University of Virginia Library

EPILOGUE TO HURLOTHRUMBO,

OR, THE SUPERNATURAL.

Enter Hurlothrumbo.
Ladies and Gentlemen, my Lord of Flame
Has sent me here to thank you in his Name.
Proud of your Smiles, he's mounted many a Story
Above the tip-top Pinnacle of Glory:
Thence he defies the Sons of Clay, the Critics,—
“Fellows,” says he, “that are mere Paralytics,
With Judgments lame and Intellects that halt,
Because a Man outruns them, they find fault.”
He is indeed, to speak my poor Opinion,
Out of the reach of critical Dominion.
[Enter Critic.
Adso! here's one of 'em.
Cr.
A strange odd Play, Sir;

[Enter Author; pushes Hurlothrumbo aside.
Au.
Let me come to him! Pray, what's that you say, Sir?

Cr.
I say, Sir, Rules are not observ'd here—

Au.
Rules,
Like Clocks and Watches, were all made for Fools.
Rules make a Play? that is—

Cr.
What, Mr. Singer?

Au.
As if a Knife and Fork should make a Finger.

Cr.
Pray, Sir, which is the Hero of your Play?

Au.
Hero? Why, they're all Heroes in their Way.

Cr.
But, here's no Plot!—or none that's understood.

Au.
There's a Rebellion, tho'; and that's as good.

Cr.
No Spirit, nor Genius in't.

Au.
Why, didn't here
A SPIRIT and a GENIUS both appear?

Cr.
Poh! 'tis all Stuff and Nonsense—

Au.
Lack-a-day!
Why, that's the very Essence of a Play.
Your Old House, New House, Opera, and Ball,—
'Tis NONSENSE, Critic, that supports'em all,
As you yourselves ingeniously have shown,
Whilst on their Nonsense you have built your own.

Cr.
Here wants—

Au.
Wants what? Why now, for all your canting,
What one Ingredient of a Play is wanting?
Music, Love, War, Death, Madness without Sham,
Done to the Life, by Persons of the Dram.;
Scenes and Machines, descending and arising;
Thunder and Lightning;—ev'rything surprising!

Cr.
Play, Farce, or Opera is't?

Au.
No matter whether;
'Tis a Rehearsal of 'em all together.
But come, Sir, come! Troop off, old Blundermonger,
And interrupt the Epilogue no longer!
[Author drives the Critic off the Stage.
Hurlo, proceed!

Hurlo.
Troth! he says true enough;
The Stage has given Rise to wretched Stuff.
Critic or Player, a Dennis or a Cibber,
Vie only which shall make it go down glibber.
A thousand murd'rous Ways they cast about
To stifle it; but, Murder-like, 'twill out.
Our Author fairly, without so much Fuss,
Shows it in puris Naturalibus;
Pursues the Point beyond its highest Height;
Then bids his Men of Fire and Ladies bright
Mark how it looks, when it is out of sight.
So true a Stage, so fair a Play for Laughter,
There never was before, nor ever will come after,—
Never, no never! Not while vital Breath
Defends ye from that long-liv'd mortal, Death.
“Death!”—Something hangs on my prophetic Tongue;
I'll give it Utterance, be it right or wrong:
“Handel himself shall yield to Hurlothrumbo,
And Bononcini too shall cry ‘Succumbo;’”—
That's, if the Ladies condescend to Smile:
Their Looks make Sense or Nonsense in our Isle.