The ancient Epilogue, as criticks write,
Was, Clap your hands, excuse us, and good-night.
The modern always was a kind essay
To reconcile the audience to the play:
More polish'd, we of late have learn'd to fly
At parties, treaties, nations, ministry.
Our author more genteelly leaves these brawls
To coffee-houses, and to coblers stalls.
His very monsters are of sweet condition,
None but the Crocodile's a politician;
He reaps the blessings of his double nature,
And, Trimmer like, can live on land or water:
Yet this same monster should be kindly treated,
He lik'd a lady's flesh——but not to eat it.

As for my other spark, my favourite Mummy,
His feats were such, smart youths! as might become ye;
Dead as he seem'd, he had sure signs of life;
His hieroglyphicks pleas'd the doctor's wife.

Whom can our well-bred poetess displease?
She writ like quality——with wond'rous ease:
All her offence was harmless want of wit;
Is that a crime?——ye powers, preserve the pit.

My doctor too, to give the devil his due,
When every creature did his spouse pursue,
(Men sound in living, bury'd flesh, dry'd fish,)
Was e'en as civil as a wife could wish.
Yet he was somewhat saucy with his viol;
What! put young maids to that unnat'ral trial!
So hard a test! why, if you needs will make it,
Faith, let us marry first,——and then we'll take it.

Who could be angry, though like Fossile teaz'd?
Consider, in three hours, the man was eas'd.
How many of you are for life beguil'd,
And keep as well the mother, as the child!
None but a Tar could be so tender-hearted,
To claim a wife that had been three years parted;
Would you do this, my friends?—believe me, never!
When modishly you part——you part for ever.

Join then your voices, be the play excus'd
For once, though no one living is abus'd;
To that bright circle that commands our duties,
To you superior eighteen-penny beauties,
To the lac'd hat and cockard of the pit, }
To all, in one word, we our cause submit,
Who think good breeding is a-kin to wit.