HONEYWOOD.

Yes, Sir, I now too plainly perceive my errors. My vanity in attempting to please all, by fearing to offend any. My meannefs in approving folly, left fools fhould difapprove. Henceforth, therefore, it fhall be my ftudy to referve my pity for real diftrefs; my friendship for true merit; and my love for her, who first taught me what it is to be happy.

EPI

EPILOGUE. *

SPOKEN OY

MRS.

BULKLEY.

S puffing quacks fome caitiff wretch procure To fwear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure; Thus, on the stage, our play-rights still depend For Epilogues and Prologues on some friend, Who knows each art of coaxing up the town, And make full many a bitter pill go down. Confcious of this, our bard has gone about, And teaz'd each rhyming friend to help him out. An epilogue, things can't go on without it; It could not fail, would you but set about it. Young man, cries one, (a bard laid up in clover) Alas, young man, my writing days are over; Let boys play tricks, and kick the ftraw, not I; Your brother doctor there, perhaps, may try. What I dear Sir, the doctor interpofes; What, plant my thistle, Sir, among his roses!

*The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at Oxford, deferred writing one himself till the very laft hour. What is here offered, owes all it's fuccefs to the graceful manner of the actress who spoke it.

No,

No, no, I've other contests to maintain;
To-night I head our troops at Warwick-lane.
Go, ak your manager-Who, me! Your pardon;
Those things are not our forte at Covent-garden.
Our author's friends, thus plac'd at happy diftance,
Give him good words indeed, but no affistance.
As fome unhappy wight, at fome new play,
At the pit door ftands elbowing away,

While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug,
He eyes the center, where his friends fit fnug;
His fimpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes,'
Sinks as he finks, and as he rifes rife:

He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace;
But not a foul will budge to give him place.
Since then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform
"To 'bide the pelting of this pitt'lefs ftorm,"
Blame where you muft, be candid where you can,
And be each critic the Good-natur'd Man.

SHE