Bear off my wretched friend-woes great as these
Press heavy on his years-Submit we to our fate:
Submit we to the stern award of awful heaven;
My son, my country, and the Gods appeas'd,
Mercy usurps the rigid seat of justice,
And weeps in mournful tribute o'er their
WELL fare the man, peace to his gentle shade,
The Bard who first made Epilogues a trade;
Else what a life an Actress must pursue?
To weep and rave is all she'd have to do;
Upon the Stage, with warring passions sore,
"To fret her hour, and then be heard no more."
Now, after poison, daggers, rage, and death,
We come again to take a little breath;
Rally the Pit; set Belles and Beaux at odds,
And be a mere free-thinker to the Gods;
[To the Upper Gallery.]
Chat in familiar strain; the Boxes maul;
-An Epilogue, like gaming-levels all.
Not e'en poor Bayes within must hope to be
Free from the lash:-His Play he writ for me
'Tis true-and now my gratitude you'll see.
Why ramble with Voltaire to Eastern climes,
To Scythian laws, and antiquated times?
Change but the names, his Tragedy, at best,
Slides into Comedy, and turns to jest.
As thus-A Statesman, old, and out of place,
Sour, discontented, malice in his face,
(In these blest days, we but suppose the case)
Flies from St. James's to his own estate,
To chew the wisdom of each past debate;
How in the House he made a glorious stir,
With, "Sir, I move"-and, "Mr. Speaker, Sir!"
Zobeide's his daughter Sophy :-Oh! farewell,
For her each haunt that charms a modern Belle!
Adieu Almack's! Cornelly's Masquerade!
Sweet Ranelagh! Vauxhall's enchanting shade!
Squire Groom makes love; Rich? yes; a vast
domain;
Well bred?-The savage Scythian of the plain!
The match is fix'd; deeds sign'd; the knot is ty'd;
Down comes my Lord in all his glitt'ring pride.
And will my angel choose this rustic plan?
"Oh! cuckold him by all means; I'm your
Now mark our Author's ignorance of life?
What, not elope? Is that a modish wife?
Poor fool! she doubts; says No: the Husband dies:
Now stab yourself, says Bayes; but Nature cries,
How! sacrifice myself for vain Renown!
John, put the horses to, and drive to town.
That would be life; the manners; painted high!
But our Bard makes,-to moisten ev'ry eye,
A Widow with a Prince refuse to fly.
Yet, after all, excuse him, Ladies, pray ; For sure there is some Nature in his Play. A first attempt let no keen censure blight, Hereafter he may soar a nobler flight;
Drop one kind tear; give him that slender token; And hither come, till the Pantheon open.
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