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EPILOGUE 1

SPOKEN BY MRS. BULKLEY

As puffing quacks some caitiff wretch procure
To swear the pill, or drop, has wrought a cure:
Thus, on the stage, our playwrights still depend
For Epilogues and Prologues on some friend,
Who knows each art of coaxing up the town,
And make full many a bitter pill go down.
Conscious of this, our bard has gone about,
And teas'd each rhyming friend to help him out.
An Epilogue, things can't go on without it;
It could not fail, would you but set about it.
Young man, cries one (a bard laid up in clover),
Alas! young man, my writing days are over;
Let boys play tricks, and kick the straw, not I;
Your brother doctor there, perhaps may try.
What, I? dear sir, the doctor interposes,
What, plant my thistle, sir, among his roses?
No, no, I've other contests to maintain.
To-night I head our troops at Warwick-lane.
Go, ask your manager Who, me? Your pardon;
Those things are not our forte at Covent-garden.
Our author's friends, thus plac'd at happy distance,
Give him good words indeed, but no assistance.
As some unhappy wight at some new play,
At the pit door stands elbowing away;

While oft, with many a smile, and many a shrug,
He eyes the centre, where his friends sit snug;
His simpering friends, with pleasure in their eyes,
Sink as he sinks, and as he rises rise:
He nods, they nod; he cringes, they grimace;
But not a soul will budge to give him place.
Since then, unhelp'd, our bard must now conform
"To 'bide the pelting of this pitiless storm,'
Blame where you must, be candid where you can,
And be each critic the Good-natur'd Man.

ΙΟ

20

30

1 The author, in expectation of an Epilogue from a friend at Oxford, deferred writing one himself till the very last hour. What is here offered, owes all its success to the graceful manner of the actress who spoke it.

SHE STOOPS TO CONQUER

OR, THE MISTAKES OF A NIGHT

A COMEDY

AS IT IS ACTED AT THE THEATRE-ROYAL, COVENT GARDEN

TO SAMUEL JOHNSON, LL.D

DEAR SIR,-By inscribing this slight performance to you, I do not mean so much to compliment you as myself. It may do me some honour to inform the public, that I have lived many years in intimacy with you. It may serve the interests of mankind also to inform them, that the greatest wit may be found in a character, without impairing the most unaffected piety.

I have, particularly, reason to thank you for your partiality to this performance. The undertaking a comedy, not merely sentimental, was very dangerous; and Mr. Colman, who saw this piece in its various stages, always thought it so. However, I ventured to trust it to the public; and, though it was necessarily delayed till late in the season, I have every reason to be grateful. I am, dear Sir, your most sincere friend and admirer, OLIVER GOLDSMITH.

PROLOGUE

BY DAVID GARRICK, ESQ.

Enter MR. WOODWARD, dressed in black, and holding a
handkerchief to his eyes

Excuse me, sirs, I pray-I can't yet speak—
I'm crying now-and have been all the week.
"'Tis not alone this mourning suit,' good masters;
'I've that within'-for which there are no plasters!
Pray would you know the reason why I'm crying?
The Comic Muse, long sick, is now a-dying!

And if she goes, my tears will never stop;
For as a player, I can't squeeze out one drop:
I am undone, that's all-shall lose my bread-
I'd rather, but that's nothing-lose my head.
When the sweet maid is laid upon the bier,
Shuter and I shall be chief mourners here.
To her a mawkish drab of spurious breed,
Who deals in sentimentals, will succeed!

110

ΤΟ

Poor Ned and I are dead to all intents,
We can as soon speak Greek as sentiments!
Both nervous grown, to keep our spirits up,
We now and then take down a hearty cup.
What shall we do? If Comedy forsake us,
They'll turn us out, and no one else will take us.
But why can't I be moral?-Let me try—
My heart thus pressing-fix'd my face and eye—
With a sententious look, that nothing means
(Faces are blocks, in sentimental scenes),
Thus I begin-All is not gold that glitters,
Pleasure seems sweet, but proves a glass of bitters.
When Ignorance enters, Folly is at hand;
Learning is better far than house and land.
Let not your virtue trip, who trips may stumble,
And virtue is not virtue, if she tumble.

I give it up-morals won't do for me;
To make you laugh, I must play tragedy.
One hope remains-hearing the maid was ill,
A Doctor comes this night to show his skill.

To cheer her heart, and give your muscles motion,
He, in Five Draughts prepar'd, presents a potion:
A kind of magic charm-for be assur'd,

If

you will swallow it, the maid is cur'd.
But desperate the Doctor, and her case is,
If you reject the dose, and make wry faces!
This truth he boasts, will boast it while he lives,
No poisonous drugs are mix'd in what he gives;
Should he succeed, you'll give him his degree;
If not, within he will receive no fee!
The College you, must his pretensions back,
Pronounce him Regular, or dub him Quack.

