Ye jockey tribe, whose stock of words are few, "I hold the odds-Done, done, with you, with you:" Ye barristers, so fluent with grimace, 66 My lord-your lordship misconceives the case :" Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner, "I wish I'd been call'd in a little sooner:" Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty, AIR-BALEINAMONY. MISS CATLEY. Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack, For sure I don't wrong you, you seldom are slack, back: For you're always polite and attentive, Still to amuse us inventive, And death is your only preventive: Your hands and your voices for me. MRS. BULKLEY. Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring, We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring? L MISS CATLEY. And that our friendship may remain unbroken, What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken ? MRS. BULKLEY. Agreed. MISS CATLEY. Agreed. MRS. BULKLEY. And now, with late repentance, Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence: Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit To thrive by flatt'ry, though he starves by wit. [Exeunt. EPILOGUE, INTENDED FOR MRS. BULKLEY. THERE is a place, so Ariosto sings, Lost human wits have places there assign'd them, them. But where's this place, this storehouse of the age? At least in many things, I think, I see Both shine at night, for but at Foote's alone, The Mohawk too-with angry phrases stor❜d, How can the piece expect or hope for quarter? *This epilogue was given in MS. by Dr. Goldsmith to Dr. Percy (now Bishop of Dromore); but for what comedy it was intended is not remembered. FINIS. C. WHITTINGHAM, Printer, Dean Street. |