Epilogue for Mr. Lee Lewes

HOLD! Prompter, hold! a word before your nonsense;I’d speak a word or two, to ease my conscience.My pride forbids it ever should be said,My heels eclips’d the honours of my head;That I found humour in a piebald vest,Or ever thought that jumping was a jest.(Takes off his mask.)Whence, and what art thou, visionary birth?Nature disowns, and reason scorns thy mirth,In thy black aspect every passion sleeps,The joy that dimples, and the woe that weeps.How has thou fill’d the scene with all thy brood,Of fools pursuing, and of fools pursu’d!Whose ins and outs no ray of sense discloses,Whose only plot it is to break our noses;Whilst from below the trap-door Demons rise,And from above the dangling deities;And shall I mix in this unhallow’d crew?May rosined lightning blast me, if I do!No—I will act, I’ll vindicate the stage:Shakespeare himself shall feel my tragic rage.Off! off! vile trappings! a new passion reigns!The madd’ning monarch revels in my veins.Oh! for a Richard’s voice to catch the theme:‘Give me another horse! bind up my wounds!—soft—’twas but a dream.’Aye, ’twas but a dream, for now there’s no retreating:If I cease Harlequin, I cease from eating.’Twas thus that Aesop’s stag, a creature blameless,Yet something vain, like one that shall be nameless,Once on the margin of a fountain stood,And cavill’d at his image in the flood.‘The deuce confound,’ he cries, ‘these drumstick shanks,They never have my gratitude nor thanks;They’re perfectly disgraceful! strike me dead!But for a head, yes, yes, I have a head.How piercing is that eye! how sleek that brow!My horns! I’m told horns are the fashion now.’Whilst thus he spoke, astonish’d, to his view,Near, and more near, the hounds and huntsmen drew.‘Hoicks! hark forward!’ came thund’ring from behind,He bounds aloft, outstrips the fleeting wind:He quits the woods, and tries the beaten ways;He starts, he pants, he takes the circling maze.At length his silly head, so priz’d before,Is taught his former folly to deplore;Whilst his strong limbs conspire to set him free,And at one bound he saves himself,—like me.(Taking a jump through the stage door.)

Why, sure the girl’s beside herself: an Epilogue of singing,A hopeful end indeed to such a blest beginning.Besides, a singer in a comic set!—Excuse me, Ma’am, I know the etiquette.

And she, whose party’s largest, shall proceed.And first I hope, you’ll readily agreeI’ve all the critics and the wits for me.They, I am sure, will answer my commands:Ye candid-judging few, hold up your hands.What! no return? I find too late, I fear,That modern judges seldom enter here.

Turn, my fairest, turn, if everStrephon caught thy ravish’d eye;Pity take on your swain so clever,Who without your aid must die.Yes, I shall die, hu, hu, hu, hu!Yes, I must die, ho, ho, ho, ho!(Da capo.)

Let all the old pay homage to your merit;Give me the young, the gay, the men of spirit.Ye travell’d tribe, ye macaroni train,Of French friseurs, and nosegays, justly vain,Who take a trip to Paris once a yearTo dress, and look like awkward Frenchmen here,Lend me your hands.—Oh! fatal news to tell:Their hands are only lent to the Heinel.

Ay, take your travellers, travellers indeed!Give me my bonny Scot, that travels from the Tweed.Where are the chiels? Ah! Ah, I well discernThe smiling looks of each bewitching bairn.

I’ll sing to amuse you by night and by day,And be unco merry when you are but gay;When you with your bagpipes are ready to play,My voice shall be ready to carol awayWith Sandy, and Sawney, and JockeyWith Sawney, and Jarvie, and Jockey.

Ye gamesters, who, so eager in pursuit,Make but of all your fortune one va toute;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,‘My Lord,—your Lordship misconceives the case;’Doctors, who cough and answer every misfortuner,‘I wish I’d been called in a little sooner:’Assist my cause with hands and voices hearty;Come, end the contest here, and aid my party.

Ye brave Irish lads, hark away to the crack,Assist me, I pray, in this woful attack;For sure I don’t wrong you, you seldom are slack,When the ladies are calling, to blush and hang 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.

And now with late repentance,Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence.Condemn the stubborn fool who can’t submitTo thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit.(Exeunt.)