Oft risques his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to faunter, having made his bets,
Finds his loft fenfes 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 fons 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. *

* 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.

THE

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THANKS, my lord, for your venison, for finer or

fatter Never rang'd in a forest, or sinoak’d in a platter ; The haunch was a picture for painters to study, The fat was so white, and the lean was so ruddy ; Though my stomach was sharp, I could scarce help

regretting, To spoil such 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 some Irish houses, where things are so so, One gammon of bacon hangs up for a show : But, for eating a rasher of what they take pride in, They'd as soon think of eating the pan it is fry'd in.

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