THE FOLLOWING EPILOGUE WAS DELIVERED ON THE 5TH OF MAY 1786, AT COVENT GARDEN THEATRE, AFTER THE
ZE OBIA, FOR THE BENEFIT OF MR. POPE, WITH SO MUCH SUCC SS, THAT THE CRY OF PREVALANT
ENCORE WAS VERY FORCIBLY
AMIDST THE LOUD AND REPEATED ACCLAMA
SPOKEN BY MRS. POPE, (LATE MISS YOUNGE)
BLEST be the glorious bard of ancient days!
I mean old Thefpis, who invented plays;
Who drove through Greece, exhibiting his art,
As higglers cry their turnips-from a cart.
The drama's genius, all my foul reveres,
I love the queen of fmiles and queen of tears:
And if my little merits, meet your praife,
Join'd are those moments, to my happiest days—
Yes, when on me, weak plant, your plaudits pour,
My foliage triumphs in the foft'ring hour.
From Pity's foul to force the melting figh,
To wake the beam in Laughter's glad'ning eye,
(Whilst Virtue weeps o'er Merit's fuff'ring caufe,
Whilft Virtue fmiles on Laughter's fcenes applause)
Hath given delight to many a moment paft,
And if your voice approve, fhall chear my laft.
Tho' to these walls, I've late a stranger been,
Remembrance, loth to quit the long lov'd fcene,
The fav'rite fpot, with doating fondnefs ey'd,
Like ghosts that haunt the places where they dy'J.
"What brought you here to night?" the ladies
To please a husband, I came here to die.
"Die to please husbands," fays each modifh dame; "Heav'ns!-what a Gothic thought, what fin, what fhame!"
So then, this Gothic thought no plaudit draws,
You deem it e'en a fin to yield applaufe:
Admit a fin, fuch gen'rous contribution,
I'm POPE, and promife you an abfolution.
TO THE AUTHOR OF THE LYRIC ODES.
HAIL, mighty PETER PINDAR of our days,
O! cou'd my mufe and I but pen thy praise!
Mufe did I fay!-I ne'er by one was heard,
Tho' oft to all, have many a prayer preferr'd:
I know thy tafte is good, thy judgment found ;
But don't let rancour my whole piece confound;
My last year's picture (truth confess, I must)
Was rather SLATY; what you said was juft;
But can't ye, rot ye, come a little near,
And whisper out the errors in my ear?
Say that's a poorifh horfe, a bad drawn maid,
Here wretched keeping, there bad light and fade;
Why, I fhou'd thank thee-for I truly own
That thy reproofs have ferv'd to help me on.
Don't fend th' opinion printed up and down;
Why thou'lt make connoiffeurs of half the town!
My little piece this feafon plac'd for view,
Be cautious of-be gentle, PETER, do.
I've seen thy paintings, read thy annual odes,
Have fung thy fongs, perufed thy epifodes;
If HFAVN to thee hath mighty talents giv'n,
Write on my friend, but keep an eye to HAV'N;
If you'll comply with my request above,
I'll give thee thanks-by thee I shall improve;
Do but permit, I'll vifit twice a week,
I'll fry thy fprats, will help thee broil thy steak;
And if I ever get upon that rock,
To whofe fteep fides many thousands flock;
Thou fha't have myrtle, laurel, bays or grafs,
Pluckt from the craggy fides of mount Parnafs;
If I can't steal a branch, I'll get a sprig,
And (as thou wifheft) decorate thy wig;
Then I perhaps, one day, may call thee coufin,
And once a week we'll sport a rump and dozen.
ON A LEARNED GENTLEMAN, WHO WAS, NOT LONG
SINCE, VERY FORWARD IN CENSURING INDIAN
DELINQUENTS, AND THREATENING THEM WITH
EXEMPLARY PUNISHMENT, BUT OF LATE IS SO
GREATLY CHANGED, AS IN ONE INSTANCE TO
BECOME PERFECTLY SILENT, AND IN ANOTHER
THE AVOWED
THE MAN WHOM HE REPROBATED AND CON-
DEMNED IN THE STRONGEST TERMS.
DEFENDER AND PROTECTOR OF
MIDAS, they fay, poffefs'd the art of old,
Of turning whatsoe'er he touched, to gold;
This, modern statefmen can reverfe with ease,
Touch them with gold, they'll turn to what you please.
THINKING no doubt, to rival Bozzy,
From Naples came Signora Piozzi,
Bringing (like former wits to Tonson) ́
Her curious fcraps of SAMUEL JOHNSON;
Old tales and private anecdotes,
Growling replies, uncouth bon-mots ;
Latin and alfo English verfes,
And council fage for babes and nurfes,
Dreft with Italian got so nice,
With fugar now, and now with fpice;
And that her bantling might not fail
To please Monboddo with a tail,
Behold a poftfcript ;-Mark the cue,
To flatter Mrs. Montagu.
How strange feems this to me, who knew her
The wife of honeft Thrale the brewer,
Whofe kind indulgence gave her leave
The Literati to receive,
Who at his hearty plenteous table
Might eat and drink while they were able;
While fhe, elated, took great pride
O'er feafting genius to prefide;
But feemed moft willing to ftoop low,
On JOHNSON honors to bestow.
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