Pity fhall draw a veil; nay, half abfolve them,”
When the beholds the virtues of his child!
Now let us thank th' eternal Pow'r convinc'd,
That Heav'n but tries our virtue by affliction:
That oft' the cloud which wraps the prefent hour,
Serves but to brighten all our future days!

END of the FIFTH ACT.

EPI.

EPILOGUE.

Written by Mr. GARRICK.

Spoken by Mr. WOODWARD in the Character of a fine Gentleman.

Enter---Speaking to the People without.
PSHAW!---damn your epilogue---and hold your tongue-..
Shall we of rank be told what's right and wrong?
Had you ten epilogues you shou'd not speak 'em,
Though he had writ 'em all in Linguum Græcum.
I'll do't by all the Gods !---(you must excufe me)
Though author, actors, audience, all abufe me!
To the Audience.

Behold a gentleman !---and that's enough !---
Laugh if you pleafe---I'll take a pinch of fnuff!
I come to tell you---(let it not surprise you)
That I'm a wit---and worthy to advise you.
How could you fuffer that fame country booby,
That prologue-speaking favage,---that great looby,
To talk his nonfenfe ?---give me leave to fay

'Twas low---damn'd low !---but fav'd the fellow's play---
Let the poor devil eat,---allow him that,
And give a meal to meafter, man, and cat.
But why attack the fashions?---Senfelefs rogue !---
We have no joys but what refult from vogue:
The mode bou'd all controll---nay, ev'ry paffion,
Senfe, appetite, and all, give way to fashion;
I hate as much as he, a turtle-feaft,
But'till the prefent turtle-rage bas ceas'd,
I'd ride a hundred miles to make myself a beaft.
I have no ears---yet op'ras I adore !---
Always prepar'd to die---to fleep---no mare?
The ladies too were carp'd at, and their dress,
He wants 'em all ruff'd up like good queen Beẞs!

}

They

They are, forfooth, too much expos'd, and free---
Were more expos'd, no ill effects I fee,
For more, or lefs, 'tis all the fame to me.
Poor gaming, too, was maul'd among the reft,
That precious cordial to a high-life breaft!
When thoughts arife I always game, or drink,
An English gentleman shou'd never think---
The reafon's plain, which ev'ry foul might hit on---
What trims a Frenchman, overfets a Briton;
In us reflection breeds a fober fadness,

Which always ends in politics or madness:
I therefore now propofe---by your command,
That tragedies no more fball cloud this land;
Send 'er your Shakespeares to the fons of France,
Let them grow grave---Let us begin to dance!
"Banish your gloomy fcenes to foreign climes,
Referve alone to bless thefe golden times,

A farce or two---and Woodward's pantomimes!