 | The Plot |  |
29
EPILOGUE.
To praise, or pardon, can our Bard pretendre?When this Hodge-podge affords no doubl' entendre!
How wou'd some Wits work'd up this Drop and Pill,
What warm Ideas wou'd their Pages fill!
How fine a Field our Hum-drum had to prove
The Virtue of his Pills and Drops, in Love!
But, if in this, they are allow'd specifick,
They cou'd not make our Poet's Brains prolifick.
When I wou'd give him Hints, the Fool cry'd, Hush,
Such pau—pau—Thoughts will make the Ladies blush.
Why sure, said I, the Devil's in the Man,
If you don't make the fair One spread her Fan,
Whisper a Friend, take Snuff, or feign a Cough,
The Beaux, be sure, will damn you for an Oaf.
Pho, pho, said he, these are all wild Vagaries;
But much I fear prescribing 'Pothecaries,
Scribling Licentiate, advertising Quack;
These are, indeed, a most tremendous Pack!
What think you of Physicians, and the College?
I apprehend them not, they're Men of Knowledge.
The Pictures, I have drawn, are Foils to Merit;
The Bully kick'd, can touch no Man of Spirit.
This is his Plea; how good I leave to you
Who are his Jury, all good Men, and true.
FINIS.
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