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ACT I

SCENE-A Chamber in an old-fashioned House

Enter MRS. Hardcastle and Mr. HardCASTLE

Is

MRS. HARD. I vow, Mr. Hardcastle, you're very particular. there a creature in the whole country, but ourselves, that does not take a trip to town now and then, to rub off the rust a little? There's the two Miss Hoggs, and our neighbour Mrs. Grigsby, go to take a month's polishing every winter. HARD. Ay, and bring back vanity and affectation to last them the whole year. I wonder why London cannot keep its own fools at home! In my time, the follies of the town crept slowly among us, but now they travel faster than a stage-coach. Its fopperies come down, not only as inside passengers, but in the very basket.

II

MRS. HARD. Ay, your times were fine times, indeed; you have been telling us of them for many a long year. Here we live in an old rumbling mansion, that looks for all the world like an inn, but that we never see company. Our best visitors are old Mrs. Oddfish, the curate's wife, and little Cripplegate, the lame dancing-master; and all our entertainment your old stories of Prince Eugene and the Duke of Marlborough. I hate such oldfashioned trumpery.

HARD. And I love it. I love everything that's old: old friends, old times, old manners, old books, old wine; and I believe, Dorothy [taking her hand], you'll own I have been pretty fond of an old wife.

23

MRS. HARD. Lord, Mr. Hardcastle, you're for ever at your Dorothys and your old wifes. be no Joan, I promise you. by more than one good year. money of that.

You may be a Darby, but I'll I'm not so old as you'd make me, Add twenty to twenty, and make

HARD. Let me see; twenty added to twenty, makes just fifty and

seven.

MRS. HARD. It's false, Mr. Hardcastle: I was but twenty when I was brought to bed of Tony, that I had by Mr. Lumpkin, my first husband; and he's not come to years of discretion yet. 33 HARD. Nor ever will, I dare answer for him. Ay, you have taught him finely.

MRS. HARD. No matter, Tony Lumpkin has a good fortune. My son is not to live by his learning. I don't think a boy wants much learning to spend fifteen hundred a year.

HARD. Learning, quotha! a mere composition of tricks and mischief.

MRS. HARD. Humour, my dear: nothing but humour. Come, Mr. Hardcastle, you must allow the boy a little humour.

42

HARD. I'd sooner allow him a horse-pond. If burning the footmen's shoes, frightening the maids, and worrying the kittens, be humour, he has it. It was but yesterday he fastened my wig to the back of my chair, and when I went to make a bow, I popt my bald head in Mrs. Frizzle's face.

MRS. HARD. And am I to blame? The poor boy was always too sickly to do any good. A school would be his death. When he comes to be a little stronger, who knows what a year or two's Latin may do for him?

51

Anybody that

HARD. Latin for him! A cat and a fiddle! No, no; the ale-
house and the stable are the only schools he'll ever go to!
MRS. HARD. Well, we must not snub the poor boy now, for I
believe we shan't have him long among us.
looks in his face may see he's consumptive.
HARD. Ay, if growing fat be one of the symptoms.
MRS. HARD. He coughs sometimes.

HARD. Yes, when his liquor goes the wrong way.
MRS. HARD. I'm actually afraid of his lungs.

HARD. And truly, so am I; for he sometimes whoops like a speaking-trumpet-[TONY hallooing behind the scenes]-O, there he goes-A very consumptive figure, truly!

Enter TONY, crossing the stage

63

MRS. HARD. Tony, where are you going, my charmer? Won't you give papa and I a little of your company, lovee?

TONY. I'm in haste, mother, I cannot stay.

MRS. HARD. You shan't venture out this raw evening, my dear: you look most shockingly.

TONY. I can't stay, I tell you. The Three Pigeons expects me down every moment. There's some fun going forward. HARD. Ay; the alehouse, the old place; I thought so.

MRS. HARD. A low, paltry set of fellows.

TONY. Not so low, neither. There's Dick Muggins the exciseman, Jack Slang the horse doctor, little Aminadab that grinds the music box, and Tom Twist that spins the pewter platter. MRS. HARD. Pray, my dear, disappoint them for one night, at least.

TONY. As for disappointing them, I should not so much mind; but I can't abide to disappoint myself.

MRS. HARD. [detaining him]. You shan't go.

TONY. I will, I tell you.

MRS. HARD. I say you shan't.

TONY. We'll see which is strongest, you or I.

83

[Exit, hauling her out. HARD. [Solus.] Ay, there goes a pair that only spoil each other. But is not the whole age in a combination to drive sense and

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