Sir WILLIAM.

No, Sir, you have been obliged to a kinder, fairer friend for that favour. To Mifs Richland. Would the complete our joy, and make the man she has honoured by her friendship happy in her love, I should then forget all, and be as bleft as the welfare of my dearest kinsman can make me.

Mifs RICHLAND.

After what is past, it would be but affectation to pretend to indifference. Yes, I will own an attachment, which, I find, was more than friendship. And, if my intreaties cannot alter his refolution to quit the country, I will even try if my hand has not power to detain him. [Giving ber hand.

Heavens

HONEYWOOD.

how can I have deferved all this? How exprefs my happiness, my gratitude! A moment, like this, overpays an age of apprehenfion.

CROAKER.

Well, now I fee content in every face; but Heaven fend we be all better this day three months!

Sir WILLIAM.

Henceforth, nephew, learn to respect yourself. He who feeks only for applaufe from without, has all his happiness in another's keeping.

Ho

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 firft taught me what it is to be happy.

EPILOGUE.

A s

SPOKEN BY

MR S. BULK LEY.

S puffing quacks fome caitiff wretch procure
To fwear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure;
Thus, on the stage, our play-wrights ftill depend
For Epilogues and Prologues on fome 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 rofes!

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

No,

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

While oft, with many a fmile, and many a fhrug,
He eyes the centre, where his friends fit snug;
His fimpering friends, with pleafure 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 badge 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