EPILOGUE.

BY D. GARRICK, ESQ.

WHATE'ER you think, good sirs, in this agree,
 That we, at least, have given — variety! 
That we have posted on, in prose and verse,
 Thro' Tragedy, — and Comedy, — and Farce. 
Have you not had in me a strange farrago,
 Of Rhadamistus, Sturgeon, and Iago? 
Nay, we have run from English to the French,
 And the great boy became a simple wench! 
Nature a simple wench much better teaches
 To act our characters, and wear the breeches. 

But, why this motley mixture? — 'Tis the fashion;
 The times are medley, — medley all the nation. 
One day reigns Tragedy, — all gloom and sorrow;
 Then, shift the scenes — and enter Farce to-morrow. 
Now rise six thousand discontented sailors! 
Then comes the Farce, — up get as many taylors! 
These kings of shreds and patches touch'd in brain,
 Strut for a day, and then — cross-legg'd again. 

Our Goddess, Liberty, from whom we own
 Each blessing springs — for GEORGE is on the throne,
 Now, Magna Charta and a William gives,
 Then scours the streets, and with the rabble lives;
 Will drink, huzza, and rouse you from your beds,
 Break all your windows, and perhaps your heads:
 Here taste, opinions, passions never fix,
 But rise and fall like stocks — and politicks. 

That we should ask you to our medley treat,
 And GET you too — was, saith! no boyish feat. 
Are we not hopeful youths? — Deal fair, and tell us —
 And likely to turn out good sprightly fellows? 
I mean to have that kind of useful spirit,
 Which modestly assures us we have merit. 
We little folks, like great ones, are but show,
 Bold face oft hides what the faint heart doth know. 
Think ye, we were not in a grievous fright,
 To have our noble Patron in our sight,
 Who knows — is known so well to speak and write! 
We pray'd, before our awful judge appearing,
 That our weak pipes were not within his hearing;
 One sense of his, less keen than all the rest,
 Somewhat becalm'd the flutter of my breast;
 It gave some courage to our troubled thoughts,
 That seeing only mark'd but half our faults. 

 "'Tis an ill wind, they say, that blows no good,"
 And well the proverb now is understood;
 For what has long been mourn'd by all the nation,
 Is at this time our only consolation.