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.
Well, Madam, what if, after all this sparring,
We both agree, like friends, to end our jarring?
And that our friendship may remain unbroken,
What if we leave the Epilogue unspoken?
And now with late repentance,
Un-epilogued the Poet waits his sentence.
Condemn the stubborn fool who can't submit
To thrive by flattery, though he starves by wit.
INTENDED TO HAVE BEEN SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY FOR "SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER " 1
THERE is a place, so Ariosto sings,2
A treasury for lost and missing things;
Lost human wits have places there assign'd them,
And they, who lose their senses, there may find them.
But where's this place, this storehouse of the age?
The Moon, says he :- but I affirm the Stage:
[1 This Epilogue, also given to Bishop Percy by Goldsmith in MS., was first printed in the Miscellaneous Works of 1801, ii. 87. Colman, the Manager, thought it "too bad to be spoken," and the author accordingly wrote that printed with She Stoops to Conquer. (See Cradock's Memoirs, 1826, i. 225.)] [ Orlando Furioso, Canto xxxiv.]
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At least in many things, I think, I see
His lunar, and our mimic world agree.
Both shine at night, for, but at Foote's alone,1
We scarce exhibit till the sun goes down.
Both prone to change, no settled limits fix,
And sure the folks of both are lunatics.
But in this parallel my best pretence is,
That mortals visit both to find their senses.
To this strange spot, Rakes, Macaronies, Cits,
Come thronging to collect their scatter'd wits.
The gay coquette, who ogles all the day,
Comes here at night, and goes a prude away.
Hither the affected city dame advancing,
Who sighs for operas, and dotes on dancing,
Taught by our art her ridicule to pause on,
Quits the Ballet, and calls for Nancy Dawson.
The Gamester too, whose wit's all high or low,
Oft risks his fortune on one desperate throw,
Comes here to saunter, having made his bets,
Finds his lost senses out, and pay his debts.
The Mohawk too, with angry phrases stored,
As "Dam'me, Sir," and "Sir, I wear a sword;"
Here lesson'd for a while, and hence retreating,
Goes out, affronts his man, and takes a beating.
Here comes the son of scandal and of news,
But finds no sense-for they had none to lose.
Of all the tribe here wanting an adviser
Our Author's the least likely to grow wiser;
Has he not seen how you your favour place,
On sentimental Queens and Lords in lace ?
Without a star, a coronet or garter,
How can the piece expect or hope for quarter ?
No high-life scenes, no sentiment: -the creature
Still stoops among the low to copy nature.
Yes, he's far gone :-and yet some pity fix,
The English laws forbid to punish lunatics.
[ Foote gave matinées at the Haymarket.]
[2 A popular song bearing the name of a famous hornpipe dancer
and "toast" who died at Hampstead in 1767.]
[ An obvious reference to the title of the play.]
Chorus of Youths and Virgins.
SCENE-The banks of the River Euphrates, near Babylon.]
SCENE-Israelites sitting on the banks of the Euphrates
YE captive tribes, that hourly work and weep
Where flows Euphrates murmuring to the deep,
Suspend awhile the task, the tear suspend,
And turn to God, your Father and your Friend.
Insulted, chain'd, and all the world a foe,
Our God alone is all we boast below.
CHORUS OF ISRAELITES
Our God is all we boast below,
To Him we turn our eyes;
And every added weight of woe
Shall make our homage rise.
And though no temple richly drest,
Nor sacrifice is here;
We'll make His temple in our breast,
And offer up a tear.
[The Captivity was set to music, but never performed. It was first printed in the Miscellaneous Works (Trade edition), 1820. In 1837, Prior printed it again from another MS. (Miscellaneous Works, 1837). It is here given mainly as reproduced by Mr. Bolton Corney from the second version, Author's MS. Two of the songs, with variations, were published with The Haunch of Venison, 1776.]
That strain once more; it bids remembrance rise,
And calls my long-lost country to mine eyes.
Ye fields of Sharon, drest in flowery pride,
Ye plains where Jordan rolls its glassy tide,
Ye hills of Lebanon, with cedars crown'd,
Ye Gilead groves, that fling perfumes around,
These hills how sweet, those plains how wondrous fair,
But sweeter still when Heaven was with us there!
O Memory! thou fond deceiver,
Still, importunate and vain;
To former joys recurring ever,
And turning all the past to pain:
Hence, deceiver most distressing!
Seek the happy and the free:
The wretch who wants each other blessing,
Ever wants a friend in thee.
Yet why repine? What though by bonds confin'd,
Should bonds enslave the vigour of the mind ?
Have we not cause for triumph when we see
Ourselves alone from idol-worship free ?
Are not this very day those rites begun
Where prostrate folly hails the rising sun?
Do not our tyrant lords this day ordain
For superstitious rites and mirth profane?
And should we mourn? should coward virtue fly,
When impious folly rears her front on high ?
No; rather let us triumph still the more,
And as our fortune sinks, our wishes soar.
The triumphs that on vice attend
Shall ever in confusion end;
The good man suffers but to gain,
And every virtue springs from pain:
As aromatic plants bestow
No spicy fragrance while they grow;
But crush'd, or trodden to the ground,
Diffuse their balmy sweets around.
But hush, my sons, our tyrant lords are near,
The sound of barbarous mirth offends mine ear;
Triumphant music floats along the vale,
Near, nearer still, it gathers on the gale;
The growing note their near approach declares !
Desist, my sons, nor mix the strain with theirs.
Enter Chaldean Priests attended
Come on, my companions, the triumph display,
Let rapture the minutes employ;
The sun calls us out on this festival day,
And our monarch partakes of our joy.
Like the sun, our great monarch all pleasure supplies,
Both similar blessings bestow;
The sun with his splendour illumines the skies,
And our monarch enlivens below.
CHALDEAN WOMAN
Haste, ye sprightly sons of pleasure,
Love presents its brightest treasure,
Leave all other sports for me.
A CHALDEAN ATTENDANT
Or rather, love's delights despising,
Haste to raptures ever rising,
Wine shall bless the brave and free.
Wine and beauty thus inviting,
Each to different joys exciting,
Whither shall my choice incline ?
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